poems about autumn, seasonal poems

circuit breaker

2007-11-08T15:00:35Z

See she whose head spits spark and fire.
Behind her iris, blue bolts of lightning – a thousand volts of recognition.
See her seize, such fits!
Hands reaching; they touch nothing.
A girl wired to an E.E.G. machine;

proof

2007-11-08T14:59:41Z

The morning’s mourning dove cares little of this sorrow;
grief arrives in small packages –
a five minute phone call, black and white serifed letters, typed,
your now capped initials.

the moral why ground

2007-11-08T14:58:38Z

So now you are an armchair philosopher!
Throw you Plato’s Meno at the crux of midlife
and you feel so very grown up!
Gunslinging ethics and virtue, Aristotle –
concepts you really just do not understand.

when the ships come down

2007-11-08T14:54:46Z

You tell yourself such easy comforts.
Love unrequieted, requited.
impossible – circumstance, bad-timing.
Ships that pass in the night – such guff …

the measure of loss

2007-11-08T14:50:18Z

The bedsides are padded, barred.
All these wires that connect – they only stretch so far.
Why I am a prisoner to machines.
They reassure the officiants in their uniformed whites –
blips, beats, waves.

southbound

2007-11-08T14:47:27Z

There’s everything reassuring about the journey southbound.
No matter the home I’ve left behind.
Some fast starling freedom as the trees fly;

the heavy swell

2007-11-08T13:25:51Z

This is my wide Atlantic.
Each day I visit; tend to my sea,
my sea-change eyes reflected back its rippled greys.
This is the safe-harbor where I would bring you.
Love, the current shifts, now hard and fast.
The undertow of grief, disbelief.

Zoom – Re-Zoom

2006-12-13T14:37:22Z

That's the way it is ~ the focus shifts this to that:

We are different in that we do not.

We say this as if this were some great revelation as we pass

vacances

2006-12-12T23:10:34Z

How is your holiday anyway?

Your quiet quiet-so-quiet domesticity

Are you enjoying casseroles of mixed beans, baked in their juice?

the occasional fried pork-chop, side of red-boiled onions.

la reve no. 4, in sepia

2006-12-06T15:18:27Z

Are you invited or invited.

By now, I cannot say, only that you are there.

This much is undeniable.

They tell me, dreams are dreams are dreams, yet some prescience here.

I see you there, sheets twisted about your waist, a summer mess, window fan churning, churning.

Twenty-four Changes Everything

2006-11-24T20:07:00Z

The days now are brief.

Strange how they seem to lack now in hours, despite the usual twenty-four.

We slip so easily beneath the heavy quilt of winter,

Seeking in the darkness some warmth, a refuge or shelter –

to keep & to cherish (from this day forward)

2006-11-21T01:19:32Z

He says No.

Not to, impossible to go. It’s all a matter of practicality.

Who can argue with his convenient logic.

No matter that it is inconvenient for me –

stalemate

2006-11-20T16:52:04Z

The steady hum of my car –

just a vehicle - here to there.

It only hammers– I am here;

I am yours, only not there to show.

divest

2006-11-18T20:55:58Z

Are you really Proud to be?

or is it just me who sees that you have nothing that you want to offer –

not that you’d give me anyway.

for you baby blue

2006-11-15T22:35:09Z

Are you really Proud to be?

or is it just me who sees that you have nothing that you want to offer –

not that you’d give me anyway.

but hey, ain’t this how we play?