Song of Summer’s End

A melancholy cry chokes my throat,
a siren’s call of Summer’s turning.
Caramel smells fill my head-
fermented leaves, intoxicating and sweet.
The lime-yellow sky,
radiant dusk infused with aqua
is reiterated by rainbows of
glowing trees,
unfettered joy
surging skyward
burning slowly to sleep.

Moist, mild air balms my body-
a cocoon of coziness
soft and neat,
a temporary reprieve
before setting sun draws down a chill.

Two lovers mosey
while two others repose,
lost in reverie
forever brief.

As crickets whir and click and reel,
throaty squawks of geese
bid farewell, southward bound,
solicitous, free.

This fanfare of Fall
diminishes, somnolent, deep.
I succor its unguent dolor-
lullaby, coda
to summer’s green.

Technorati tags- poem, Autumn, Fall, summer’s end

For Barbara, until we meet again.

This beautiful eulogy was written by my housemate, Joseph, who was quickly becoming friends with Barbara.

How can you.
In spring.
At Easter.
Was it Good Friday, Barbara?
Will you rise again the third day?
Master, had you been here, my brother had not died.
Had I heard the phone ring
Had I heard the phone ring
We were going to color easter eggs
Maureen Beth Katrina Me
and Barbara
Saturday we were going to color Easter Eggs.
Have a jolly old time.
Make new friends
Have a jolly old time
For easter, for spring
For rebirth.
If a man die, can he live again?
Barbara.
Beth had bronchitis.
Maureen had to rush to help a friend.
Sorry, no easter eggs.
Sorry Barbara.
Sorry.
Sorry.
I called, left a message
Sorry, no easter eggs
No celebration of rebirth
Later, I’m sure, sometime. Hope you’re well.
Click.
You called. No one heard the phone ring.
Was the blade in your hand when you called?
No one heard you call.
No one heard you calling
No one heard.
If if if if. If only. If.
No one caught you.
Could I catch you? Could anyone?
You looked into me:
Hungry eyes, longing eyes, I held your eyes as long as I could
Barbara.
I’m not Gabriel.
I have no silver trumpet.
I cannot hold your soul
Slipping slipping slipping away.
How could you
In spring.
The roses will bloom, Barbara.
How will they bloom, knowing you are not there?
Will they not blacken, a sudden blight
turn your yard to mourning?
No, Spring will come
Roses bloom.
They whisper: For roses know. For roses know.
Roses, trees, they have come, they see:
Human lives burning light bright flames
Little lights burning burning burning
The roses know,
They dance, they hold her
Her suffering soul nestled in their velveted petals.
The roses know
Sorrow. They hold deep in their dark velvet heart
The roses know
Roses know it is spring.
Roses wear thorns and wrap themselves in velvet
Velvet: dipped in blood.
We pruned your roses together.
Cut out the dead
Cut out the old and useless and overgrown.
Cut back to the fresh, bleeding green of life
Cut it back.
For it is spring. Time.
Time to: Let death go
The soil whispers of dead things falling to the ground
Dead things: slipping apart to feed
New glowing green rising from the soil
It is spring. Let us whisper: rebirth.

Off the Wall Poetry Carnival

Since I didn’t officially theme it, I thought I’d borrow the title of the first poem to name this carnival.

Off The Wall was sent by Pat Paulk of Laughing Ghosts. He offers tight, vivid poems regularly to a rather large fan club. I had not known of him before this. I’m glad I do now.

A shadow on the wall
talked to a curious dog on the sidewalk,
what they said was without sound,
what was understood not known.
The dog eventually moved on, the wall
waited for the next shadow.

My dear friend Liz Strauss of Letting ME Be sent me a few choices, of which I picked The View, because it’s off the wall for Liz. Liz has a way of turning sadness into a bright lesson. Thank you, Liz.

my eyes
filled
with my response
following
a path
of two drops
that wash
away fearful feelings
to place a smile
on my
self-image

your eyes
in my head
change the view

Ron Russo of Wondering Soul sent this next poem, Remember. Ron’s spirit is always pointed toward healing and love. This poem, a gift for “Travis”, makes that clear.

Remember who you really are and be that!
Remember the vast, radiant emptiness
from which you came
and from which all things arise.
Remember, you are that.
Not that you are one with all…
you are all.
Remember the sun that shines from
your eyes.
You are that.
(continue reading…)

David Patton of Uncle David sent this new poem, “Silent As Snow Falling To The Ground” for the carnival. David’s poetry has raw, mythic power and rustic freshness. He told me he has written a poem a day for over a year on his blog. And these are not 10 line poems, either. This poem offers a soft, light touch.

Silent as snow falling to the ground
The speckled air abounds
As whiteness covers all.
First snow of the season;
An inch or two or so.
Tracks of the white tailed rabbit
A squirrel climbs up an old sycamore
The rusted links of a chain-link fence
Are barely visible as the cold wintry winds do blow.
Quietness sits by the door, piling deep in the cold.
A poet’s pen to paper marks this singular passing.
In the scheme of things it is its own doing,
In one day of many and many more to come.
The snow is here, blowing slanted in a northern wind.
It tells not who but the way that they go.
Snow is cold but melts in the warmth of the palm of the hand,
the hand must be cold to hold.
Walking alone in Forest Park
The wind blown snow is a song
Without words or instrument;
A song for the eyes and soul,
And I twirl around and flair my arms
To sing alone.

Kelley Bell sent me this little story poem, Godless Child, from her blog For Whom the Bell Tolls. Her words cut to the heart of sexist injustice.

Once Upon A Time…

There was a little girl, born in the Land of The Free,
and the Home of The Brave.

She was taught that she could become anything, even President,
though no girl had ever done THAT before.

She was taught the importance of education,
and read many books by Great Men.

She was told to get a job,
But to expect less pay then her male peers.

She was told to climb the Career ladder,
and bumped into a glass ceiling on the way.
(continue reading…)

If a haiku could convey a philosophy of life, MB’s poem The World as my Oyster is the poem. Most of us are familiar with MB’s poems from Find me a Bluebird. How does she create so much sublime space with so few words?

a pearl grows slowly
around the grain of sand that
is lodged in my heart

Here is another of MB’s haikus, Darkenss.

the edge of ice cuts
against the last of the green
darkness settling in

Ozymandiaz of Toadstool Diaries, who has apparently hosted a number of these carnivals, was thankful I was hosting this one. He sent this poem, simply called Entry. Though written as a Christian poem, it carries a universal spiritual message to submit to the wisdom and forgiveness of our higher selves.

I burn myself in effigy
Mourning my life as should be
Wherever ears may be bent
I strain them without relent
Displayed in Jesus Christ pose
I am revealed without repose
Clearly you can see the pain within me
I cannot be free until you all see
How I let me be
Insecurity
(continue reading…)

Ren Powell of Sidestepping Real sent this unpublished dream-like poem to me. When asked what the theme of this carnival was, I suggested “dreams of poems”, which I had listed among other ideas for sumissions. One can see why she is a published poet. Images are layered with meaning, scenes within syllables. The last line can be either a question or a statement. Both are true.

Elder Moon

The girl behind the counter
of the Dairy Queen (sees

the tree branching from his mouth)
(believes

everything)—his voice fragile,
dry bark

snagging on the velvet esophagus
wet with ice-milk:

That Neil Armstrong never stepped on the moon!
‘Goddamned government ruse.

The old man makes
craters with a plastic spoon.

On her cigarette break she sits with him
(digging into the Depression, and
deeper

hair-like
pale moments
of his supple years)

Don’t you believe anything

anyone tells you.

Jo Janoski sent a poem called The Poet. It’s a series of Haiku’s. How did she know what’s going on in my head when I try to write poetry?

Head bent, thoughts flying.
Playing touch football mid air.
A poem is born.

Poets express love
While warriors declare hate.
They meet at depth’s door.

Words elude poets
like water avoids deserts
until monsoon time.

Rhymes make cozy friends.
Meters have minds of their own
But married, they rock.

I wrote a poem called The Room to convey a dark November night of waking dreams.

Black November air
oozes across the pine board floor,
cold molasses being poured.
Shadows of craggy oak twigs
gnaw the walls for flaws.
The moon cannot escape,
so peers helplessly
from her thin blue ark.
(continue reading…)

This final poem is most appropriate to my after thought theme of a dream about a poem. Bill Piety of Peter in search of Pan posted
not very far from 4th yesterday. It’s a dream of dreaming poetry, dreaming life, lost dreams, and living dreams.

dreams make a hard death
old brown shoes that keep no shine
pants that keep no clean
i frighten women from the church
sunday feigns a bitter cheer

but i’ve a corner not far from 4th
i can hear some whisperings
from my local catholic saint
telling secrets without relief
jagged little words unclear
(continue reading…)

Well that’s all folks. Thanks for stopping by.

A Simple Gift

Let it Out!
Let a smile overcome you-
a simple gift
which heals deeply
and welcomes another in return.

Tell a story of
your Life with the meaning you give it.
Let it out!
Open the gushing faucet
and savor the Joyful Child within you.

technorati tags- happy poems, joy, christmas poems, joy poems

The Symphonic Poetry Carnival

Well, the time has arrived for the fun to begin. The time has arrived for the words to spin through our ears, around inside our heads. Time for the music to start with a note in the key of C for creativity.

The movements include fugues, pasacaglias, bells, silences. Ther are blues and more blues, melodies in many colors, accelerandos, songs and odes of gratitude and clarinet tones. Let the symphony of poetry begin!

The poetry carnival idea was started by Dan at Philosophical Poetry. If you’d like to join, check for updates and locations at the google Poetry Carnival forum.

The first movement is a sad little tune with “no harmony” by RDL, called Believe.

Feel like there is a weight on my chest
holding me down
hard to breathe
believe

For the second section, we have a moment of silence, titled Six Stories, captured poetically by Sara, from Science Creative Quarterly.

For all the movement it was making, it was very silent. For all the movement around it, it was still very silent.

Dave also encouraged all poets to become involved in Science Creative Quarterly’s Terry project, with global issues as the creative focal point.

Next comes a bluesy slow movement by Ned Nedful called Night Blues.

The wind
was a tight-
stringed seventh
shredding the night.

Jessamyn of Theriomorphsent in some “meat and potatoes, stuffing to fill your soul” music by . This is the main course, a lyrical Thanksgiving November Song.

Maybe you can breathe freely, without loss…

Now comes a little lilting tune, a blue reprise called Vibe, by Trebuchet of Legwarmers.

Ice clinks in short glasses while I tap my thumb;
frosted ashtrays slowly fill with perfectly timed conversations.

This seems like a good spot for a faster movement, or two. Daniel of Talking to Myself gave us a poem with meter and and the accelerando of a chase- In the Shifting Glimmer.

In the shifting glimmer of the morning light
He awakes in terror at the lurid sight.
And his mind recoils from the pain of truth
That the white enamel was a human tooth.

His second submission also had a musical meter, along with an ironic message about Thanksgiving. It’s called Twas the Night of Thanksgiving.

Twas the night of Thanksgiving,
and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring
not even a mouse.

Liz of Letting me Be sent me several poems, but this little rhapsody called The Song tugged at my heart strings with colorful melodies. I think it will do the same for you.

From the silence came the indigo melody
deep vibrations of abounding love
running like the water of life
standing in stillness
like the ocean of a soul.

Another very different bluesy tune is by Moose of Find me a Bluebird. I submitted this for him, uh, her, so it may disappear if he, uh, she disapproves of my boldness! This is called Blue Hypnotic Fragment. It’s somehow sultry and upbeat at the same time.

alone in the middle of the room
focus drawn close
body overtaken by rhythm
moving in a new language of pulsation

Adam sent this serious movement warning against the dangerous power of music. It’s called The Journey of Music.

Feel the cold steel of a Saturday night special
Up against your throat

Ed of Life and Times of… offers a passacaglia hymn with a repeated bass line of the words “song, along, friend, hum, drum, end”. The poem builds around this anchor. It’s called Highway Hymn V.

Telephone wires race along
whispering their electric song
tires on the road quietly hum
Silence is my only friend
when their songs sadly end
fingers on the wheel begin to drum

And here is my little ditty called Grenadilla Tone, about the qualities and sensualities of the tone I (try) to produce on the clarinet. It starts out…

Blurted air flaps my reed
to rasp a sneeze across its paper
thin tip, a flag snapping in the wind.
Raw chunks of sound, churned butter
grows mellow with aged consistency,
evolving with me, my lips’ brother.

Kelly Bell wrote this fun little songful story, which sound like The Night Before Christmas, except from an exhausted mother’s point of view. It’s called Ten.

This weekend, my daughter turned Ten.
We held a party that just would not end.
Eight little girls full of sugar and color,
Testing the patience of an old tired mother.

Renee of Words to Go With offers a lyrical, bell like tribute to the Northern Lights in Relief. She describes her poem thus:

All creation sings to its Creator, In the bible the trees are clapping their hands, the hill will rejoice, people sing, birds sing, other animals sing. and in my poem Light itself sings.

Martin of Complete and Utter Poetry sent this echo like poem just today, with a philosophical theme. It’s called Diminuendo.

The Greeks heard it
Long ago
Before there was anything else
To hear

Lastly, I whipped up a froth of warm Thanksgiving pudding to sooth the quivering soul after such a repast of rich music.

Outside, the garden’s disarray reflects his own spirit.
He gazes beyond today’s errie political mendacity,
attempting to follow the message of Thanksgiving.
The season’s story asks with answers and gives questions.

Goodnight, and sweet creams.

Garnet