Fall in my backyard.

I was out with the Autumn.
The pear trees were breaking
their long flexing limbs
with the weight of their fruit.
I was raking the grounders
to cut the lawn one last time.
This year was so wet
each cut took a raking.
Now it's the pears sweet stink
with the air moisture laden.

I hear sounds like small bombs,
like fireworks muffled in fog
and the geese circling and honking
against the grey cloud, disturbed
that landings at dusk are delayed
until darkness has settled
and shotguns have ceased.

I rake into night,
get a beer from the fridge,
pull up a lawn chair to celebrate
the mosquito's demise.
The geese find their place
at home in the marsh.
I am alone and content
with the season's advent.,

the real

sitting on this porch
feel the breeze and shade
horses swatting flies
with their long full tails
windy singing trees
the odd happy bee
flowers in the pots
the cedars and the sky
looking down the lane
breathing in the air
hearing joyful voices
crickets everywhere
vultures circling high
this moment never dies
it waits for me always.
Always it waits.

The Moment

The Moment

The kid screams and throws a fit.

The wife chews me out.

The boss calls me up on that

And I exit so pissed off.

And then the wife takes kid to bed.

I turn the cell phone off.

The humid day fades and fades

And it begins to rain.

Sound of trilling in the dark,

Crickets stop and start,

A cool damp breeze through the screen

As I sit alone.

I let it all go, open mind

Allowing me to be

One with nothing, empty free

Being, just being, being.

The right place, at the right time

Dr. John had it right,

because they never line up,

the time and the place

until destiny forges a moment,

like a spike driven through

the veil of your chaos.

Such force to produce

the still small voice.

This is the time.

This is the place,

to hazard it all

on a chance so slim,

it will determine your life.

Yellow Submarine

Abandon,

I once had it

Staying out all night

Wandering star webs

Humidity like dew

Condensing like sweat

On young tense skin

We were heroes in space

Sitting in sand

On a hill in the Ganny

Listening to Ringo ask

Where is he
the nowhere man
Did he fall into a black hole
Did a blue meanie find him

Call out for Jeremy
who disappeared
I hope he returns
in  magical mystery
with a bright coloured jacket
and long sparkling hair
and white dazzling eyes
Something to free us
again

Friends

Friends are a place of cool sweet air,
the lake beaching in soft loose curls,
seagulls riding waves of the breeze
with the fierce independence of eagles.

Enemies are thunderstorms that rise
expanding in clouds like smoke,
building mischief into the ground,
releasing charges of light frenetic.

One follows the other.
The other follows the one.
Both are freedom wanted.
Both are freedom gained.

White

A friend once told me she liked to paint herself each morning,

a colour for a mood.

Red was porous and bleeding out.

Purple was energizing; good for what she knew would be a hell of a day.

Yellow was for cheerful and happy, like dandelions or buttercups.

Green was for sex, feeling fecund, wanting to grow something inside.

Orange was for formal, evoking good taste.

Brown was for earth, getting soiled inside, letting the hubris compost,

a time for waiting, a time for caring for everything.

Black was her favorite, a time for nothing at all.

I liked to drink vodka most of the time.

She liked to paint as you know.

I took to dropping acid so I could see colours.

And then when I became too paranoid the vodka would help.

That's why I found her.

I was afraid of my colours.

I did not like threatening my world.

But when I finally gave up I found white was my best,

the colour of explosion,

the colour that breaks things apart

when the atom lets go.

When I admitted you were right.

I had done all those things,

things became white.

Over time I allowed the other colours to bleed in.

Red became the suffering I caused.

Blue became the sea that swallowed what was lost.

Black I avoided and avoid still, at all cost.