Wednesday, November 9, 2011

A November Monday

In the crisp air I step lively to my car,
brushing my hair away from my eyes

I marvel at how Long Island temperatures
can go up and down so drastically in two days.

Surprisingly my muscles aren't screaming at me
after the workout I gave them on Saturday.
According to my son, I was a psycho on Saturday,
raking leaves in the relentless wind and rain.
It was only drizzling and the wind was a help.

I heard you Saturday, despite the wind, flying over head
but could not see you through the thick, heavy rain clouds.
Still, I knew you were up there, creating poetry in the air.
I wanted to join you and I almost did as a gust of wind
shook me from my foot hold on the muddy ground.

I will take you and your poetry with me as I travel to work,
as I breath in the fresh air from the slightly opened car window.
It is a fine day and I have God to thank for that and I have you
to thank, for sharing your good poetry with me....
your poetry with the double O!


Tin Man said...

Autumn Leaves

Words Shook from tangled thoughts,
words driven by the winds of autumn.
Invisible ghosts of enchantment seeking
their calling of internment in divine ears.

Words that chariotest in their wintry bed.
Seeds that lie cold as a corpse in its grave
until Spring’s daughter gives life’s breath
to them with her kiss of budding warmth.

Upon whose stream they steep April skies
from the dim verges of the distant horizon,
vapors, from whose solid atmosphere hail
tussling thine hair with their burst of hear!

Vivian said...

Upon a leaf my words float on high,
up and over trees that bear no leaves.
Their branches talk of things to come,
of blended words and honey love.

By day the sun warms our thoughts,
by night, the moon it thrills.
And poets seek their pens to ink their words of love and lust.
Upon the pages through the years,
till death turns them both to dust.

But as long as love for poetry lives,
their words will live on and on
for evermore...
For evermore their pages will turn,
they'll turn and turn to rid the dust.

Tin Man said...

Distant Echo

Your words of soft sentiment arrive upon the twilight-tide
they arouse dreams of thee in the first sweet sleep of night
when the winds are breathing low, and the stars are bright,
wandering the air, faintly upon the dark and silent stream
as voicelessly they speak like sweet thoughts in a dream.

Vivian said...

Into the night

Steer me oh gentle poet
into the night
when all light has gone
and the cold
is so bold it makes me
shiver and shake
like a frozen lake that chills
my weary bones.
Then brings me home with warm
thoughts of you
and what you do to inspire me
to write
at night when all the world is asleep.