Day's end.

As hints of night
smudge my glasses-
signs of aging, old and new
disabilities scurry around
like ants in early fall
finding ways to stretch the day, as though seasonal changes can transform smells of early decay
by dressing themselves in gaudy colors.

The lure of a new path

Not all paths are alike, though each moves us to abandon the known
the dark night of comfort
that can choke the air
in that familiar way.

A walking path with secret recesses
and vistas
surprises us with ups and downs, hides the
obvious, squirrels its booty
until we're ready to appreciate them.

Funny how a new path never tires us.

We're Not Waterfalls

In the woods we call home
walking feels like a  simple proposition, sturdy shoes,  light jacket, a well-beaten path
through dark and ancient growths, and down the path a safe place
where Grandma lives
by a creek
a big stone
and an inviting fire around which to dry our wet bones.

We only have to stay on the marked path and not be lured by strange
shadings, bubbles of color, a mushroom, a flower
a deer looking straight up.
All the reasons we need
to dilly-dally, here and there would take us off our beaten path.

Long-limbed shadows hiding sun and direction
bodies and tails scurrying left and right
under our noses,
can distract us easily as we attempt a steady landing
remaining
grounded in the present.

When last moments come, they
are a gentle slip of the foot
a moment in the high wire act
we call life.

Not at all like waterfalls free-falling toward unknown landings.

Countdown.

We had a big storm last night, still around,beating down branches, releasing pent-up compost into the air.

In-and- out of the storm

At lunch with our yearly ambition martinis
leather chairs embracing our backs
looking accomplished in our power-suits
we admire our reflections in the window
as we  pose  for obligatory fotos
capturing another year
another growth point
another boost of productivity,
the ocean all but calm in the distance.


Nobody counts the small bird
scurrying on the sands
its tweet drowned by seagull scheeches
its tiny steps erased by waves
encircled and hushed
by an empty sandwich bag.



rosaria

How are You?

We look at a plant and we know how It is, what weeds or parassites are affecting it. But, do we know that about people? How are You? we ask with little or no interest in the answer, day after day.

I left such an inquiry for Erin

Read her answer.
I'm in awe.

the tiny leaf

Time for the Soul to Catch up!

I didn't come up with that phrase. It comes from a poem by Erica Jong, featured at
Von's blog at the Poet Post link below. Do visit.

A good life: Poet post


When you sit down on a rock and admire this view, you'll understand.

Love as an element.

Like the 118 elements on the periodic table, like mountains and oceans, the universe is slowly revealing itself.  Some things appear to be permanent, many appear fluid and changing.  The force we call love is such an element.  We can only understand it through its mutations,  apparitions, and the feelings we experience when we possess it.

This poem of mine is about those first encounters.

Enjoy.





Element




Must I tell you in Latin, or Sanskrit,

Or in ancients’ scripts of

Tombstones and moldy signs?

I know you read the news-track the story

From one end to another-

Factual slips catch your eye.

You know everything

in print, all the elements of a life time.



I sit behind you in Chemistry

My whispers too soft for you to notice.



When the 118th element was added

to the periodic table

-translucent the two times that

Ununoctium appeared-

Sounds like Nostradamus you said,

Laughing.

Hardly worthy of all that attention and ink

You said and turned toward me.



But you didn’t see me

My whispers were too soft.



I wrote you a note

Left among ciphers and equations:

“I weigh more than

Oxygen and Water and Ununoctium

At high temperatures

I act in unexpected ways.

Can’t you smell my scent

Heaven - Earth –Eternity?”



If you find this in time, I wrote in Italic,


turn around and call my name.

On my Birthday with as many words

Like the Sixes, I have run my course
at the Cape, on the Pacific, on friendly shores,
happy, unfettered, undammed,
my life smoothed by tumbles,
flowing westward, American dream-like,
gold and riches still to mine
stories and memories of two continents,
in whispers and shouts, daily
in songs, hymns, tears and poems.

I will stop when I tire and grow fat
with tangles and choking weeds.

Illinois Governor loves Poetry!

I just discovered a blog called "Poem of the Week". The author? Answer: the current governor of Illinois. The same one. The one selling the senate seat. On the profile page, with his picture, there is nothing else to explain why he would choose a poem a week to share with the world.

Who knew! He's a closet intellectual, living the poetic life of self-scrutiny and meditation.

Someone, please explain to me these inconsistencies.

But wait,and I quote from his profile: "if you want to choose next week's poem, it'll cost you"

That last part might be a clue to the man.