Falling Memories

As leaves fall
so memories tumble into consciousness
A yellowed leaf falls
a time as an inconsiderate child
A red leaf falls
a time in selfish high school
A greenish leaf falls
an adult unable to see another's life

But these memories are not like the leaves
The tree feels the snows and ice approach
knows it cannot afford the showy leaves
It starves them, denying them life
slowly pinching
until the leaf falls away
But the tree remains; branch, trunk and root

These memories come to torment
I am the ground which accepts the leaves
pulls them slowly into myself
They won't leave, drop away
They are a part of what makes me
Instead I will relive them next year
and the next
when the leaves fall
And the ground remembers
the years' reproaching colors
Echoes of embarrassment and failure
are as strong as the shout

Other Peoples' Names

Sometimes I'm in awe
of how other's lives are filled with names.
They remember
their kindegarden teachers name
and not only for the class, but years later
they fondly prattle off the role call
and talk of them as intimates.
I have few names.
Not for a lack of people
We all have our dole
But for a lack of memory
and attentiveness.
Many high-school teachers I could name
but few before that.
I remember a Mrs. Hawthorne,
but didn't we all know
a Mrs. Hawthorne at one time
or another.
Someone who lovingly corrected
our errors
and fed our need for books.
She told us we were important
and had something to contribute.

Happy 3000

This is the 3000th post on Story Bones. To celebrate, have a poem written just for you.

Autumn burns
trees to nakedness,
a bonfire
of maturing night.
The twilight of days
turns the veil translucent
like a window in candlelight.
Faces on each side
searching the gloaming for kin.

Summer's heat wanes to
waxing moonglow
as our guiding
stars magnify,
driving the songs in our chests.
And our imaginations ignite
the cold fires consuming
the northern sky.

A time of revelry
and masks descends
in sparks. A feast
of famines and jest,
a rollicking table of bounty
against the skeletal time to come.
Harvests past echo in snickering blades
and susurrus of satedness.
Et in arcadia ego.
We dance away from
the scythe, knowing soon
our own reaping will
place us in transposition
of the veil.

A Pilgrim's Way

A poem for the holidays. Not by me, but one I've come to love over the years.

I do not look for holy saints to guide me on my way,
Or male and female devilkins to lead my feet astray.
If these are added, I rejoice - if not, I shall not mind,
So long as I have leave and choice to meet my fellow-kind.
For as we come and as we go, and deadly-soon go we!
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!

Thus I will honour pious men whose virtue shines so bright
Though none are more amazed than I when I by chance do right,
And I will pity foolish men for woe their sins have bred
Though ninety-nine per cent. of mine I brought on my own head.
And, Amorite or Eremite, or General Averagee,
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!

And when they bore me overmuch, I will not shake mine ears,
Recalling many thousand such whom I have bored to tears.
And when they labour to impress, I will not doubt nor scoff;
Since I myself have done no less and sometimes pulled it off.
Yea, as we are and we are not, and we pretend to be,
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!

And when they work me random wrong, as oftentimes hath been,
I will not cherish hate too long (my hands are none too clean).
And when they do me random good I will not feign surprise.
No more than those whom I have cheered with wayside charities.
But, as we give and as we take – whate'er our takings be –
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!

But when I meet with frantic folk who sinfully declare
There is no pardon for their sin, the same I will not spare
Till I have proved that Heaven and Hell which in our hearts we have
Show nothing irredeemable on either side of the grave.
For as we live and as we die - if utter Death there be -
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!

Deliver me from every pride - the Middle, High, and Low -
That bars me from a brother's side, whatever pride he show.
And purge me from all heresies of thought and speech and pen
That bid me judge him otherwise than I am judged. Amen!
That I may sing of Crowd or King or road-borne company,
That I may labour in my day, vocation and degree,
To prove the same in deed and name, and hold unshakenly
Where'er I go, whate'er I know, whoe'er my neighbor be
This single faith in Life and Death and to Eternity:
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!

Rudyard Kipling

Have a great holiday, everybody. We're on the downhill run to the New Year.

Bouquet of Years

Poetry in motion/action. So here we are.

All I have to give
is a bouquet of years.
Each tightly wrapped and
sprinkled with baby's breath.
They'll unfurl
and perfume our room together
until the petals drop
becoming the potpourri of our lives.
The memory of the blossoms
portage us over the rapids
Until age widens
and the years flow easily
into the nostalgic swamp.

And that's where this train went off the rails. I think it started at "potpourri." We'll try again tomorrow.

to a Flame

A constellation of fireflies
flit in the night-tree canopy.
Living planetarium of
ever changing stars,
calling to each other with
the psalm of sex.
One note staccato
rhythm of the ages.
Candles burning on both ends
from the fever of life.
Take me, nurse,
before I am consumed
by the fire
and fall cinder like
into the glorious
pin-hole sky.

Season's Gifts

My neighbor restrained
his inflatable fetish to half his lawn
in sympathy of my yard's nakedness
this season.
His makeshift creche,
populated by plastic Jesus plus attendants,
shines blessed light through our windows
all the night.
The three wise men positioned
on the side
like a panel of talking heads
giving running color commentary
and prognostication about what
the scene means.
No matter how hard
they argue over each other,
each morning finds
them in the same place.
A shepherd boy moderates
their quibbles and whispers
without the sense to wear
shoes in this snow.
Half the size of real people
and losing their gilt,
the hollow wise men stare down,
electric lights up their bums
giving the impression of intellect,
carrying their tribute.
Typical of talking heads
the gifts are of little use
to a family with a newborn.
Gold, frankincense and myrrh of all things.
Myrr, spice of the dead.
Gold is somewhat usable,
since the other gift they bring,
the hidden gift not shown,
is the sure knowledge of impending doom,
the wise men's stock and trade.
When the world comes crashing in
gold will help, they say.
But I can't help wondering
if the patient smile on Mary's lips
isn't her biting them instead
to keep questions internal;
if a box of diapers
was too much to ask,
or a proper blanket.

Slow Burn

It took all summer,
but the trees are showing their tans
A slow burn of rust
consums the branches.
Flakes pile on the floor below
and clog streams.
The scent of pencil shavings
stirs erasure dust memories
of brown corduroy pants
and pink cashmere sweaters.
Heartened pumping of blood
pounds the heartache from my eyes.
Ghost wisps of fog wrap the past
and harden my nights.
Youth calls like
candy apple cravings
and bat winged remembrances
flit in allergic waves
in wood smoke eyes.

October creeps in

October in the Chair

Leaves dry brush the parking lot
in whorls of brown.
Flocking clouds pile up
on their migration south,
turn a bruised black and blue
and swell to bursting.
Aroma of crushed apples and
burning brush feed
fever dreams of iced lawns.
Cars grow winter coats
of fuzzy road dust.
The clopping of nighttime horses
becomes crisper
before their breath coats the air.

Merry Solstice

Tomorrow being the winter solstice, I thought I'd give you your present early.

The longest night

Down the night,
through echos of bonfires,
come revels of ages
of oak smoke
and holly berries.
The yule tide rises.
Our ancestors' dreams
sluice through our genes
causing parades of afterimages
of years past.
A soul's solstice
burning in the deep night.
Midnight of the year,
a celebrants orgy of dark.

Elevenses

Do poppies grow still
in Flanders fields?
Do the crosses still stand straight,
row upon row?
Do the larks sing bravely now
to the silent guns below?

Do the dead still sleep uneasy
that the quarrels of the day are no more?
The foe is now our partner,
our love and loved ones are no longer buried
in Flanders fields.

The torch they threw, held on high
now rests in eternal flames.
Our quarrels are our own.
The faith was not broken.
Do their voices whisper still
through Flanders field?

Hard Frost

This dawn a hard frost covered the world in sprinkles and cream. Another nail in the coffin of summer and a final eviction notice to all those animals who migrate. She came on soft feet in the twilight dripping her magic. Flowers closed at her approach, fruits withered, crickets silenced their harping and trees longed for the deep, splintering slumber of February. The only animal voice heard in protest was crow's. There is more corn on the stalk he seemed to squawk. More pumpkin on the vine. Surely more time for the pleasures of sunshine. Crows are her favorite, so she'll indulge them for another week or two. Let them grow fat before the lean time. Let the geese travel at some ease. Let the ground be prepared to freeze. Dawn came hard this morning, covered in the crisp frost of eager winter. She dances on ice, whirling the airs. Her voice soft along the breezes. I am coming, she sings. I am coming.

I'm writing, I'm writing, I'm... ooo, sparkly.

I'm trying to write Chapter 25, things are getting tense, and out pops poetry. So we must write it out.

Season Dance

Humidity rises with
the waxing Harvest Moon
late in the season
for swimming-pool weather.
Pumpkin-fairy dreams
dance wakeful thoughts.
Longful frost on the verges
fringe winter's desire.
A change of sun
in the deepening sky
braids ribbons on the pole
of nightblue.
Come shining dark
for the candles to relight
the world.
Down the ages singing
our voices echo our
ancestor's. The
raucous universe
demands the wheel
we spin upon.

October Anticipation

Ripe orange plumpness
breaks the leaf cover
skittering spiders over vast velds
of furry green leaves.
The scent of scratching pencils
fills the breeze
drowning out the manure
from the county fair.
The ground swallows frogs.
Nights roll in faster then a moon tide.
Insects plagues die by phantasmal scores.
Cool air comes off vacation
reinvigorated from the repose.
Clouds pile up
on their road-trip south,
jamming the skyways.

For Camille

And instead of chapters, my brain issues poetry. I know Camille dislikes my political ranting. So this poem is for her. (Since I make many typos, I do intend the homophone in line three)

The Debate

Fire on the beach shines
a beacon to the frothy surf.
We dissent into chaos.
Subsumed in the sea
of past assumptions
to drown
breathing deep blue history.
We flounder on the sublime
and shout warning
at the young oarsmen
in brave boats,
"Excelsior!"
And one last time,
hand raised in final salute,
the waves break resolve
and claim us their own.

Those rascally poems

More poetry has occurred
Not as good as "What the Sea Sends"
Troubled birthing pains
In dire need of cosmetic and reconstructive surgery

So we don't send it out
We talk in loud whispers
Use Dr. Shoal's amazing freeze wand
to remove its warts

Then we send it through therapy
This is not the poem you seek
This is not the Scrimshaw Man
That is another poem.

It may never see light
as the premise is stolen
like a babe in the night
a changeling of sticks and moss left in crib

or

The poem you seek
Is not the one in hand now
Try back tomorrow

Occidental Incremental Poetry

Because I just can't leave well enough alone:

See the story ooze forced meaning and portent
Smell the sweat of youthful naivety
Acrimonious narcissistic nihilism
All too earnest need to fondle
Their unscarred smooth backs
Fearing rejection whiplash

I am the gingerbread-house editor
With windows of clear sugar
And a witch-proofed oven
To keep young mice from tossing me in
Listening to the nibble, nibble, gnaw
Of keyboard keys and laser printers

Who (corrected from whom) is that I hear
Nibble, nibble, gnawing on my roof
On my house
Draw closer my dear
It has been to long since I've torn
Doughy flesh from cracker bone