Tag Archives: autumn

Turnip

I am out of words, as if I kept them
in an empty jam jar, long since scooped clean,
any hint of former inhabitants
soaped and rinsed away and set out to dry
by the kitchen window. And I don’t know
where to buy more, the chain grocery store
around the corner only stocking so
many as to serve their dull purposes:
pound, off, sale, fresh, frozen, produce, dairy.
It serves me right, thinking I could buy my words,
or steal them from the world that gives me breath.
Better if I grow them on my own, now,
large like a pumpkin, many like ears of
corn, harder than a round, ripened turnip.

Fences

Season’s have playoffs,
Summer battles fall.
Mid-July high scores

Shed like leaves, forgotten
As the river valley breeze
Gives way

To wild card runs
Of Indian summers’
Late bursts of color,

A hail Mary pass,
A bottom of the ninth
Sideways hat rally.

Nature,
At
The

Plate,
The
Swing,

This
One’s
Going

Back,
Back,
Back…

Trees Shiver Leaves

Cement,
A bowl of oatmeal,
A wet golden retriever,

They all shake it off,
Toughen up
In time,

Pools
Close, coats zip,
Red leaves hang-glide,

The day and night,
In equal parts:
Equinox.

Ode to Candy Corn

rounded wax wedges, waning; a tawny
base that tapers towards a soft point
white like tundra, in taste and texture,
bleeding out from burning copper ribs
hardly mellow hardened creme
of candle crops to harvest fat
free treats, a sign of times once pagan-
pluralistic-primal-precocious-pre-
human, uncivilized, re-captured,
re-claimed, costume the dead alive
and turn the season, turn to shovel
handfuls into mouths full of rotting
teeth a special offer, a limited time only
exciting when available but hardly
missed in memories of stomaches
turned to sick, in children as in men
but indulging in each dish we find it
harder to resist the solstice sweets
and let ourselves get lost inside
that sadistic sugar maize

Dead Clouds

Left hand rested on the right, pointing ahead over your own, you throw body in a dive, pushed off at the legs, quickly tucked into a curl, into a ball before you SPLASH! hit the surface with a crackle, with a crunch, sending fiery waves crashing over the curb, flooding on the sidewalk. You could have incited a brushfire if you’d cast away your cigarette closer, but perhaps today’s your day.

“WATCH OUT FOR THE…pavement…,” she starts to shout with a wince, then she looks away when you make impact. “…or that homeless guy,” she quips when she returns her sight to you. She watches you swim with a look between endearment and embarrassment and ignores the crinkling cacophony you’ve made of the previously still autumn air.

“C’mon in!” you cry out. “It’s a beautiful night!” and she raises her left eyebrow in that incredulous way you find so irresistibly alluring.

“I’m pretty sure you’re swimming in hobo piss,” she counters straight-faced as you back stroke through the leaves. You stop, you shrug, you smirk and you keep swimming.

And you stop. Stuck. Frozen. Petrified like prehistoric insects trapped in amber. A look of sheer panic washes across your face. She thinks you’re kidding for a moment but you freeze your breath and suddenly it’s serious.

“…”

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m stuck,” and that frog in your throat snaps and croaks when you exhale.

She quickly looks around, confirms there’s no one else in the park, and offers her hand. “I told you to watch out for those creepy crazy homeless guys. They’re ever being homeless—everywhere that’s not a home, I guess.”

She shrieks only briefly through that bright, startling smile when you pull her to the ground and she thrashes through the leaf pile for a moment like the victim of a shark attack before that gorgeous laughter overcomes her and she breathes again.

“Now I’m caked in hobo piss. Thanks for that,” she groans, her eyes rolling into the ethereal arch of a brilliant crescent moon.

“Don’t blame me,” you say and stroke her hair behind her ear. “You don’t often get to float on dead clouds.”

In lieu of flowers

You were my oldest friend, an avid opera
note with sorrow and flowering gardens
in abundance at her home, but the caring
lynchpin of heaven has gone out.

The business flourished, as declining
health dictates, inspiring leadership
and consummate grace throughout
his tenure, along with an ability–
an image compression algorithm–
by all of us graveside, to underwrite
a multitude of lives in private practice.

When an off-shore captive suddenly saw you
dancing due to the wartime incarceration of
flophouses, the Mobilization brought about
an extensive set of his life, plus six. Whether
it was impromptu or in her sleep at her beloved

home, a light did indeed continue her
grand humor, whose voice will be retired
to Barnegat Light, usually for the first time
in their lives. We join with many friends
she created, raised devotion to establishing
perfection, only slowing all of life throughout.

In this difficult time, we wish to extend
Dear father, a temple of understanding.
He was the devoted location on the banks,
a stalwart member. If sophistication were

a parent, her gifts to all of us will be
her willowy frame and winsome smile.
But diplomacy made him when she
was predeceased, utterly transcendent,
for sorrow will always nest where art may
never be destroyed as knows not its depth.

Dear brother, he finished chalk streams
of duck blinds on the Chesapeake, his
autumns shooting father with limitless vitality.
Returning to the beach, he would often shoot
a gargoyle in his likeness, a series of odd horse
afficionados and gin publishing glass containers.

He shaped and led the thoughtful, penetrating,
oral and artistic life of her spirited way, saw
sea duty paper the stern and waves, and the dressing
had become synonymous with her rainbow-
colored mohawk, offering psychoanalytically
informed sorrow at the passing. Bon vivant and

reposing Monday, service is scheduled for
the high school docents, retired as an itch
by first founding. A joyous scene from Die
expanded the field celebrated at Our Lady,

her warm smile cooking of dignity, gallant
courage and acumen enchantment: “Come
out right now! Include the needs, escalate
to multiply. The passing of our longtime
services are only private tools, taught to be dangerous.”