How Does Your Garden Grow?

Austere, the cranial landscape
settled into acceptance.  The need
to create something lush
to brighten the grayness
lingers there,  waiting
for the Muse to fly in
from some exotic location.

It begs your exquisite mind
for a place to land
and upon your acquiescence
a garden blooms…delphiniums,
hollyhocks and verbena,
and suddenly a name,
someone you used to know.

The face is hazy, but that day
unfolds before you like a dream.
Maybe it is a dream;  delphiniums
don’t do so well in the cold.  Then
you notice the bells have quit ringing
and you understand it’s not the truth
but the search for truth

that makes a poem.

Beyond Borderline

One hundred  voices join in
music mingling, making a buzz
indistinguishable, unaware

Faceless, that night
relaxation, celebration, conversation
guileless

Heartless degradation, objectification
no rationalization, not even video games,
can explain it

Eleven worshipers worshiping
in Pittsburgh, twelve just having fun
in Thousand Oaks

It’s beyond borderline,
God, make it end.
This madness

 

 

Autumn Flings its Cloak Across the Field

Autumn flings its cloak across the field,
cornstalks preen in diamond glaze,
robust pumpkins, symbol
of the season’s bounty, anticipate
Thanksgiving’s celebration.

Overhead, a whirl of starlings
curtains the sky with cacophony
and opalescent wings.  The blue asters,
blooming diligently, take little notice
but the roses give it all away.

The pendulum has swung;
last vestiges of summer turn shy
beneath their frosty façade.
Flaming leaves fly
as autumn holds its thrall.

So soon, wintry days
will claim the stage. Snowflakes
will waken the child in us again
as windows capture our breath
of awe, but for now,

Autumn flings its cloak across the field.

 

In Mossy Verdigris

Moss swept roots and leafless limbs,
the mighty tree stands bare
and without shame;
it knows no sin.

Scarred by lightning strikes
and lovers’ hearts, graceful
in the harshest wind, it stands its ground
unflinching.

In younger days I scaled its heights;
we both had greener limbs
back then,  and all those years
I was away

it kept on growing.
Oblivious to encroaching trends,
it resisted blight and storm, surviving
youth with fickle hearts

and even their return. New children
climb upon it now. Their hours of play
will make a poem
when old memories come calling, clad

in mossy verdigris.

John Wesley on voting

“I met those of our society who had votes in the ensuing election, and advised them,

1. To vote, without fee or reward, for the person they judged most worthy:

2. To speak no evil of the person they voted against: And,

3. To take care their spirits were not sharpened against those that voted on the other side.”

 

~
A lot of quotes attributed to Wesley don’t actually originate with the 18th-century Anglican preacher and founder of Methodism. But this one does. Wesley wrote it in his journal on October 6, 1774 in reference to the British Parliamentary elections held in the fall of that year. (copied from UMC newsletter)

Verona Is a State of Mind

Come to Verona, Poet,
Give up that window
on darkness, the cage
that barricades the senses.

The clover has bloomed;
the leaves are falling
more brilliantly
than ever before.

Fall has become more
be-witching every year.
Come to Verona, Poet.
to the stone unturned,

to the song unsung.
Liars and fools would rewrite
greatness. They grin through
polished teeth and pompadours.

Come to Verona, Poet,
fluent descendant of Dante,
feller of façades;
this world is not well.

All the houses are glass
and the emperor’s suit
needs pressed. So many pens
are searching for stones.