Posted on 11/24/2003 9:52:48 AM PST by January24th
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But Time Taunts
angular fog
sweeps
the turgid
sea
beneath
the turbulent
tides
sirens
sing
still
ridge line pines
proud
in the setting
sun
my wooden
heart pines
without pride
six golden
leaves
fell at dusk
- twirling
Spring came too late and left too soon
my unused heart bore the brunt
of summer's cruelties
and worked at working
and lied about living...
unless resignation counts for aught more than
measuring the distance
from autumn to autumn
still, it's a fair arrival when
that august September strolls into
the South with mysterious baggage
like some dowager Aunt she assures
that there is plenty of time to unpack
Impatient yet polite, I must allow
September to settle in
as I await the cooler delights
and golden treasures I'm certain
are kept there, behind her back
The melancholy of September
is more than a song.
It's a brave hurrah for summer strength;
a cool apprisal of the future;
a Golden Mean for life.
ahem. tagline now corrected. Sheesh.
Passerine
It starts at the back of the throat
the notes that choke like the acicia thorns
buried in the leaves you gave me.
Here the wind will always come
over the moutains with its oily dust
on the iridescent wings
of the Little Green Bee-eater
returned to sing again
in the pepper tree.
He shrugs off the silver overcoat
that shadows every leaf and feather
shakes his shoulders - knocks the wasp
loose from its poison dart.
I have learned to live on things
that sting, always catch it
on the wing, keep enough to live,
to sing.
well fiddle dee-dee. Typo adjustment post.
Passerine
It starts at the back of the throat
the notes that choke like the acacia thorns
buried in the leaves you gave me.
Here the wind will always come
over the moutains with its oily dust
on the iridescent wings
of the Little Green Bee-eater
returned to sing again
in the pepper tree.
He shrugs off the silver overcoat
that shadows every leaf and feather
shakes his shoulders - knocks the wasp
loose from its poison dart.
I have learned to live on things
that sting, always catch it
on the wing, keep enough to love,
to sing.
Hmmm...I like both iterations!
Well, when you are special, you get an extra pack of peanuts....Two!. How does the other half live?
I am stopped, a salt block,
licked by the sun's dusty tongue,
a woman of Pompeii, overtaken
by my own delay, my body cast
in mud and ash.
airport 80 miles
The sign makes a convenient
marker for the tow service.
They'll know where to find me,
if they ever come.
Like Archimedes clock,
a train whistle cups the silence,
returns it in ever slowing drops
until the self-saluting sound
of things that run on schedule
fades at last.
Ninety per cent of life
is just showing up and the other ten
is for survival, knowing when to leave
and never looking back.
I haven't enough days left
in my pockets to pay the past's debts.
So, I'll just catch my breath
beneath the sign
that tells me how far I have to go,
but nothing about departure time.
John M. Ford, R.I.P.
Against Entropy
The worm drives helically through the wood
And does not know the dust left in the bore
Once made the table integral and good;
And suddenly the crystal hits the floor.
Electrons find their paths in subtle ways,
A massless eddy in a trail of smoke;
The names of lovers, light of other days—
Perhaps you will not miss them. That’s the joke.
The universe winds down. That’s how it’s made.
But memory is everything to lose;
Although some of the colors have to fade,
Do not believe you’ll get the chance to choose.
Regret, by definition, comes too late;
Say what you mean. Bear witness. Iterate.
—John M. Ford
moonset
finds me
betwixt
reflections
fall's
golden
days
and time
ebb
away
a
blue
norther's
touch
strange
different
air
I'm
a-mused...
merely
waiting
for seasons
to change
so winter can
leave my heart
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