Autumn here in the Pacific Northwestern United States is the season of emeralds and gold. The emeralds emanate from the many types of conifers that grow tall and plentiful here in this beautiful region, staying brilliant shades of green year-round. But the gold, that is the magic, and it’s a fleeting wonder that happens only in the Fall season. The source of this prestidigital marvel of nature is a geographically limited pine tree known as the Larch.
Larches are like a pot of gold here in the Fall hiking season. Their flaming yellow needles turn a Cascade Mountain landscape into something ethereal and otherworldly. The few short weeks, during mid-Autumn when the larches’ needles turn golden, make them all the more precious to spot. I call it the season of “Larch Magic.”
As splendrous as gold
cascade mountain larches make
autumn spellbinding
Author’s Note: My inspiration for writing “All My Lovin’” was drawn from exploring the record albums of my youth. Also, strangely enough, from a wonderful novel by Peter Heller entitled “The Dog Stars”. It was reinforced by my awoken curiosity, which found me sampling the top 100 hits of 1963, which was the soundtrack for the summer of my 16th year. That landed me solidly on the Beatles. It was the summer of my red ‘62 Chevy, which I traded for my true gem — a ’57 Chevy Bel Air “rag top”. It was my ‘63 Triumph 650 Bonneville motorcycle, my first rock and roll band, and my first “girl” — oh that rush of young love.
Looking back at my early teen years, those years when I was waiting for my life to begin, I flashed on my memories of young love. The intensity of that tender, pure, unrealistic infatuation, could perhaps have happened only then, in those times – in that summer of 1963. Before assasinations, collapsing economies, open social unrest, Viet Nam, before AIDS, COVID-19, rampant drugs, criminal presidents – the year of the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show, the Beach Boys took the world surfing, Annette Funicello playing beach blanket bingo, Ruby promised our day was coming… Chevy ragtops, Triumph Bonnevilles, OpArt, and President Kennedy challenging us to go to the moon. This was a time, maybe the last time, when teens were still blissfully innocent.
I don’t know why that feels true. Perhaps it’s because we were so naive and so unsure as teens, in that post WWll, white-picket-fence, father-knows-best, american-dream, faux-utopia. We were tentative and waiting, wondering. It’s as if love imagined to be that innocent, needed that much room, that much “open” mental space, that much time, that much emotional “safety”, that much unbridled belief, for it to take root, and to bloom – even if but for a brief moment in time.
The not knowing anything really for certain, but hoping, with aching faith in the possibility of pure true love, was both thrilling and unsettling. It was a love full of passion and devotion, but scary. We were not completely certain how to navigate such an emotion, not really, so we left it alone, tried to let it unfold lightly, terrified we would lose it. And if it did manifest, it felt so big and beautiful, and unbelievable! It was most often short-lived, owing to our immaturity, and the fragile combustibility of the feeling – but what intoxicating joy, such heady exhilaration! Those were the times when the apparitional gossamer wings of all consuming young love did fly to the moon, and carried us helplessly, but willingly, along. Here is my poem, “All My Lovin’”…
Strong slender legs
carry firm eager bodies
perfumed and cologne’d
around and across the dance floor
pulses racing
electrified — entwined — excited
young groping lust
craving
yet hesitant
swept up in innocent bliss
shadowed near the band shell
beyond the glow of incandescence
aching for that kiss
swollen with erotic effervescence
throbbing with the big beat
of scorching rock & roll
or drifting on a cloud
of ethereal romance
fantasizing there might be
a chance
hormones afire
in a maddening dance
smoldering for some
longing for more
confusing for most
a pubescent play
beneath a high starry sky
sparking with carnal fantasies
humid as our urgent embraces
hot as our stolen kisses
as forever as our promised love
in that distant
teenage midnight sizzle
stealing kisses
in the drizzle
praying our fragile feelings
our imagined love
would not falter
nor fizzle
“The “WhatThreeWords” for my zip code and street address were: moment / reveal / charge. Inspired by my 1984 Sept-Oct solo cross-country motorcycle roundtrip from Ohio to the Rockies and back, I incorporated my three words into this poem.”
The vast prairies
of my middle america
still in my mirrors
leaning comfortably into turns
breeze streaming through my hair
I begin to wind my way
into the mountains
into the golden evening
alive with two-wheeled freedom
master of the open road
not counting days
not keeping track charging onward
feet up and flying
as I dash between shadow and light
the sun reveals itself
from time to time
from between the peaks
warming me
as it begins to settle
behind the western slope
of the mighty Rockies
There are days I still can feel
the breeze of youth gently stir my soul
days remembered of grace and lightness
when faith in truth sparked splendid dreams
those days
of new found friends
of us
when all we touched was fresh and new
and the world was full of wonder
when we were certain we’d all live forever
our strength made each day a great adventure
those carefree days
the days we witnessed one for the other
as we made vows to our chosen life mates
we raised our children
we grew our careers
or our skills and artistry
our avocations
our families close
through these growth years
years of challenge
and sadly — those times of tears
but too — there were days of joy
steadfast dedication
but not these days
I’ve grown unyielding
rigidly braced
against the winds of time and fate
my soul is rooted too deep
in life’s demands
in it’s obstacles
I search its blessings
curse its burdens
these brittle days
I am bent by the yoke of worry
staggered by the blows of disease
heavy with the weight of loss
I am haunted by the ghost of memory
haunted by regret
the lonely days
when I reflect on these
set upon by another challenge
or another loss
brought even to my knees
these empty days
how can this void be filled
when ones so vital have departed
gone on one by one
we’re left brokenhearted
but not filled with strife
I still feel their life
this world was denied much wit and wisdom
kindness and love lost
when each, you passed
how can this void be filled
when ones so rich in these
are gone
gone so far beyond
ones who understood the need for giving
in a careless world
darkened by greed
that’s lost the soul of living
under attack by brutal lies
of deadly pandemic
when innocence dies
you
of tender hearts
truly unselfish
whose warm embrace included all
devastated by our fall
how can this void be filled
when such brilliant lights
have been snuffed out
I will not forget
I will remember you all
as long as I am able
I will remember all those days
that is how I will fill this void
keep focus on tomorrow
with the seeds of friendship
you each planted deep inside my heart
now filled with sorrow
may they grow to make me gentler
and me — the world a better place
I remember you love, by the ivy’d garden wall
on those crisp copper’d days, in the waxing fall
laying languidly embraced, on a golden leafy sprawl
in the dappled shade, of our green willow tall
I remember you sitting by the greying oaken mill
‘neath autumn’s changing trees, on that grassy hill
where we’d make sweet love, in the pearl morning chill
with love’s tears of joy, I remember the thrill
we’d embrace laughing, fall’n’roll down the hill
your blue eyes flashing, shouting, “let’s take the spill!”
bold as brilliant wildflowers, I remember you still
yes, I’m leaving you now love, but hear my heart trill
I always will, always will — remember… I always will
Warm September relaxes, preparing to step through Autumn’s portal. This is the time of Equinox upon this realm, as it continues to cool, slowly nudged, towards eventual winter’s peace. The season of sky-waters is at hand, to quench nature’s thirst, as she begins her time of rejuvination, to slowly regather strength.
Soon an all-consuming quiet, an absolute stillness, will settle. From this deep silence, comes an imperceptible murmur, a breathless whisper. It is a hushed prayer of gratitude for the breathtaking beauty of this Pacific Northwest. Also, a humble petition, that the crossing of the next Equinox will bring the blessings of renewed life to this soon quiet land, at rest in time’s hand.
S ummer takes its leave
autumn steps boldly forward
September watches
This is the plot the studio intends
an evil villain who’s a killer clown
striking fear and mayhem all over town
I wonder how this horror movie ends
no way that clown and beauty queen are friends
not as hot as she looks in that evening gown
maybe he’ll push her in that lake n’let her drown
perhaps this is the plot the studio intends
bet he’s gonna kill her in front of her friends
perhaps he will beat her with her pageant crown
or stab her with her scepter when she turns ‘round
I so wanna know how this horror movie ends
ohhellno — RomCom’s not the plot the studio intends
please no — all this lovey-doven’s bringing me down
this can’t be how this movie ends — oh horrors!
These are the movie titles featured in this poem, in the oder they appear:The Lonely Lady, Under the Cherry Moon, Cocktail, Indecent Proposal, Color of Night, Showgirls, The Postman, Battlefield Earth, Swept Away, Catwoman, I Know Who Killed Me, Fifty Shades of Grey
