Crows are back, Carrack Carrack

The great phalanxes of autumn slipped back unheralded until today,

now they make the aspen tremble, with their heavy bodies, strident calls.

 

Silent  magpies assemble, white chests still gleaming with the rime of winter,

watching these noisy posers, who carried spring home on sleek black wings.

Spring is back, Carrack Carrack

 

In Some Far Future Autumn

In Some Far Future Autumn



Standing here with my firefly mind flitting wildly, I wonder what it was I needed in this room, which

errand has slunk silently away with more of my confidence, do animals go through this, does the

squirrel or sparrow have the luxury of confused revelry or endless trips in search of keys or the

word powerbar.



Maybe only long lived animals but its hard to believe that parrots, the bright punctuation of the world

stop lost in thought, perhaps tortoises, after all who would know if they stopped to remember whether

they were seeking food, or sex or fleeing some geologically paced natural disaster measured by

decades.



Will being a poet help, since one is always sifting through one’s mind for a shining tag to end a

metaphor, maybe not, spelling and punctuation were always problematic and remembering the words

of songs or poems, but now the words themselves threaten to disappear.



Words I do not wish to lose have migrated to some farther lobe, artifice has gone taking travail with it,

iambic pentameter has scuttled centipede like into the undergrowth, its many syllables high stepping

rhythmically amid layers of colons and semi colons.



Occluded is almost hidden from sight along with any hope of spelling kaleidoscope or kleptomaniac

without a spellcheck and pronouncing quetzal, forget it and should I meet a pangolin or a

brontotherium in the park I will be reduced to saying that’s a, that’s a followed by a lengthy,

inexplicable description.



And if this is aging, along with sleepless nights and stiff hands let’s hope I reach some equilibrium

amid  loss and gain, and when I finally go, let it not be like an aged cat calling from room to room, let

me drop like a leaf in due season, sere and quiescent, rising only to dance in the wind.



Guy

Days of Construction Paper and Macaroni

Office bound how often the seasons, years go unremarked.

In the younger grades you decorated the classroom.

Iron autumn leaves between sheets of wax paper and it is fall.

Black cat cutouts, Halloween, an accordion turkey, it is Thanksgiving.

Cut out intricate snowflakes for winter, macaroni trees, it is Christmas.

February and there are Valentines for everyone for once.

Easter eggs, paper tulips, it is spring and change is in the air.

And in the summer you ran thru an endless twilight

until the street lights called you home.

                                                                                        Guy

Night Geese

Calling geese swept up the years.

Blossoms, snow, discarded days

joy strains forward, memory interferes.

Seasons morph despite our fears

of the bald man the mirror displays.

Calling geese swept up the years

that saw our plans reduced to tears.

When every dream so slightly strays

joy strains forward, memory interferes.

Despite every efforts it disappears

all things leave and nothing stays

calling geese swept up the years.

When someone lost suddenly appears

a chance resemblances that quickly frays

joy strains forward, memory interferes.

On a cold autumn night as winter nears

or spring’s first blossom suddenly cheers

calling geese swept up the years.

Joy strains forward, memory interferes.

Guy