October

     A new month, October. The early mornings are chilly, cold almost, and still dark as I trek again to work, still dark as I arrive some 20, 30 minutes later, a faint glint of sunrise in the east, unlike the bright sun of a few weeks ago, September’s fading light. The air’s crisp now in that morning chill, and my mind sometimes wanders to other Octobers, other autumns in other places, other times, or maybe to Octobers yet to come in places my soul years to be, a place closer to home where hardwoods are turning to gold and red and rust and brown, or mottled, leaves caught mid-change, leaves dropping from their branches and blown willy-nilly down the street. Their clatter softly rattles as they fly by, coming to rest in a corner or stuck on a post, a fence, to be gathered, collected, a pile of muted colors to be scattered by children eager for play, eager to be away from schools that would hold them during the day, the week, trapped in four walls and halls as the leaves flutter free; or perhaps leaves raked and piled and set ablaze, smoldering, a lazy wisp of smoke rising, carried on an autumn breeze. The air is scented now with smoke, acrid in my nose, breathing deep, attuned now to autumn smells, earthen smells of decay and smoke, and apples, crisp and sharp, apples hanging defiantly on the tree or fallen below, bruised and browning. The smell of apples lingering, tart in the air, mingles with the burning leaves, smoldering under the watchful eye of old men, old men poised on their rakes, old men adrift in the memory of fall and earlier times, times long since gone by, times now but remembrances carried on a breeze, sharp and crisp and tart in the waning days of the year, waning days, perhaps, of our lives.

History Lesson

The news is of war

and destruction, one bully,

a gang, threatening,

total destruction, retaliation,

puffed out ego-boosting one-

upmanship, ending the same,

only losers, life and innocence

lost, uncertainty and fear,

like before, my generation,

my dad’s and his, too, like always.

And in 100 years, the statues

will be torn down, offensive,

until the next hero bullies

another, threatens another,

total destruction, retaliation,

ego, loss, and death,

like before, like always.

The Loons in Autumn

The loons circled the lake this morning,

gliding by my front porch where I sat,

heavy in thought and coffee laden.

They moved slowly, closer to shore,

against a backdrop of summer green

muting to golds and reds in the cool air

of approaching autumn. It’s a time of farewells:

the summer people are leaving, back to their homes,

somewhere else, their camps closed against the winter ahead,

the docks pulled, and the boats stored away.

The loons, too, will be leaving soon, bound for the coast,

a winter home, leaving their young behind to follow,

to find their own way, as adolescents do.

For us remaining, we who call this place home,

life slows down again, becomes quiet,

as we prepare ourselves for the winter’s snow,

stopping our daily task to watch them,

mesmerized still, silent in their swimming

or giving a short hoot, a brief goodbye,

their slow farewell against a backdrop

of summer green muting to golds and reds

in the cool air of approaching autumn.

“Farewell, my friends, fare thee well.”

Daimon

“To live our ordinary life artfully is … to live more intuitively and to be willing to surrender a measure of our rationality and control in return for the gifts of the soul.”

- Thomas Moore –

Care of the Soul

*****************

Like a haunted house possessed

by unknown spirits of the long dead

or the recently departed left behind,

unwilling to leave, unprepared and afraid,

missing the ferryman’s boat, the gates

of heaven and hell locked fast against them,

we find these dreamlike specters, shadowed

wisps of our imagination peering out

or looking in through the darkened windows

we ourselves cannot throw open,

nor do we want to, fearing what we must confront

deep within the place from which our life flows out,

a shadow form waiting to be discovered

revealing to us ourselves.

Waterlilies

-- Four Haiku --

1.

Pink waterlilies

rise up from the depths and bloom,

as we, still alive.

2.

In shaded shallows

they rise up, these gravid buds,

and open, sunlit.

3.

Open, and sunlit,

bright on a darkened surface,

they bloom light and life.

4.

Our own dark surface

needing light, needing to bloom

Pink waterlilies.