it struck me, the way that she smoked
with no regard for passers-by,
the crowd shuffled past her slowly,
the odd head jerking toward her,
wearing a frown in faux-disgust
she leaned in the sun against the
rust brick wall, baking in the heat,
one foot grounded and the other
propped loose against the dingy wall
I watched her raise her cigarette,
slowly to her mouth and tug,
the end lighting up in hot delight
her arm dropped down as the slightest
smokey wisp escaped her lips and
vanished in her inhalation
the festival crowd, densely packed
with tired fathers and lonely
mothers shepherding their children
she stood in stark contrast as one,
singularly disaffected,
letting the trails of smoke waft up,
one slowly from her dangling hand,
the other a white puff of cloud
escaping her nose and her mouth
a young woman walked quickly by
and turned, scoffing to her sister,
expressing her astonishment
with a grand gesticulation
and then I saw the one, only,
indication she was aware
of the crowd she stood among
one side of her mouth turned slowly,
in a sly and sultry grin -
and again she raised her cigarette,
enjoying her moment in the sun
His empty shoulders slouch slow before him,
Speaking only in mutters of the heart
On his crumpled sleeve
Without his hope he moves still in shadows,
Hugging the edges of pale existence,
His force is scattered
There once was a time, though it’s now long past,
When happiness dripped from his countenance,
And puddled his path
His every now was an eternity,
His every then was a forgotten glance,
His will was a smile
But then his sun set in her distant West,
Throwing his lovely Autumn into Winter,
His puddle to dust
Now all he sees is yellowed existence,
Smiling empty from aging photographs,
Sepia sorrow
He tells a story to those who will hear,
But for most he is now little more, than
His slow rocking chair
My folding chair is set a bit to
close to the fire
I can feel the short curly hairs
on my bare legs singe as the
flame crackles in front of me
It is a good fire, fueled by the
past and a healthy dose of
wood and kindling
I have arranged the logs in
a square pattern alternating
vertical and horizontal each
step up, stacked three high
reminding me of Lincoln Logs
without the little grooves to
help them fit together
In the middle I have stacks of
twigs and leaves burning hot
and occasionally I toss in a
moment from my years gone by
The flame is bright and hot
and high, glowing orange and
yellow as the occasional
ash of paper flutters up in the
breeze
I am burning the poems of my
youth – my fountains of rambling
born of adolescence
The paper burns hot in a flash
as I watch the little curls of ink
disappear in the consuming flame
The desperate pleas to my Sara
and my musings on her smile
trail a dark grey swirl of smoke
dissipating in the night sky
My passionate rants on the
ways of the world and my cause
du jour – or du month or year,
however you might say that
in French – vanish in the
consuming flame
I had reams of these ramblings
each of them heart felt and pure
and each of them scattered
without force or reason or focus
Smiling, I toss them in,
one at a time
- a pyre of my past
burning hot and quick
Smoke trails up into the night
leaving behind the ashes of youth
that the man may be born
Leaf
i
the river carries
the leaf to destinations
yet undecided
ii
surface floating leaf
unnoticed by the river
inconsequential
iii
the leaf cannot go
where it would choose to travel
it can only ride
iv
powerless leaf
a victim of circumstance
resigns to river’s will
v
in the end the leaf
will succumb to the current
and find it’s ocean grave
River
i
the river carries
the leaf to destinations
only it will choose
ii
no power deters
the strong and steadfast river
it goes where it will
iii
placid river flows
singularly beautiful
firm in it’s resolve
iv
beneath the surface
the thriving river carries
the wellspring of life
v
the river and the leaf
powerful and powerless
destinies contrast
The autumn fades to winter’s chill
In colored waves across the hills
The dusted snow is sprinkled light
Upon the leaves contrasting white
The crisp cool air advances still
The robin’s song to winter’s trill
The frosted dew sets on the sill
Refreshing breeze now turns to bite
The autumn fades
The barren trees set cold and still
October cedes November’s will
The distant sun from fading heights
Will slowly set, succumb to night
I sit and wait and watch until
The autumn fades
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