Wanderlust

I wanna tightrope walk on contrails,

skinny dip in the zephyrous yonder

lost in wild blue wanderlust thoughts with you.

We can linger in the umbra

when the sun holds its nose and dunks under;

let our starry Van Gogh eyes

light up Cheshire bright

and wink

like Betelgeuse and Orion.

We can fit our feet with Autumn leaves,

surfing the dusky sky’s coffeebreath breeze

and jump into the raked piles

of our fall in love.

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Published in: on November 6, 2012 at 2:29 am  Leave a Comment  
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Santa Fe in September

It’s been a long, hot summer
stretched out
like lazy men resting in hammocks,
and now, driving the country roads,
the landscape cloaked in sepia tones;
yellows, browns, and clay
and the weight of sun’s rays
hot on my collarbone
are what drive me home.
 
My troubles?
Just those water slick mirages
400 ft ahead.
 
The tumbleweeds ‘long the railroad tracks
are spent and dehydrated tangled brat’s heads
waiting for Autumn’s reaping wind
to lop them from their earthly neck
and send them rolling like poor Antoinette
down ghost town roads.
 
The fruit stands are closed.
 
The corn walls were hauled off
like a set change
ready for the second act. 
The barren fields, 
harvest’s yield,
already nestled into cellar beds;
jars of toil for mouths unfed.
 
But here am I
in Indian summer oblivion
soaking the last blobs of color
from valley horizons,
meditating in the last throes
of a spent landscape
before full resignation.
Published in: on October 21, 2012 at 11:21 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Dry up and die

On these Autumn days, I wonder
as I look at the colorful trees,
if I too am to be so colorful
when I dry up and die.
Published in: on December 3, 2009 at 4:59 pm  Comments (1)  
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Deep Autumn Waltz

lonely barbedThere’s a madness blowing in the wind

A kind of sadness forcing it’s way in

A single note striking again… and again… and again

creaks

There’s a darkness that smears down sky’s walls

A dreary smirchness in ev’ry leaf’s fall

And the settling house, creaking calls… and calls… and calls

burnpile

There’s a haziness from the farmer’s burned brush

set to drown from the oncoming drizzly gush

And the scarecrow has no choice but stay hush, hush, hush.

sacredcrow 2

Get ready for a long weary shade,

a blanket cloaked in ashen frigid gray,

wrapped around us and bound with rusty chains

Published in: on October 7, 2009 at 12:10 am  Comments (4)  
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