A poem for autumn

Slide with me, world, dark and gentle
Fall through me, time, swift and lovely

In dying days I lift my eyes, I fill them up
With warm senescent gold

Cherished footsteps of summer, growing fainter
I cannot hold you here

How long does the memory of sun
Persist in the brain?
Not as long as in your multifarious earth
     Cool and still to me
     Hot and teeming within
Store the light against that dark day
When even you are trapped in snow, alone
     But waiting



Nature / dualism hurts in an ecstatic way

This ain’t 1830, bro.  But it seems nature is all I want to write poems (or rather, sloppy quasi-poems) about, so here I go.

Bright lights,

Castles of desire,

Rocking tides of sweetness,

Birds that know you when they see you,

Skies your soul can touch when it hears the sound and unfurls,

The urbane fragrance of autumn and the intimate fragrance of damp earth,

Dark leaves painting the foreground of the sunset with their fine dewy motile brush,

All rushes in in the agony, the awful crack of dislocation from the static cohesion of SELF, things going through me and filling me because I’m not even here to impede them.

No one sense organ is where I am, correct?  Maybe I am everywhere, or a semipermeable membrane, or a filter that is often clogged.

It happens

This is a sequel, of sorts, to Hyper-haiku.

Somehow, it happens.

The snow melts.

[First, of course, you feel it yield a little too readily

To the tip of your questing toe.]

You saw the great masses of white, towers, mountains.

You thought, “How can there even be this much water in the world?”

But it happens:

Gleaming white quiet world, gone to brown ugly mush.

Later, when you are not looking:

With an unhappy sigh, it surrenders its solid form entirely.

A torrent, everywhere, messy and cold,

Breaking and nourishing the somnolent earth.

Then, somehow, invisible again.

You can almost smell it all,

The violence of spring’s accession

On that first day that the sun feels real again.

The snow melts.

It happens.



I recently started thinking about poetic transformations and, being overcome by the beauty of fall, I thought it fitting to create a form that turns restraint into absurd excess.  Here’s what happened (since the second line is so long, I’ve supplied all line breaks).


Said the Oak Tree (a hyper-haiku)

Said the Oak Tree, “Late summer, that vandal, has dipped my green leaves into the riotous ruddy sunset: /

What was once as orderly and still as July at night is now an absurdity of red and gold; his profligacy and sharp yellow teeth have made a blithe mockery of my chlorophilia. /

It was not my choice to live so deciduously. I am NOT tired!  I don’t want to sleep!  I don’t want–”