The changing seasons always seem to beg for conciseness. And it is National Poetry day.
Seasons are not rounds
Each reflecting the other
Then why these same sighs?
Fall is upon us
Old winter waits patiently
Counting cricket calls
Bees make love
To the last blossoms
Of summer
A slight cooling tinge
A small cricket weariness
Sings autumn to the trees
I am pleased to say that as of this morning, I am a member of VerseWrights, which publishes both established and promising new poets. I’m delighted to be in such good company; some great stuff there. Check it out!
I
They say time is a river
You can never step in twice
In the same place
But I know you can
If you wait long enough
Between steps
If you wait until it’s unrecognizable
Until you step on a dry patch of grass
Crunching underfoot just so
Until you taste the clay the color of dreams
Until you feel the sweat making canyons
In the soil on your forearm
Under the seeping sun
Unfiltered by knowing
I say you can, by being still and listening
To the strangely placid screaming
Of cicadas
Dying away into the night
II
Among the ghosts I saw
In a strange and fitful mirror
A young man, lean and early,
Sunlight stranded in his hair
Skin the color of baked earth
Heart like pierced leather
Eyes berserk with possibility
I saw myself, long ago
A haiku this ain’t
Even though the syllables
Tumble properly
exiles child 