thoughts, from the porch…

thoughts, from the porch…

Photo by Alex Andrews on Pexels.com

the moon is in league

and so it descends, frozen invisible prison bars, a brisk cold, hints dropped like falling petals scattered earlier in these past weeks, the crisp bite of fall I called such, but now, full teeth bared gleaming white, the ring leader, the pied piper, reverse reflecting the sun’s light to dominate the sky of night, the stark dearth star, a cold dead desert hypnotizing our hemisphere into submission, sleep… a full moon, of course, conjured up’for hallow’s eve, just as the leaves have been stripped from many trees, that inescapable gaze blazes down on this landscape, no clouds, no shroud to hide in, no, open resistance, a brazen demonstration of barren isolation, Winter; that which slows life like a vice twisting in a thimble, at barely – a – pace, the feel has a beacon, a symbol, a scion, the brightest object in the sky as the world turns cold and colder, twist once more, snow, yes, snow, this morning there was snow, not the type to warm your heart on a christmas morning viewed from a cheery warm window sipping hot cocoa, no, dead falling, falling heavy wet white wolf pelts slapping on the windshield, letting you know the summer you once knew is quite gone, and certainly I did not outfit myself in the proper jacket to deal with this early assault, but no matter, I will not linger here, being stared at, examined, scrutinized, by that dead eye hanging in the sky, the cold isolation, the green of the world has peeled back in reflex, but I was watching, I swear I was watching this time, how did I miss this, the coming loud tide of the cold wave, my breath rises out up into space, drawn up by that nocturnal beaming thief, as I walk I feel the presence of being followed, stalked, tracked across the sky behind my shoulder, just over my shoulder, footstep by footstep by footstep, I notice my feet, the fallen, the fallen leaves are a patchwork quilt, in the day a beautiful sight, but night, now, wet and soaked, dank slippery wetness, the kind where you want to rush inside and peel off your drenched clothes, sit wrapped blanket by a fire, the brand of cold that turns skin blue, the body shrinks back into a shell, yes, the chills, run, run up the spine and through the teeth, chatter, I must devine that my ancestors were not of alpine stock, not if this is my evolved shock, even now, years worn down, years documented on my paycheck to this universe, still, some nights, the moon is a sinister beast, dead reveling in an earthly feast. (and so I retreat, cuddle up with my dog, and sleep)

Skirts and Curbs: autumn delight

Skirts and Curbs: autumn delight

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

driving, early evening, the days are stretching darker, yes, yes – this is the crest of autumn, leaves have fallen but there are so many trees still bursting ripe with them, of course there are the colors: the yellow, the purple, the orange, the red, and all the burnt versions in between putting on a last ditch flare before the penultimate fall and down evolution to brown (dust), but that is a couple weeks away yet, we have not yet reached the summit of the complete denuding of the arboreal population, driving at night – this is like a scene devised, laid out and mapped, planned, the leaves almost form a skirt from the curb out, a perfect and undisturbed line, exactly (or so) 4 feet, like extended orange-spotted fronds creeping onto the road separate from the curb form, my headlights reflect off the sheen left by the gentle misty rain that has drifted down from the parent fog, not a sparkle, or a shimmer of diamonds like the ocean waves @ sunset, more like individual sliver silver hands raised up on the curled tips of leaves waving ‘hey, look at me’, one last act of expression before life is drained into submission – the sleep, all this has the feel of an awake painting, and I am within the gallery, living, among the breathing-pulsing museum of the actual world, I round the familiar corners toward home, not as many decorations this year, the usual houses of course do not resist the urge, or perhaps the good intent, blow up spiders, skeletons bent, a makeshift foam graveyard, gossamer webbing swaying in the breeze like a demon child’s sinister swing, for a moment there is comfort in thought, the remembrance of halloween, youth, bouncing steps between houses, yes, this is definitely the plum of autumn, winter has not bared her full teeth set as of yet – but you know she is coming, the whispers in the slight chill let you know in passing, but this, one of those moments to savor, driving, the road lined like a pictured frame and I feel, at peace – in place – playing the part for which I was made, perfect borders remain for me to follow this familiar path, skipping street light to street light like hopscotch, let my senses embrace and marinate with the sights and sounds, one more turn and- I pull into my driveway, some of the magic seems already gone, lost… but… with care, I peel a large, intact, blood-red maple leaf off my side mirror, I hold the stem, and twirl it in my hand for a bit, to say goodbye – to a friend.

the continuing travails of jack, not the candle jumper, the lantern intern (whimsy)…

the continuing travails of jack, not the candle jumper, the lantern intern (whimsy)…

jack o lantern on top of wooden surface
Photo by Ylanite Koppens on Pexels.com

O’ withering Jack
you lowly schmuck
only luck kept you out of a pie
or worse yet pumpkin spice spam
or some sumptuous trendy latte, perhaps
or in the boil of some awful seasonal brew
no, you, are now just this sinking lump
a hump of rotten candy corn looking imitation
drooling out god knows what
from the corner of that hole that was your mouth part
drifting ever south
by the hour, ravens will not even peck
at your dead hollow eyes
in fact I do not think
I can pick you up in one piece
might I need a shovel
and dump you in the woods
like some mobster’s body
and then perhaps you may realize
your last final purpose…
to fertilize.

photo of woman holding a pumpkin
Photo by Kristina Paukshtite on Pexels.com

O’ my poor Jack
my creation,
my creativity birthed to fruition
your iron toothed smile brought fright
spawning shadows cast into that hallow night
seeming singular purpose you did guard
my doorstep walkway and the yard
for not even a black cat did approach
nor spells of darkness dare encroach
not on your watch my good friend!
but with the pass of october and leafy dress
that last candle must flicker down
and when all wax is said and done
your watch will have ended
my esteemed, my surrogate, the one
until next harvest, the one

notes… these are just for fun, just me throwing out some lines thinking about the poor sap of a thing on my stoop… seasonal and such… this is a continuation of a previous post

whimsical of the moment…

whimsical of the moment…

candle creepy dark decoration
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

o’ sad Jack
once ferocious teeth scowled
now, sagging, inward,
to the side
as your mouth collapses
and the roof caves in
your short age
your short time in the sun
so briefly, gone
witness to all the leaves
now quartered and drawn
a mouth once alight with writhing flame
throwing shadows on demon’s bane
casting out into the night
flickering dance candle light
for you have seen better days
hollowed out for hallows eve
has left you less whole with no reprieve
and like the shrinking land repose
off into the landfill you must go
yet let not all hope be squashed
for come next fall
we pick your kin

notes…  just something somewhat silly that the muse bequeathed to me today…

music… sort of weird and inspired… damn good band…