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.

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.

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.

 

Autumn’s Eastern Shore

A sepia daguerreotype;
the flat fields, the stubble left over
from October’s second cutting,
the shocks of corn
like rows of teepees ,

Some see a morning monotone
but my eye
sees a thousand shades and hues,
a palette unmatched
by any mortal hand,

O beautiful bronze of autumn
when you are gone
the year is all but done;
in spring the clover
will bloom again.

The crocus and the daffodil
will decorate new green
but my soul still finds its solace
on the Eastern Shore
in autumn.

First Crush

His big boy haircut
and tailored slacks
set well
atop the casually understated
Buster Brown lace ups,

His velocipede
was sleek, the first
one on the block
in metalflake,
and the fastest, too.

It was not the shoes
and the shiny cycle
with tassels, that dazzled
and impressed; it was how he hid
his tears when he crashed.