I finally made a page for this “series” or whatever it may be, my attempt at just creating my art as it is on the fly, on spot, on my porch. But here is what I wrote tonight (well, last night since I am schedule posting this for the morning , remember I will never tell you something is new if I post it if it is not, I will always post my dates of writing same, that is just me because I am really trying to post me, or at least the best approximation thereof), when I post older stuff, you will know, does it matter in the long run ? probably not, but I am me and I will be Mr. Me all the damn time.
9.2.2018 “from the porch” (series)
so here I am once again
the hour is late august
no, early september
(although they speak a version of the same language)
ambitious leaves
are now beginning to fall
either precocious –
or tired of the season summer
and her beating heat,
I find myself staring
at the leaves of my japanese maple
knowing, but yet wondering
if they are even alive
in this still non breeze
this quiet of not quite night
I don’t even see any tremble,
trees barely seem alive
unless they are pushed and persuaded
their growth, seems to happen
in a different time
quit different, than the flow of mine,
hard to comprehend, understand
or wrap around my head, my mind,
I try to think of some clever metaphor
for trees,
my roots welling up, bolstering the pillar, of my trunk
branching out
the leaves, how ever do they fulfill
the sun, driving the hunger
burning the oil of chlorophyll,
but I wonder, what are my leaves?
obviously I am the core, the tree itself
trunk and branch
always there, in all seasons, even winter bare,
so what are my leaves?
are they feelings? people?
but what in my life do I have all
and then – none more,
so I suppose this is a failed metaphor,
failure, we’ve all worn the shawl
failure, even in words sounds so dire
but yet, should be as natural as the breathing air,
all the many species
that have come to past
and those that survived
not by a straight line
with a dollop of luck
or just a plain old long shot,
so flip failure on heads
on tails
you might just find
hope, even on summer’s end.
“on the eve of labor day” (porch series) 9.2.2018
I witness the world sleep walking
even the clouds seem crawling across skyward dreams
only one cricket seems to care with lonely declare
the once raging blaze of the fireflies in peak – is dying out
only a few embers remain here and about
the temperature has not yet quite broken
but soon enough will
yet in a way I still mourn
yet knowing you will return once more
but for me, this means one less,
a few leaves have already leapt to begin their slumber
once high above, now they are grounded
and I know it is more than mere gravity –
Newton my friend
who can think of the “g” word
without picturing an apple striking your head,
just a month ago
a rumor of snow would smack absurd
but now –
an inevitable sound
the rusty old plows
scraping down the street,
huddled inside
as our hemisphere
tilts from the sun
good bye my summer
may I be here for your return.
