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

Night Flower

The pale cirrus flower glows by night
under a platinum moon. It shines
as my sleepless sighs exhale anguished air
across its feathered wings, fluttering
grief over the evaporated dream of your love.
Briefly, the ghostly bloom grows a follicle
filled with fresh pomegranate juice,
whose ripe, succulent, mouthwatering
kisses fade in dawn’s cool light.

What is a Kiss?

What is a kiss if not pure bliss?
Can it be spent or saved, as a coin
dropped in a slot machine, fruit
spinning dials deciding fortunes
outcome from emotion purloined?

Can a kiss be a kiss if not missed?
Where are the dreams of passion
lost in wine soaked hours spent rubbing
the lamp, waiting, hoping genie’s
magic will quell doubtful ration?

Isn’t a kiss the door to a garden
of roses, leading up to a house
with no blinds? Where is the porch
and the light switch to guide me?
Where is the mill of my arousal?

Technorati tags- kiss, doubt, poem

Rhythms of the Seasons

The rhythms of the season 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, ancient past.

Faster they spin, compelling us to fill fleeting 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 be the slightest incline, the longest day tipped,
we start 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 counterpoints of our lives,
barely pausing to reflect
over the abyss which lies beneath
the fragile music we make.

This was one of Barbara’s favorite of my poems.

Wind Chimes

Thoughts on time
in tones of blues
or orange, bright
pearls of sun
drip down these tubes,
while air slips through
their purple scales,
random chance, dares,
wishing only for harmony.

Wind chimes remind us of the persistent nature of change, and teach us to make music with lessons learned from impermanence.

Click here to hear the chimes of a “Balinese” scale hanging near my house.

I have several sets of medium to large chimes hanging around my garden. Their scales are neither happy nor sad, but mysterious and questioning. I never tire of hearing them. Their music ranges from one tone lingering across many seconds to a joyous cacophony of 30 bells clanging in response to active wind.