Not Myself

For moonlight,

I did set away;

Down the garden path

to play.   

 

Past rose and climbing vine,

daisy and lonely pine,

I set off into the pitch

to find me piece of mind

 

Fields filled with frolicking phantoms

who come into my ear as disturbed leaves,

giving chase by lunar light

before vanishing as thieves.

 

What wight or specter follows

my person through the hollows

ever matching my stride with step,

following as Death unto the gallows?

 

Deeper in the dark,

sentinels rise as oak and yew,

and the first flakes of winter dreary,

fall soft as a kitten’s mew.

 

But by step-and-step,

I do determine

my night time stalker

be more than vermin.

 

Heavy is the heel

that makes mulch of autumn timber.

The thudding echo of un-careful feet

moving me to remember.

 

A time in a distant land,

in a forest filled with war,

I heard again the creeping tread

and recalled my pledge of never more.

 

I put foot before and again,

making haste through a hickory thicket.

The war was fresh once more

and I fled from what once was wicked.

 

No stealth did it exhibit.

It crashed and cursed the stars.

No matter where I hid,

its presence wasn’t far.

 

It happened of a sudden.

The forest it spit me out,

and I stared upon distant lights

hearing those distant shouts.

 

It came crashing from the woods,

causing a brave heart to quake and cower.

So, I hid inside a hole,

in water dark and sour.

 

He found me hiding there

dirty, sick, and tired

and offered me his hand

to pull me free the mire.

 

He swaddled me with blankets

this beast become a man,

and led me home once more

across the wintered land.

 

The nurses greeted me.

The doctors checked my health.

My dementia changes me.

Sometimes, I’m not myself.

Limbo

Blustery and wet,

the Autumn dawn,

greeting the children of men.

With mist on the wind

and fog in the bog,

we begin our last days of sin.

 

No sun in the sky

or leaves on the trees,

we wake between Heaven and Hell.

Breathing smoke of the chimney

and spores of decay,

we wrinkle our nose at the smell.

 

The bark is wet.

Leaves make no sound

in the forest of the barking beasts.

And beyond the murk

where men can’t see,

a pregnant sun berths in the east.

 

And, each man looks,

but no man sees

the source of light and hope.

It’s Autumn now.

Kill the harvest sow

and feast with the misanthrope.

 

It’s the season of the wolf

when all creatures feed,

preparing themselves for hell.

Crops drop their seeds,

Death rides his steed,

and if angels know your end they don’t tell.

 

The candles are blown,

frost pales the panes,

and daggers of ice form on the eaves.

The mist will lift

while the feasters will fall

and the snow . . . will cover the leaves.

Autumn

It is a moment of dreams

with a cooler wind.

When Winter’s lips

kisses summer’s end.

 

When seas of leaves

red, gold, and burnt

masquerade

what once was learnt.

 

Roses bloom

on wilding cheeks,

an autumn rouge

adding much mystique.

 

With bite and bluster,

the howling winds

cry at our windows,

“please let us in.”

 

 

 

 

A Cup of Tea

A cup of tea,

a cup of tea,

a cup of tea is always nice.

It’s a soothing Winter remedy,

for those evenings filled with ice.

 

For those haunted howling evenings,

when the bruised blue clouds resign

to vomit forth their blizzards,

changing Mother Nature’s design.

 

If such an evening finds you,

trickling chills upon your spine,

like dripping droplets of winter melt,

then remember the better times.

 

For a cup of tea,

a cup of tea,

a cup of tea is bliss,

warming those who sip it,

like the touch of lover’s kiss.

The Shroud

The snowflakes fall

in a withering descent,

blanketing the ground

and the garden fence.

 

The Cardinal’s perch

on laden twigs,

while squirrels play

in Winter’s wig.

 

Beyond my window

through the screen,

I sadly listen

to nature’s keen.

 

It’s sad and sorrowful

this new world in white,

where all things warm

feels Winter’s bite.

 

Like frosted fairies,

the snowflakes fall,

tickling the skin

that makes them thaw.

 

My daughter’s swing,

the trampoline,

the pure white flakes

shrouds everything.

 

The blizzard comes,

pretending it brings paradise,

so we will dance like fools

in a world of ice.

 

But someday soon,

there will be too much,

and Winter’s sprites

will share their touch.

 

And, we will freeze,

becoming hard like stone

lest the sun returns

to warm our bones.

 

We who watch

from our soothing fires

admire the arctic cocoon

that makes us liars.

 

Paradise must exist

before there’s fallen snow,

or the hoar frost upon our windows

becomes the frost upon our souls.

My Blackberry Winter

There was still a month of Winter,

Weeks before the Spring.

Outside the crows were cawing,

And the air still had its sting.

 

Easter lilies broke the crust.

The Dogwoods soon would bloom.

Ice was thin upon the ponds,

And I was snug inside my room.

 

But, the outlook spoke of snow,

And I could hear the mournful wind,

Playing upon my shutters,

Across screens I’ve yet to mend.

 

By morning there was snow,

And the Spring time it did hinder.

And, in my stove the fire waned,

Leaving but a single glowing ember.

 

I stoked the coal in cold

That burned my Red Oak splinter,

Then settled in to wait out

Another Blackberry Winter.