times

…times we fall through
moldy, scratchy thatch
to stiff, pine planks,
losing memory, stones
and sonnets. forgetting.
—

There is a strange emptiness I often feel at the first day of cool stillness in Fall. Today is overcast. The wet air leaches warmth, persistent in its chill. Persistent and immobile. It is here to stay, moving in. Memories of languid, long, endless Summer days float just beyond reach. The reality of suffering in the South is no dream, however. Their’s is aching, palpable emptiness, loss. They have no luxury of daydreams.

Yet this calm chill comforts me, reminds me all things change. It is time to recharge, request a new sheet, a clean slate. Time to move on, shift gears. Let Summer memories become the dreams they now are. Let tragedy’s lessons sink in, brand their mark on memory.

The garden outside my window is still rich with green textures. The long, fragrant, golden trumpets of Brugmansia herald (and hope for) a few more sunny weeks to come. All is not lost. But never the same.

At work I am having to work closely with those in power and money, the trustees who support my orchestra, but also control it. I used to assume they were automatically corrupted by their power, but I’m beginning to see their genuine interest in my art, in the success of my orchestra, even though I may not always agree with them. They know things about money and success I cannot know from my position. They have experience we can use. Our orchestra needs them, whether we like it or not. It’s never black and white.

Thinking of events in the world, in the US, my country, I feel frisky with a new kind of hope. The suffering of millions in the South will not be in vain. Our eyes are open. We see the chilly, calculating responses of our current administration, which seems to be more of a power machine than human leadership. And we also see the fervent, human response, the support given by millions; human responses, neither conservative nor liberal, just human. We see each other’s hearts, that we are not so different as we thought. We see where we could go if we came together to solve problems.

Our enemies are not each other. They are the power systems which corrupt and mislead. We cannot afford to be mislead. We only have each other. We only have each other and one small planet.

The chilly air settles into my bones. It’s time for action, for change. Especially since I’m late for work.

Serendipity

Should I never see you again,
Every moment I have spent with you would
Resonate in my heart.
Echoes of your kisses
Never leave my lips.
Daring to have stepped into the fire
I know I shall never return the same.
Perhaps this is exactly what
Is meant to be…
Today what seems but love’s seed may
Yet become tomorrow’s passion flower.

Tell Tell, These Bells

Tell tell, these bells ring in clamorous mimes,
golden light ripening dusk’s rhymes.

Their wavy peals knock senseless all will
with intoxicating smells. Sweet frilly trills of

velvet curl ’round minds weak thoughts.
Trumpets blare orange, their mute shots

grip deeply, but mildly, spreading moments apart.
Move not a muscle! You only think you start.

Alien udders, teats, voluptuous, alluring
spew marvelous gas, earthward procuring.

Honey, clover, sweet oil scented plasma
fumes night’s clicking air with hypnotic miasma.

Take their milk, succor its careless troth
of sun, summer’s blare distilled for the moth

whose wings, hummingbird style, blur eerily
as it darts near these towering tubes, haunting warily.

These chants of vertical cornos, aiming skyward ho
blast off, pushing earth and you, flyward, singing so.

These cantalope colored carillons urge time away
to let your mind wander, let love to love stray.

The grand, momentous, earthward hanging trumpets of Brugmansia are blooming ecstatically and prolifically on an eight foot potted plant I have in my back yard. There are now 26 huge flowers flopping carelessly down from the tree like form. (which started as a 1 foot stump in June) This nightshade family plant is also related to Datura, whose up facing trumpets carry hallucinogenic oils, giving them mystical powers over human minds.

Technorati tags- poems, poetry, Brugmansia, flowers

Seasonal Poems to Warm the Soul

Happy Winter Solstice! I may not be religious in the traditional sense, but I understand and cherish the importance of the “spirit of the season”.

As many of you know, Jesus wasn’t born in December, but his birthday was placed near the pagan Roman holiday of Saturnalia by Constantine to encourage pagans to join the church. The celebration of light and rebirth appeals to all.

Over the years I’ve written various poems for the season. Some are just ruminations on the mood, some are about the solstice, but all, I think convey universal sentiments. I’ve linked to some and printed others in a list here. Enjoy.

—
Rhythms of the Seasons
—
Noël
—
Sacrificial Tree (two poems)
—
Jingle Ironies
—
A Simple Gift
—

Inspire Beauty

Beauty calls and yearns for your attention,
it gives rise and dimension to your soul,
a reflection of your truest goals.

Lest we forget, our hearts are fueled
by a love enduring beyond our lives.
And beauty is its chaperon,
a spark through the dark nights
on the long walk
to the light of the mountain top.

All we have is each other.

May the comfort of love be with you.

Gulfs

Closing in is the problem.
The gulf is nauseating, the grand canyon is
filled with choppy hands reaching through the surface.
Slipping home across black ice,
one becomes an object of ridicule,
the butt of the joke, presuming so much
about tattletale fortune, bumping into lightposts
while searching for the way home.
Little barbed telescopes take notice
but hardly translate those tiny photographic crumbs
into the sieve through which your insides melt
as your breaths whittle away your body…
or like being beamed out from the inside,
particles of small gut disintegrating into gelatinous
wormcastings, mucousy, fibrous, sticky,
all evaporating into stainless steel cans
or a Ferris Wheel spinning out, or training to hover
a bit more like the spark from a match just
before it becomes fire. The incense smells familiar
filling out the scene, attaching a clear sky
and grass and some flowery warm air which is
sunned incompatibly with your white skin.
Tanning oil smells reach up, crotches wide with aches
tidal wave Romulus desires, cartilage lawns
wafting pleasant compost smells, coconut guile.
Sedentary floss for one tartar free breath
scales the icy surface under the tripod
making walking impossible. There’s only one
way, and it’s not kosher, or maybe it is. The gulf is
only a transition into deep grief, only part way,
but washing the tears away helps
to dry up the river, which in turn shrinks the gulf.
Then angels appear along the shore as the sea recedes,
quiet little creatures who barely speak
at least not directly, and they hover around
(though you think it’s all you,)
and you’re released of the burden
momentarily. They beckon
and seem to languish at your stupidity,
but they forgive you, and bear your burden for you,
they actually float it off your back onto theirs
though you usually don’t even notice.
Again, you think it’s all you,
but deep inside, you know it’s not.
It’s they and you together, making a new compound,
a new gas, which fills balloons
and floats them up into the blue coconut sky
and takes words with them into the
burning sun, the warm, vapid joy
of turning, spinning on the bottom of a top
with the center always having been there,
careening wet jalopy red chitty chitty bang bang
hills are a live, chim-chiminy banisters
and soot covered steeples, please, sir,
may I have some more, doubting thomases,
lost beavers lodged under logs, thinking
we know what we’re doing. Songs
tell us all we need to forget, but we forget to forget
after 30 seconds, or a phone call.

The ice is slippery, except where it’s not,
and anti-lock brakes give you the jitters
since there is no dress rehearsal anytime.
When the plug’s finally pulled the brakes smell
burned and all that money slips away, no value left.
But not the coconut creams, no, they
are dry by now, having salted their duty,
and stuck to those once swollen nipples
encased in lemons puckers with shy smiles,
crusty filmed, neutered embryos, maggots
writhing with life, dead to the world.
They too, pass through the sieve.
When does the butterfly drown?
How often? How often?