Bombs Bursting in Air

The windows shatter,
Shards of yesterday spill out
like pieces of a puzzle
jumbled and mismatched,

Fingers bleed
from trying to set the picture straight;
splattered fragments
hold visions of tomorrow.

I beg for answers
but prophets avoiding my eyes
stroke their scraggly beards
with bony fingers

and offer wise toned murmurings,
something about this being a season of paradox.
We wear the soothsayers’ doom
like a ragged blanket.

Too far removed from its time,
we speak of war as if it were the answer.
The keeper of truth is history;
it must be tired of the repetition.

Jan. 10th…Wolf Moon

(forgive me Joyce Kilmer)

I thought that I could surely be
a scribe with wisdom of the trees

if I could use transmogrified
and keep the meter in full stride.

But in my search for helpful muse
my eyes the night sky did peruse

and it was then I chanced to see
amidst tall trees so shadowy

the stark bare branches of an elm
with a full Wolf Moon at the helm,

a work of art with tiny stars
to sparkle back-light from afar.

‘Twas God who made that handsome tree
then stripped it bare so regally.

Exposed and trembling, tempest tossed
no poem is born without a cost.


About  the title:

The Wolf Moon will be truly full at 2:21 p.m. ET on Friday January 10, according to Smack dab in the middle of the afternoon doesn’t exactly offer that brilliant, light-up-the-night shine, however. and viewers on the United States’ East Coast won’t be able to see the moon at that time of day anyway.

Saturday, January 11 is a good viewing option. Moonrise is at 5:53 p.m. on January 11 and moonset is at 8:54 a.m. on Sunday.”


When was the last time you read Trees by Joyce Kilmer?

The First Frost Sweetens

To linger here where time is slow,
To pause in this space just after the first frost
when  everything is sweeter.

To listen to the leaves make madrigals
accompanied by a thrum of wings
ready for migration.

Thinking only of wind and moon
that great gathering has no thought of cold;
they lift their wings and lean into tomorrow.

Guided through the day by sunshine,
they rest in dark of night, blessed
by the benevolence of smaller stars.

The flocks will return come Spring.
Migration is their nature, but I
will linger here  where time is slow.

A Distant Wind

September sun
bronzes limbs in preparation
for the bareness sure to come,
that time between green
and ermine

when, statuesque,
they stand tall in unforgiving
wind, sentinels that buffer
the storm despite
their shivering.

Do trees
know of Stevens?
Do they have a mind of winter;*
Is that what sustains them?

swirl in unison
with the leaves. Oak and pine,
maple and elm, they watch
their children go. The empty nest

is a universal thing.
Each generation prepares
its children for the leaving
with a sure faith in the return
of spring.

There is no need
to mourn
the falling leaves, no need
to dread the winter cold
nor fear the distant wind.

*from  The Snow Man  by Wallace Stevens


The maple at the end of the lane
has begun to reflect a changing.  Subtle now,
but noticeable, there is a shading toward
a paler green, then a remembering of red
as brilliant as any flame, boisterous but muted
by the tinge of a more mellow maroon.

Calendar pages move at snail’s pace compared
to the turning leaves. Liver spotted yellow wanes
to philomot on the palette of fall. Sepia, demanding
to be seen, adds a vintage tone that mingles well
with the red oak’s russet attire.

Pine and birch and the stately elm, caught
in gossip, rustle as they bend their heads closer
to whisper of whose colors are bolder and who
wears the finest gold.  The stories are old
but not shopworn,

no more so than the nip of wind cavorting
in a madcap dance in step with the swirling leaves .
A matter of days and even the flashiest red
crackles brown in contrast to flamboyant orange
as multitudes of pumpkins delight furrow and field.
Autumn is underway.