Lies in abeyance as day
The wind whips at my window,
leaves slapping and crushing
against the screen.
Rain and sleet strike through
to the glass-paned barrier
with unfettered force.
Is the weather voicing
its control, or just saying,
“The season is a-changing?”
Calendars noted Spring
a month ago, but by
there are four seasons
with distinct personalities,
But why would one believe
them genetically pure?
As wind is a common
factor, is it not likely a
season’s DNA could
cross over and mutate,
like Fall’s Indian Summer,
or flings of Spring
showing up in Winter?
If this Spring breezes by,
would a Summer Solstice
be asking too much?
There are seven of them,
whistling, so pert and happy
while I lie in bed, yawning and sleepy
(maybe even a little grumpy)
at being awakened so early.
Muddled and dopey from sleep,
I shuffle to the bathroom and
bashfully look in the mirror
at my snow white image.
I splash cold water on my face,
as if a Doc “on call.”
More awake now, I make my way
to the east window to let in
the fresh morning breezes.
I close my eyes as I sneeze, only
to find when I open them,
Spring has inhabited the earth.
The disappearance of winter
is like an awakening in me,
I embrace the new day and
find myself whistling a happy tune.
I prepared for winter as if a bear,
eating enough to store a little fat,
prepping my den with soft bedding
and surrounding myself with my
favorite things before thinking about
curling up like a ball of furry fluff.
Then the cold came, and I hunkered in
my corner, ready for hibernation to begin.
Well, eight hours later, I woke to the
pressing needs of primal functions,
cramps in muscles I didn’t know I had,
and hunger growling through my tummy.
How do they do it? The bears,
the reptiles; the bees and the bats?
How do they slow their muscles down,
close their minds to their surroundings
and let sleep overtake their bodies?
Do they eat until they get drowsy,
simply too tired to move?
Do their bodies naturally adapt
to the changing environment?
Or do they meditate into quietude,
re-awakened with the spring?
Sloughed off from a
lengthy body, the
tunnel of snakeskin
in the grass still surprises me,
the thought that he’s
outgrown himself again a
little intimidating; well, actually,
quite frightening. Yet,
I’m not concerned when I find
leather uppers lying in the lawn,
flung off because they are too small
for the young boy out there.
I know he chose to shed the shoes
so he could go farther faster;
and I may shed a tear or two
as he stretches and grows;
but, we all bask together
under the same sun,
shedding and growing until
day is done.
Engage yourself with negativity,
and your heart will weigh heavy
with dissension in your life;
like the budding, wild rose
that struggles to survive among
the bindweed encircling it,
tendrils twisting ’round it until only
a spindle of its former self remains,
an unwelcome heaviness holding it.
Instead, live like the morning glory
who opens itself up each morning,
choosing its own path among the sunshine,
ringing vitality through the belled blossom
nestled among its heart-shaped leaves,
awakening positive spirits within us.
As darkness descends upon the earth,
join as it enfolds upon itself
in peace, its rapture restored
for another day.
It was that kind of year–
Politicians rankled the masses,
Thugs roamed the streets,
People died needlessly.
A Year of the Monkey, they said.
Two thousand sixteen, it was,
and as its namesake implies,
a wildly mischievous child,
searching, perhaps for an escape,
peeking through window blinds
as the new year comes into view,
wondering whether 2016 will leave
when the window is opened
to welcome 2017 in.
Slow and stealth like a tiger,
I weave through the holiday browsers,
dodging ribboned mines of packages,
children being tugged through the menagerie,
and rivulets of sodas splashed onto the floor.
I am preying upon the store that
advertised the ultimate selection of
gifts for the whole family, and I sense
that I must be quick and agile if
I’m to acquire my targeted gifts and
return to my den unscathed.
We met in the Spring
when you first unfurled with life,
But we’re drifting apart,
and it breaks my loving heart.
Bursting forth with song,
I wave as I stroll by;
Your yellowed hands wave back,
and I realize you’re not strong.
Your neighbor’s orange glow can’t
disguise what’s set to come,
For I know that fall’s approaching
and your earthly time’s ‘most done.
I’ll not forget the pleasures
you brought into my life,
Like cooling summer breezes
and filtering days’ harsh light.
In spite of Autumn’s changes,
I’ll continue to live and thrive;
Learning to cope with sadness
is a key to life’s delights.
Whoopa, whoopa, whoopa,
echoed the air as they flew in,
their dark feathers stark
against the cold, gray sky.
Drawn to our berry-laden trees, their
beaks quickly filled with winter fruits,
juices dribbling down their breasts as they sampled the fare,
seeds spilling out as they reached for more.
It’s wasn’t long before the roof above me
sounded as if it were caving in, the
thunderous bohm, bohm, bohm
as hundreds of birds pounced upon landing.
Drops of water sloshed over the gutter
as they drank at the ready trough of melted snow.
I couldn’t help but watch as they regathered
in formation, no fighting over leadership,
no squawking or squealing or even chittering,
just a gentle breeze of whoooo as they took flight,
completely satisfied with the simplest of things…
a full tummy, a quenched thirst, and
renewed strength to reach great heights
in the company of friends.
Today is January 19, birthday of Edgar Allan Poe, author of the famous poem, “The Raven.” I was curious, so I did some searching today and was fascinated by the variety of beliefs about Ravens. We chose the name Raven Books for our writing/publishing company as a representation of the positive influence Ravens have had on our lives, but obviously not eveyone believes as we do.
Do you believe in the symbolism of the Raven as depressing, as Poe divulged in his poem, or do you believe in other lore of the Raven as magical, or as a protector? Are you one who goes straight to the facts and believes the high intelligence of the Raven, able to be trained to speak? or the metaphysical view that ravens can predict the future?
Night’s darkening depths of cold
suspend iced stalactites like roof fringe,
vertical beds of melting snow
awaiting tomorrow’s frosty thaw
when the crystalized tapers will drip to life
under the glowing spotlight of sun,
dancing as they reach the ground,
pooling together for midday fun.
It’s Autumn when falling leaves
either saunter down or
circle with driving force.
Irrespective of their roots, or even
from whose yard they spent their summer,
they gather together.
Nearly indistinguishable from one another,
oak and ash wear charcoal coats of crunch,
lying among tarnished poplar leaves.
A multicolored leaf rests on top,
similar in size and shape, yet different,
the anomaly, standing out.
I finally understand why Mom always said,
“Don’t fall among the crowd;
Be confident; be yourself.”
I savored the colorful fallen leaves
and the deep, woodsy scent
of maple and oak as I tried to
shape their formation.
The harder I struggled against the winds,
the more the pile seemed to separate,
small clusters encircling my knees,
twirling with excitement as they rose to leave.
And I thought of children, young adults really,
leaving with the anxiousness of Autumn winds.
I know they both will return changed,
some choosing a brief visit,
others remaining among the familiar,
enriching the land and the lives
they touch as they settle in.
With the love of a mother,
I embrace the changes
and look forward to
once again sharing our worlds.
If I could bottle the essence of autumn…
I would gather the abundance of harvests
into a sheath of flavors,
enhancing it with spicy winds from twirling
leaves of red and orange and yellow.
I would preserve the last blooms of summer,
before winter’s icy fingers took hold,
perpetuating their beauty and scent
as a sweetener for my autumn eau.
I would complete my vialed essence
by filling the bottle with crisp fall air,
letting it gently settle to the bottom,
suspending the stars of autumn as it
drifted through and filled the emptiness within.
Then I’d wrap it all in gold leaf
for autumn is always presented
in the richest of ways.
I’m standing in the middle of my story,
writer, actor, and director.
I choose the words carefully;
They are not scripted for me, but by me.
I choose how to play out the scenes,
Knowing I’m my own stuntman and could get hurt.
And I choose how to direct my energy,
How to live day by day, each day a gift I give myself.
He was small and dark,
not the stereotypical kind;
But he left a lasting impression
as he skittered and passed me by.
Now, I’m pretty easy going if
we remain in our separate homes;
But he broke the code established
when he entered my domain,
I know his cute tail wagging
was not a fond hello;
But like army infantry,
he was sliding toward a goal.
I was glad to give a hand
and carry him to the door;
But it’s imperative our socialities
are strictly held outdoors!
We looked deeply into each other’s eyes,
Your head held high and proud,
Mine slightly lowered and held fast as we
Passed in the grass.
I spoke briefly, noticing how you had grown
Through the summer,
And thankfully you didn’t hiss a reply
But smoothly glided on,
The perfect glissade to my Texas two-step
In the opposite direction.