The 10th month

October days are merely

dawn passing the dim torch to dusk.

Layering

upon the earthen floor

over our bodies

the elements are intensified

between what lives and what dies

a time

to dwell together

in muted tones.

These October days

all end 

with soul dark nights,

crisp as the apparition

that spurns and nudges 

one to never be

done.  

Photo credited by Los Angeles County Museum of Art, 'Gift of Mrs. Ruthe Feldman in memory of Philip Feldman (M.91.377.52)' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Another Autumn Awaits

 

Falling comes naturally

as common as fear 

another body

knocked down-

Learning how to climb

up to the canopy 

out of the arbor awnings

each branch a rung

bell 

a ladder 

has no top

The horizon awaits this distant gaze

further than 

a crow flies 

an escape 

too far to grasp, too afraid to take

it all in

to begin again

asking...

What is more

No-

body needs to learn

anything except 

landing 

softly

before rising again

with an icy wind

at knifepoint

only to return 

home, rootbound

thirsting 

for more.

Artwork by Ellen Thayer Fisher, 'Fall leaves and Acrons' c. 1885 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Whyte light

Lean out,
breathe in.
Step off,
take it in.
You will fly
they praise.
My wings must be wet.

Whyte, white light
from acme to abyss
this mountainous
poet dragon
echoed across
my blood river valleys

and Up
I aimed a gaze.
My eyes-directing
my eyes where I wished-

Like the flower
happy to bloom,
in bloom
noticing the ever-changing
view.

Left with these notions

what must come down?
Come down
what must,
what must...



Painting by Thomas Moran, 'Mountain of the Holy Cross', c. 1890 in [Public domain].

September steams

There were stars too-
and of course, it was clear as crystals
with a full ball of mercury rising up
near ninety degrees,
moon shadows with a blue halogen aura
shrank and shriveled,
well before sunrise
everything hung in place,

every breath was held
and humid from being inside the body
where courage gathers
like a photo collection,
(in single dimension)
that could be assembled in someway,
in chrono-or-logical order like constellations
that slip and slide down time lines,
yet no sense would penetrate
nor make land fall.

There I was, looking for something else,
out there
with me
dropping leaves
like I let go
of every thing
on dawns tip-toes,
through light night
pretending not to notice
the disturbing peace.





Painting by Martin Johnson Heade, Passionflowers and hummingbirds c. 1870-1883 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Electra en route

The skydiver sits with legs dangling

over some hazy sepia city, where white boulders

are really single-family houses.

The words in the sky-

The only open space-

mention the management of

Trust and Risk.

From the profile

I recognize the Roman nose and swollen lower jaw,

puffed up bottom lip.

The head is tucked in a leather helmet or bonnet

and thick black gloves meant for big jobs such as 

holding on. The figure is slumped over, looks down.

I note how long it has been yet despite the gap 

easily identified as the Pioneer Amelia Earhart;

whose good fortune in men and time

required no planning of retirement,

whose fate turned ill at forty-one,

whose security was not welded to stocks or

bonded to breed,

whose figure seems compatible

in that alien atmosphere,

who was never buried

whose sealed lips, stony gaze,

Pause one to wonder what she sees

in the shadowtrees painted below,

does this sky have depth perception,

or recognize

the Miss Appropriation, the mixed media,

the teetering between jump and fall,

I tear out

the full page newspaper advertisement

and fold it back into a paper plane. 

"You haven't seen a tree until you have seen its shadow from the sky."-Amelia Earhart

Amelia Mary Earhart was born on July 24th in 1897, she disappeared in her plane Electra and was declared dead on January 5th, 1939. 

1st photo of Amelia and her husband George Putnam taken 1931, By International News Photos (eBay front back) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

2nd photo By San Diego Air & Space Museum Archives [No restrictions or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Totem poll

The final straw of September twenty-
ninths slit of smirking Black Moon-
the Indians have hung onto summer
with the same tenacity as their water dances
around the fire-I feel-
too long, feathered, and hot.
Sweltering shaded shelters there are none,
and I am white, weak and wrong,
along native latitudinal lines
not strong enough to weather
this Fall-
the pressure is too high to let go.

It makes me want to tear off my clothes
and immerse this blue skin in the sixty-three degrees
Pacific ocean
pacific specifically
calm
cool
collected.
................
September is succumbing to
October who strikes us sober.
Chill.
Breaths like poetry help acclimate me
in worlds like Autumn.





By Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Absorbing Autumn

Is it morbid to smell October
under Septembers fallen leaves,
dripping eaves?

I prefer not to be buried-thank you-
but I admit, it reminds me of a familiar place,
the earth Rising
and all...

Whereas when you see the sky
Falling
all over the place and filling in
with charcoal over blue with hefty white-
for contrast-
at last,
Relief.

Is it autumnal to wonder-
would it be better to biodegrade
or evaporate?

I am happiest under rain
when the leaves are crimson.



J. M. W. Turner [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 
"Rain, Steam and Speed - The Great Western Railway; the painting depicts an early locomotive of the Great Western Railway crossing the River Thames on Brunel's recently completed Maidenhead Railway Bridge.The painting is also credited for allowing a glimpse of the Romantic strife within Turner and his contemporaries over the issue of the technological advancement during the Industrial Revolution"

Eve(ning) (Haiku)

Under bamboo ribs

the Fall; leaves expose yellow gold

slanted shadows lie.

Attributed to Kanō Eitoku (狩野永徳) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Knock on wood

O' American Sycamore-
what dost thou stand for?

Emigrant from England three and three 

quarters score, long along years ago-

And you allegedly pledged your allegiance,
Christening yourself O' Nort 'occidentalis'

signaling westerly growth,

a reminder of the Fall.

Both bark and buds ooze 

with bloom booze, 
how apropos, you know.

The mottled and molted trunk-sheds,

splotches on white, a complexion

that shows you belong, hanging out
(in)toxic(ated) tracts,

peduncles on branchlets

achenes subjective gravitational

caducous coated in tomentum.

And some come foreboding and tall-

but are all hollow 

inside, naturally swept up

saw dust, bore nee by beetled 

witch's broom. 

Image By Huw Williams (Huwmanbeing) (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Stairwell

Heavy were my legs

              and blistered were my souls

                      as I climbed

                            dropping stones and sweat

as I went.

An ascent, the carrot grew

                           sweetly downward

                                  in your striking light

                                         I rose to the events

put in my path.

Sequentially steeper

                          pushing me down

                                      the air thins

                                          and blood chills

glimpses in steam.

Packed and thrown

                            the key, precious ego sinks

                                         reaping its slaughtered pleasures

                                               deflowered by appetite

famished and sated.

Starvation and salvation

                                  the lighter the load

                                                 only to reach

                                                       destiny's plateau

wilted and near weary.

Well, I didn't know

                         as good as it gets

                                           is nowhere near Yet

Grace has wings

                         on Time she flies

                                            passively Bye.

Image by Caspar David Friedrich [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Owl on grave c. 1836.    

To set the record straight about that time I fell of the Horner Bridge

I really jumped.
My friends did not go before me.
I was alone, despite any rumors
I may have been pushed.
The ones that love me
hate the gossip.
They like to think I simply slipped,
like one of those slippery memories.
But I was nevertheless aware all the more
of exactly where I stood,
the risk was irrelevant then.

As in suspension bridges,
where there's stretch and taut,
breadth and span,
it contracts beneath
your soles and whimpers under pressure
when you listen in...
I was standing with my arms out there
wide, back arched, chin jutted out, nostrils open
eyes closed and toes clenched
when something said
the more you know 
the more you die inside a little,
so I thought I'd find the middle when
I lept.

Except I lived to tell
I did it, I meant to
land on my purpose
or fail.
Ending the suspense
finally, in this way.
They say falling
I add willfully,
blindly, unafraid
and as it relates to history,
I fell hard
and only for me.

Image By Charlesdrakew, North Stoke Suspension Bridge (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Symphonies of straw

A pin
A needle
      in a haystack
A drop
       in a bucket
A leaf
       on a tree
falls
         falling
                      fell
leaves
           leaving
                        left
with a thunder-
ing roar
A tree
            bends and peels
shaking and quaking
             in its earthy bed
shedding leafy sheets
              turning the page
the orchestra tunes
              its instruments for Autumn.


Image by By Rosendahl [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Awesome Autumn

Fall is when-

night is up

early.

A seasonal flare,

triggered trees in

flames.

Waving their flags-

to snowy surrender.

Warning warmly,

of Winters wanton wrath.

The air is crisp-

brittled and bundled,

nipping at numbing noses.

The sun briefly visits,

in cool fading interest,

bowing to the Wind

conducting the colorful chorus.

Dying leaves

stray and wander

in drifting decay.

Stockpiled and strewn,

tokens of child’s play.

Crimson, copper, coral,

tangerine, apricot, peach,

amber, saffron and shades of blonde;

Mother Earth blazing trails,

spilt her prismatic palette,

all over the canvased

November sky-

for no rhyme,

or reason,

Autumn is a lovely season.

Image by Digital nick, "Autumn in Slovakia", Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.