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.

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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.

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“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.