September Haiku

September suns rays
slice across verdant gardens.
Cold nights chill my toes.

Summer emptied.
I use days up as they come.
Silk breeze on my thigh.

Kitchen counter full.
Fall bounty clogs big pots.
Earth oars down the clock.

Rake dreams with windows open.
Kaleidescope trees.
Leaves need many big bags filled.

Pace this day’s flight with tastes
of Summer’s ripe bounty.
Pesto’s delight greens my mouth.

Morning mist weighs down dawn
Between Summer and Fall.
Coffee tastes better in cold weather.

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Touch My Soul

Touch my soul and it is yours.

(It is never
mine.
Fire eating
snakes nip at my nipples,
unzip my fly,
bitemy mosquito)

Take my hand.

(Filling their mouths, drinking
mother’s milk, they
queue up at my statue.)

(It is not theirs.)

Look into my eyes.

(Then
Quantum
leaps
over a hedge,
falling flat
on
my back.)

What is yours?

Kissing me is not…

…the answer.

Touch my soul and…

…it is ours.
Take your bow.

Foxglove Fairys

foxgloveclose.JPG
We sat outside after dark
sipping mint juleps
tasting the relief of a gentle breeze
to soothe the long, hot breath of day

The light of several torches
brought them out,
the foxglove fairies.
From between flickers they flitted, translucent,
from under the bells’ pink florescences.
Looking closely,
little purple footprints could be seen,
evidence of romping at
sparkling parties
down
amongst the underbrush.

One flower
leaning close by our chairs,
peered at us with eyes
of nocturnal lilliputian romance
musing in the moonlight’s slippery rays
catching our thoughts
in platinum jars.

Rhythms of the Seasons

Enjoy! And best wishes for a joyous holiday to you all!

machine of faith

The rhythms of the seasons hypnotize us
as they go ’round and ’round and ’round,
faster each year as we age,
building to some distant, palpable climax
while receding from another, past.
Faster they spin, compelling us to fill fragile days
with meaningful events,
(love may deepen,
hate grow brittle,
poetry more necessary)

To and fro, light to dark, the pendulum swings
stupendously, irrevocable across the map, throbbing
in every molecule with its unabashed preponderance.
No sooner sweet Summer arrives in her full sensual glory
and vapid dissipation, then by the slightest incline,
the longest day tipped, we star the slow, poignant slide
to the depths of Winter.

Thus we arrive again at this valley of Yin,
whose darkness and gravity turns us inward
to our sweetest, softest, most delicate
center.

As if by sheer will (and hope and need)
we nudge the gyration back toward light,
we indulge in glitter and compassion.
We reward love needed and given
with earnest countenance.
We search our souls for cheerful ways
to decorate the days.
We celebrate the counterpoint of our lives,
barely pausing to reflect
over the abyss which lies beneath
the fragile music we make.

The photo is of a small section of a large, useless, tinkling, colorful machine. It was built over a period of 25 years or so, part by bit, by a man who made it just for fun, and for his children’s entertainment. Now it’s an obscure tourist attraction. It’s housed in a little hut, perhaps 20 ft by 15 ft in the middle of nowhere, next to his house, where his wife still lives. I think he was a farmer. He used found objects and toys and trash, whatever caught his eye. It all fits together in some way. When turned on, the whole thing whirs and clicks and clangs and flashes. Being in the middle of Bavaria, it was normal and appropriate to find a crucifix perched in the middle somewhere.

There is something comforting about this scene, which is almost alter-like. The colorful chaos and glitz surrounds the peaceful icon. Sorry it’s the wrong icon for the season, but I sort of like the twisted irony of it.

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Absolute Purr-fect Truth

Gray Tabby and Siamese catsI open a can
of cat food,
the “swick” of which
opens the scene
and the purring
begins. I am the maestro.
My orchestra is ready.
A “prrrrrooowww”
comes in stereo duet from
a Siamese and a Gray Tabby.

Big green and blue
eyes blink kissingly
up at me; I can almost hear
the tingle of a triangle at
each loving lash. Fur
rubby-dubby love sings
to my naked calf.
I almost trip over
their insistence and
and personal attention.
Such detail and rhythm!
Such poise and finesse!
These musicians know
how to pull my strings
with a tune of sweet contentment.
Around them, there is no time,
only feline smiles and the
music of purr-fect truth.

The photo is of my buddies, who are also each other’s buddies, Punker(17 y.o Tabby) and Merlin(4 y.o. Siamese).