When Autumn Grows Cold

The brilliant autumn grows heavy with cold,

its weight baring down- like iron,

like aqua glaciers filling up the bright space

beneath the azure blue sky, frigid air, invisible,

imposing; pressing, pressing down

forcing the summer green from the leaf,

pressing down, around branches and root

forcing blood from my fingers; I feel the cold

encroaching my aching bones- crowding out the

sun baked warmth of a different season;

The crimson and plum vines shake and rattle against

the marigold and yellow adorned trees-

the grass holding out stubbornly- brilliantly lime and

emerald beneath crunchy cornflake and bran

colored leaves that litter the ground.

Cold; creeps and seeps into my groaning feet,

My toes look black and blue;

My flesh, white; joints aching,

Moaning, my frozen bones tighten with wintery rigamortus,

I envy the feathered and the furred critters, my cat who curls up near the furnace, tail wrapped tight, my dog, burrowed into the warmth of my bed,

A wishful thought teases me, of crawling back into warm felt bedding and slipping into blissful dreams—but I am old

Enough that sleeps comes sparingly- stingily.

 

Cold toes break off like ice cubes

Bloodless-

R. Lovelace 2005

Grief

Tears flood my heart, emotions surge in waves that break against the walls I built to keep the hurtful world out. The tears I refuse to shed, break like waves against the rocks of my soul. R. Lovelace 2003

Collaborative Poem

The rain is falling now on the thirsty red and yellow sand of the mesa desert. The water snakes down the small arroyos and washes; building then breaking its own dams of dried petals, seed and wood; like Virtue edging its way, curving and spilling over sun warmed stone. –

Lightning prankfully dances in a graveyard of cedar—its platinum arms long ago twisted and stretched in to crucifixes. Startled in a nearby pinion grove, song birds scatter like tourists; bird song crescendos—now dark notes against a watery sky. Sweeping up into a “V”, then lighting low in the dense oak brush—a hushed symphony.  –

Restless, the tempestuous sky rumbles in a dark and mirthful mood thrusting strands of hydrant pearls to the floor of the heavens; falling, soaring from out of the clouds—glorious glass beads pounce and burst and splash. –

The torn gray fabric of storm clouds recede leaving a dampened desert air. Its perfume of Indian Paint Brush, Sunflower, Cornflower, and Rabbit Brush softly imbues the atmosphere. Desert Sage, gray and laden, bows; the shadows crawl. 

By Tom S, and Rebecca L. 2005

HermIt-HOod

Terrible twos? Definitely. Feelings of inferiority? Of course. Also moments of splendid insight, peaceful calm, the magic of quiet.

Let me see

Let me see with open eyes

More than I’ve seen before.

Let me see without jaded sight

all there is beyond truth’s door.

If only I could stretch my capacity to accept;

all things in relative esteem.

To enlarge my ability to adapt

to any diversity I’d be placed in.

Them thar nose hars…

Koob  Mrow looked at the librarian, Professor Elbi Snopser. Starting with his protruding pointed jaw, her eyes traveled up his face to his thin grimacing lips shaping words and spewing spittle with zillions of small and large lines like dried clay around his mouth.  Above his mouth was an oversized nose shaped like the worn out beak of a magpie, with wide opened nostrils. It looked like a chia seeds had sprouted from inside his nose, she thought. She wondered if he knew they were there, if he had forgotten to water them, if he realized that they had died and turned brown. 

 

Koob loved the outdoors and was always finding nature in things. Koob’s eyes continued to journey upward, detouring around Mr. Elbi’s monstrous nose and over his reddened cheeks to his eyes. Eyes that were black, beaded, and staring scornfully down at her. Unwavering, her eyes reached the thicket of wiry brow above his eyes; it, for there was only one, was thicker than the hair on his head. It was here at the brow that her eyes stopped, and widened. The chia nose was disgusting enough, but those brows looked like they were alive. Raised up above his forehead and forced into a furrow, they reminded her of uncultivated rows of ‘falfa sprouts.

 

Needless to say, Koob did not hear a word of what the Librarian was telling her. Once he had demanded that she look at him, she did and was soon lost in a forest of sprouts and gnarled leather stretched over pointy  bone. Besides, when adults talked too long, what else was one supposed to do but look at the details of their face and let their imaginations go wild. Mr. Elbi really should take a mower to his face now and then.

 

 

Bread

My heart is stale bread. The slices are stuck

together, green with mold & shoved into the

farthest corner of the bread box–pouting.

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