The Sounds of Autumn Turnings

-- a lone loon hooting, short and sharp,

or two, young ones lingering here,

long wails echoing back, “I

am still here … Me, too”

-- a soft wind, cool, blowing off the lake,

a gentle shaking of tree tops, swaying,

pushing back the clouds, the rattle of leaves

holding on, “one more day, one more day.”

-- and the skittering of dry leaves, too,

so soon gone, blown across the yard, scraping

the walkway, a clatter and rustle below

my feet, setting free summer, summer letting go.

-- the caress of leaves fallen, a rhythmic

raking, pulling leaves and grass clippings

forward to pile, an obligation, a chore, but

“is it necessary,” hastening change?

-- and a new sound of summer silence, gone

the engines’ roar, the screams of youth returned

to school, the added traffic of summer guests,

gone themselves, silence left behind in their leaving.

-- and the beating of our hearts, soft, settling in,

the rhythms of our lives changing, one season

to another, reflections on the water’s expanse

the reflections of our souls growing older,

wiser, too, becoming more than ourselves,

our own sound loud in the autumn of our lives,

holding on, “one more day, one more season.”

Rain is but the tears

Earth sheds for man’s reckless destruction

of earth and sky and water below, and humanity;

and the torrential winds, unleashed, wild,

carry aloft the cries of nature’s creation,

lamentations, grief, and suffering, falling

unheard on deaf ears claiming dominion. 

The World That Day Stopped

The ash fell from the sky, a thick, dark

cloud of death and destruction raining

from the towers of high finance

and power, a symbol, bred perhaps

of arrogance and decadence, a dark cloud

covering us as we fled, our ashen shrouds

an imposed sackcloth, facing our own ends,

seeking a savior, and our loud cries unheard

above the din of falling ash;

 

- and the world that day stopped -

 

replaced with fear and hatred,

a fear and hatred of those unlike us

in color and creed, beliefs and governance,

those responsible for this, those to blame,

those who looked like them, spoke

like them, worshipped like them, anyone

unlike us, kith and kin, neighbors and friends

who have shared our lives, difference reason

enough now for our hatred, enough now for our fear,

a fear that runs deep, and a mistrust now revealed,

born of that fear, a mistrust morphing onto anyone,

anything deemed different from me,

an imagined enemy threatening our being,

that which we love, that which we are.

 

And the cries of victory ring out

in a foreign country, ring out for a victory

over infidels brought down, crying out still today.

 

And we weep for what we’ve lost,

weep for what we’ve become,

afraid and alone, seeking a way home

through the ash that fell from the sky,

a dark cloud of death and destruction. 

Interruption

She never noticed me sitting behind her,

blushing as she turned to pass back

the papers the teacher handed out,

papers passed desk to desk

in columns, five across and six deep,

the way of middle school in those days.

Her name was Dotty, in the seventh grade,

and I wanted to love her as seventh graders do,

but talk to her? Impossible!

Impossible, even, a “Thank You” as I lingered,

our hands joined by papers passed back to me

before turning myself to pass the papers on

to the girl behind me, some nameless girl,

who took them from me, not lovingly

as I had taken them, not thankfully,

but with contempt as if I’d somehow

soiled them in the passing, she

who’d prefer to be sitting in my seat,

behind Dotty, her friend, best girlfriend,

and I to her just an interruption

between them, an interruption in love,

unnoticed by both, an interruption and nothing more. 

Monsters under the Bed

They are still there, even now, hiding

under my bed, after dark and the lights

are turned out, the room quiet save

for the steady tick of my clock, too quiet,

and, listening, because I know they are there,

I hear them waking, rustling about, their breathing

begun with a snort, a reminder they are here, still,

a low growl growing, a long crescendo, a silent scream.

They have followed me from childhood, survived

my teen years and the transition into adulthood,

marriage and children, countless jobs and moves

and that one last move into retirement, always here

under my bed, ready to grab my legs or arms reaching

under, pulling me into the darkness where they live,

abiding, an abode among the dust bunnies, the lost

shoes and shirts where I dare not look, and the bones

of those before me, less fortunate, thrusting themselves

below to look, to see for themselves who is there, to discover

the truth awaiting them, waiting there, patiently, now,

for me; those fears I’ve always had, always are, always

will be, for that is the nature of fear, those demons lurking

in the dark, under my bed, fear manifested, still there, still

waiting, and I am still afraid, still hearing them under my bed.

Goodnight, my old dark friends, come with me,

hand in hand, into tomorrow, into the daylight, less afraid.