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"

To Those Who Prose-

It is best to stay away from prose-
you may squint-if so inclined

It takes a few words to get to the heart
blame the onion

O how it makes many squirm
to live like a libertine-openly

If you must, take a deep breath
before diving in-
the wind is strong-

if you catch my drift

umbrellas are for sissy's

It is how proper prose
becomes-to sharp to handle,
inverted, in brief
                   
                    taking side-steps
where precise ought to be...

It is useful to let your mind wander
alone.



Image of painting:  'At the Writing Table' National Gallery of Art-American 18th Century (1790) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Astir (Haiku)

Before the first rain

the Poets all woke and spoke

of their sense of smell

Painting by Apollinary Vasnetsov [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Bountiful ball

The harvest moon is up
and my stomach does not growl.
There is churning in the earth,
the reaper is due-

But none look when he arrives.

There is the usual warm glow
where a sinister mood once brewed.

Alas, there is no warmth or desire-
I am no longer hungry.
The moon goes on along
shining orange and strong...

at least the grass is getting greener.

Stress test

Can you tell it's right if you hold it up to the light?
Do you know if it is better than good
if it can be completely understood?
Is it the ideal size-target market wise?
Does it truly sound like all the others that abound?
Is it flammable, is it like the animal
in us-
indigenous?
Is it harmonious or relevant, erroneous and malevolent?
Does it make you dance in some clandestine way
Does it have something significant to say?
Then-
is it worthy
to be called poetry?



Painting by Marie Spartali Stillman, Love Sonnets (1894) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Silent H

If I tried to hide something from you,

would you know?

Would you become suspicious,

or let it go?

If I no longer listened to your voice-

don't you think it would be by choice?

If I argued with everything you said,

wouldn't this make our conversations dead?

If I began sneaking around,

would you begin peaking around?

If I were stockpiling and recycling secrets-

would it whet your whistle to relax your own rules-

Let's

pretend we are still fools...

If I keep playing the oblivious game,

would you keep dealing villainous blame

Excuses?

Nothing is fair in love and truces;

someone's got to give

and someone's going to live

Honestly.

Painting by Delphin Enjolras [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Half-wit Habitat

They came to me too,
just like you, the birds and the water,
serenity instead of sheep.

Yet the insistent migration,
predictably precisely on
Time,
became
beyond mesmerising.

Understanding holding your breath,
sonar is like sleep talk, let me translate,
Chosen few.

Including the enduring frigate flyer
over vast continents of saltwater-
suspended
with nary a place to land and nest.

A rare sight does not make it fantasy,
pteridactyls still soar
for weeks and weakly
catch flying fish in the skyway,
Survivor skills.

Flocks and pods abound,
we in the middle-straddled here
gasping for air, too bloated to fly
and in one eye,
masterminds
one half at a time.
Meanwhile, we Sleep
grazing.




Painting by François Boucher, Arion on the dolphin, (1748) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.