I thrust my words into the fire
they scorched and warped and blistered
which made them hot and coarse
too searing to embrace
so I led my words to a raging storm
they soaked and swelled and sagged
which made them bloat with heft
too heavy to hold
then I released my words into the cold
they froze and cracked and splintered
which made them sharp and piercing
too frigid to handle
finally I let my words waft delicately
like the fragrance of flower petals
and sweet they lifted from my heart
and soft they rolled from off my tongue
and light they drifted through the air
set free to float with a quiet prayer
so those they may help can find them there
and pass them on should they wish to share
T he fat-bellied black iron stove delivered its amazing breakfast. Shivering a smile, midst the damp Ontario predawn, I’m led by the hissing Coleman’s light, down to dad’s docked fishing boat. You cannot pluck moonlight to bring in your pocket Bobby, he’d say, so it’ll be lantern magic. Gripping cold aluminum hull, I climb aboard, bundled as a bear, including life jacket. That moonlit water’s freezing.
My heart soars as I hear my dad tug on the starter rope, bringing the Evinrude to spark, then roar, readying it to propel us into the dawn that would soon slowly roll over the chop-water. I lovingly grip the cork handle of my favorite pole, as I feel the mist of hull-spray light on my cheeks. Another slight shiver brings me full awake, but not from the chill. This one is pure excitement… today I fish with Dad!
In this moment, cloaked in early evening of waning October, as autumn tumbles towards winter, one knows the melancholy of the losing of the light. One feels the press of ever growing darkness, the solemnity of the advancing cold.
This is the time of endings, when the land falls dormant. This is the emptiness of harvest completed. This is death’s due vigil, when the realm is a’dance with specters, aglow with jack-o-lanterns. A reflective time when hearts hold fast to the sustaining hope of rebirth.
There settles an all-embracing quiet. From this deep silence rises an almost imperceptible murmur, like a breathless whisper. A hushed prayer of gratitude, in thanks for the harvest’s bounty, a prayer to humbly petition, with the eventual return of the light, the blessing of fruitful new life upon the now fallow land. We pray for the rebirth.
autumn settles hushed
nature slumbers patiently
listening for spring
listening for the heartbeat
of new life resurrected
In a shroud of darkness october wanes
sorrow celebrates the vanishing light
winter smothers autumn’s last refrains
once brightest day now bleakest night
greyest grief stirs in the advancing cold
ghostly mists steal color from our sight
on such a night lost souls are sold
frozen hearts barren as the blight
while slowly rolling in a chromium fog
hawk moon hangs heavy in this black sky
this place forbidding as a sucking bog
this is the hour for dreams to die
Osprey calling above the forest nearby
eyes focused sharp on the stream below
should he spy trout — he’ll tuck and dive
smooth cunning predator — he fishes solo
takes his victim quick — rocketing in low
talons like knives — he’s a lethal machine
wounds deep and deadly — delivers clean
with stunning precision, power, and pace
his attack instincts are impeccably keen
proud noble bird — pure speed and grace
his call is defiant — listen, you can hear it
that piercing scream — his unique battle cry
independent — you’ll not restrain his spirit
he is swift and agile gliding across the sky
beautiful assassin — stalking from on high
My response to Dylan Thomas’s “Once It Was The Colour Of Saying”.
This is about the failure of education, the loss of compassion, and the death of integrity.
Our hunger for green knowledge
starved bone brittle by hollow echoes
slap sided on dead end chalk boards
askew in silent black-roofed facades
screams into a cold shadowed void
as once it was the colour of saying
now the great roaring unclean
surge and swindle
dumbly blank
whispering in tangled tongues
of forfeit’s hard foolishness
as the liars rise up to backslide
over taunted poison waterfalls
on revved up motors of ridicule
burning the fuel of unrefined truth
now the gentle seaslides of saying
I must undo
with fist and swift
seeing one-eyed blind
through the exasperation
of sullen box-bound broke light
to the heart meat of slain freedom
families bury safety and sanity
in fields of concrete and clay
as dangerous lovers
in the dirt of their leafy beds
hide and huddle
concealing the sly reasons
for held secrets
and unsung songs
spinning wild fiction
in whirlpools of deafening chaos
and dead flowers
now my saying shall be my undoing
knowing the bloodied futility
of the toxic dull-ached search
because veracity is soul-orphaned
pronounced grey-bluingly dead…
…no longer green
M ysterious lady in blackened silk
dark beauty as to mesmerize
a vision painted by a wizard’s brush
seductively she’ll hypnotize
wilding stare of icy blue
floats above a blood-red pout
spellbound by her magic eyes
once she grips your soul
there’s no way out
Outside my Oregon window
here in the Cascade foothills
late afternoon celebrates
alive with September sun
and the scurry of small things
warmed by Summer’s soft surrender
post-equinox nature
awaits Autumn’s dressing
in splendid voice
the chuff of tree’d red squirrel
the American Red Squirrel
Tamiasciurus Hudsonicus
referred to by many
as the chickaree
or even pine squirrel
these chattery little bandits
prefer the higher-elevation
coniferous forests of Oregon
they blend their chittered bursts
with the songs
chirps
and trills of birds
chickadee
goldfinch
western bluebird
northern flicker
western tanager
and high airborne
osprey
hawk
and eagle
so many others
that fly
flutter
and flit
through the intoxicating
PAC Northwest mountain air
all the while
quick little chickaree
in lightning-fast raiding parties
are stealing
cracking
and eating
the black-oil sunflower seeds
that they effortlessly spill
from my
“strategically placed”
squirrel-proof
bird feeders
yeah / right!
nothing is safe
from these scampering
bushy-tailed brigands
they can climb straight up
an extremely slippery
pencil-thin
6’ tall black metal pole
utterly amazing
I watch it
still don’t believe it
cute as they are
they’re exasperating
these seed raids go on
under the patient eye
of a wise Red-Tailed Hawk
This next song, “Bad Weather”, was written by Paul Cotton. Paul was initially a member of Illinois Speed Press. Paul then moved on to Poco to replace Jim Messina, who had left to join Kenny Loggins in Loggins & Messina. Both versions of his wonderful song follow here:
B eauty filled the heart of moon child
wondrous earth set her dreams in motion
sunny beachs were one reason she smiled
as was moonlight on the sand by the ocean
but now she, as do I, find it quite tragic
the way earth’s oceans have been defiled
her dreams have sadly lost their magic
broken, is the pure heart of moon child
This final version of this gorgeous haunring song I offer, features Sandy Denny, the woman who wrote the song. Ironically, Sandy didn’t get much time. She died at age 31,
just as her career was beginning.
