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.

Technorati Tags: September, short poems, haiku

Iceberg

Emotions bulk under the surface.
Parched thoughts search through drawers,
looking for lost socks, ones missing a matching twin.
Burly ogres guard the door, eying me with cyclops grins,
thousands of books piled high around them, dog eared ravenously.
Next to me I find a strip of old photographs, proof sheets,
black and white miniatures bordered with numbers,
thin shavings of the early years, glamorous tinted skin,
debutante attitudes with the light always shining from behind.
My face looks back at me, learning from my lines,
taking notes on little scraps of discarded catalogs
lost under the sea, rolling among waves of salty tears.
Cordoned off are rooms with freshly cut flowers,
bouquets of roses stripped of thorns, just beginning
to wilt, though the shades are drawn, the door key-less.
Saints and sinners meet in the room next door,
a détente to sort things out. They share a meal
of smoked ham and lentil stew, homemade with love.
The weather holds its breath, waiting
for the key to the stopped clock on the wall.
But they leave by a secret door, un-noticed.
The tub overflows, drowning
all the roses, whose petals float out
with one note scribbled on each,
notes of a song of gratitude, randomly humming
as they hover out the window and out to sea.
And the wind chimes pick up the tune
as if they already knew.

technorati tags- poems, poetry, postmodern poems, modern American poems

Airmail Love

Sometimes before sleep late at night, I lie in bed
listening to my cats purr as they lick themselves clean
before curling up in a furball as close as possible to me.
I hear the distant roar of the highway, thousands
of cars swishing in a hurry to get somewhere,
perhaps the moon. Maybe they are lonely,
and sad love follows them as fast as they can drive.
Or maybe they’re rushing for an emergency,
a serious accident, or worse. Or maybe they were
working late, and long to get home
to a warm bed, and peace, if nothing else.
I think of my friends all over the world,
living lives with direction, going forward, or not,
friends past, whom I’ve lost touch with,
friends present but distant, thousands of miles away.
I think of all the sad or happy or tragic people
spinning around the planet as it spins across time,
laughing, crying, or lonely, dying,
or perhaps wondering and grateful, as I am.
And I think of you, with your quiet burning
of life with it’s myriad questions.
And I send you a little message. I open my heart
and give you my nurturing thoughts, my hope, my love.
I wish you well, I wish you peace.
By sending an airmail full of good wishes,
I feel lighter as I prepare for sleep under
a fluffy down comforter and two warm furballs.

Digiart by Veach. I think they’re pretty cool. I hope you do too. If you want to see the original piece, click on the image and there you are.

Another Year

This poem was written by my grandfather on my father’s side, the Welsh side. He was a coal miner in Wales until the age of 21, when he asked his beloved to marry him, then shipped off to the land of opportunity. The year was 1921.

He forged an impressive career in the US, working his way up the ranks of a fairly large shipping business in Philadelphia. He eventually became chief engineer. He was a wizard at building things. He often made toys for me and my sister. During the last decade of his life, he was king of the retirement community’s workshop; he had to instruct others in the use of the lathe, a complex and delicate wood cutting instrument. I still have numerous finely lathed lamps around my house.

He often wrote beautiful, poem like notes to us. This poem was probably written in the early 1980’s. He was a gentle, upstanding American citizen. He died in 1985.

Another year has reached an end.
‘Tis Christmas time in gray December
With thoughts of giving, as we spend,
of bad times past we rare remember.

Throughout the world a spell is cast
And thoughts of love and peace takes hold.
As we hear again as in the the past
The greatest story ever told.

True, greed and hate will still abound.
In hardened hearts who have no creed.
They specialize the year around
Using God to state their greed.

But thanks to Him, a son was born,
And Father, son and Holy Ghost,
Though many laugh and many scorn
The spirit of God is worth the most.

The atom bomb, the power of man
To most of us, has caused much fear.
These threats of hate, since they began
Have plagued us all the year.

But bombs and threats have gone to pot.
The day of days is here again.
When the power of man is soon forgot
And the King of Kings, once more will reign.

The yearly log will close with cheer,
Another chapter in life’s great tome.
a merry Christmas and a Happy New Year
I hope you have one in your home.

Mother me New

I broke it
bouncing
a basketball
down the stairs-
a priceless vase
shattered
to brittle bits bare
She yelled, but
didn’t kill me
I was impressed

How’d she do it?
Get us up, feed us,
send us off to school,
hold jobs both in music
and real estate, to boot!
She must have pined
for somewhere mellow
while managing house,
cat, dog, fish, hamsters
and who knows what else of!
respite delayed
for love infused

I never heard a complaint
At least I don’t remember
Only the image of
Platinum Glamor

As I matured
I turned out fine
but pushed her away-
forgetting the pampering
soft forgiving
comforting acceptance
which gave my core
the strength to forge new days,
sputter on my own fumes
But she was there-
fuel beneath the surface
of my confidence

I never heard a complaint
At least I don’t remember
Only the image of
Platinum Glamor

When I faltered
slipped through a crack
a feather cushion caught me
no reproach, just
“You’re back.”
comfort began
exactly where
I had ended it-
always there
bending, new

Now I’m where she
used to be
I’m happy to give back
learning to bend
ready to be her cushion-
yet learning,
still, from
her resilient
spirit burning
barely a complaint
from Platinum Glamor

But sometimes-
my heart-
falters-
when
she gazes
(agelessly)
through fading eyes.