Poetry

Song for October

The morning dew on the grass soothes my tired feet The red, pinkish horizon of the rising sun soaks me with warmth, A breeze not too cold brushes my skin, and a songbird gives a tweet. Behind me is the past I know too well, grinning with a look lacking mirth. In the distance is the future, but I know not the looks, for we have yet to meet. Read More

Butterflies

The morning dew on the grass soothes my tired feet

The red, pinkish horizon of the rising sun soaks me with warmth,

A breeze not too cold brushes my skin, and a songbird gives a tweet.

Behind me is the past I know too well, grinning with a look lacking mirth.

In the distance is the future, but I know not the looks, for we have yet to meet.

 

In front of me, in this moment now,

Is the present.

I too know it well, but it’s face looks of the past somehow–

The past I resent.

Another September has ended, making it’s last (until the next) bow.

 

I now smell the sweet scent of October fill my body

The trees shed green and turn orange, yellow, red.

They say it brings death, death the loss of body,

But what if we thought of Death the Tarot, instead—

Naught a loss, naught a fear, but change, transformation, a new body.

 

We drift along at times feeling trapped in a rut,

Wishing that change could be easy as a new shirt,

Or as seamlessly as leaves light in the air, but,

Aware of the ground soon to come and writher in the dirt—

Alas, we are more than that—able to get back up from the soot.

 

And so, time ushers in a new season,

We must say goodbye summer, now lost kin.

And begin with fall a new liaison.

When life changes, I turn to Eliot and Whitman

For any glimpse of meaning or reason.

I sing for thee, I sing for thee who are lost.

The bitter burdens we bear weigh on

Through the fall of ephemeral autumn and winter’s frost.

Each night we sleep and then rise for the dawn,

Trembling or embracing love’s heavy light cost.

 

I sing for thee, ye wanderer who wonders

Where thee wanders

They who tell thee it’s a choice, life thee squanders

But do they know how it tears asunders?

Who would choose a choice of blunders?

 

Disease hath ne’er been a choice—

None choose depression to swallow them whole,

None choose anxiety to stifle their voice,

None choose the drink to fall into a hole,

None choose the needle to never know rejoice.

 

I sing for thee who’ve lost their way

Who feel at the bottom of the darkest abyss,

Who have been told they chose dismay,

I sing for thee who have friends that dismiss

All pleas for help and yearnings for a new day.

 

Ye wanderer, thou hath merely taken a wrong turn

Thy path is yet over there, but I shall help you,

Eventually thee will find your way and return,

Return to thy path, stand and be able to say adieu,

To the disease that buried you, and say hello to the life you yearn.