On this afternoon
Food is of essential;
As Essen is of -to eat
In German Language.
Leaves or Snow,
Bring Wet or Cold.
Clouds rolling in,
Skies set to spin.
We come inside;
Fast we run and hide.
Pleading with the weather;
To make things better.
Words fall on deaf ears-
As it would appear.
With hot tea moving on,
X’d calendars check what is gone.
Oh! these brisk autumn days,
Set out to make our ways.
Til the rains change
To frosty breaths which pain.
Drift wood lie on the ground bent
Fixed there in midday sun ease,
Exhausted on mind’s fickle intent
Hard resting, come at fast release
Visible footprints mark this stroll,
Paths we meet coming toward,
Gambling dice we take a roll
Wagering what value we can afford
Making way we wander ’round
Pleasantly procured- what sight we sought;
Relishing that which we have found,
Making play with thoughts wrought
Likewise we stand the surrounding wilderness we stare,
Taking inside us breath, becoming alive through fresh air.
I recall the smell of fish from the brown water
And white caps rising high—
Brown, dirty… undulating—
Ducks stood in speckled sands,
Trash mixed rock…
And a cloud passes overhead
Casting a new shadow;
Ducks waddle under the dock,
And below they quack.
And I see boats
Moving across the River,
And I see that water
Has been moving past.
Inspired by Frank Herbert’s Dune: (source: Unbroken Thread): One of Gurney Halleck’s Tone Poems for Sad Times
Brittle leaves chased round a bus,
Clouds layered dark, hung above.
Traffic lights; sparked and changed,
Trees kept at bent in long headwind.
Walking stiff with faces downcast,
In sweaters—sweats; cotton warmth.
Moving towards bleak and gray day,
Chilled in each windowsill opaque;
Book-bags, pumpkin spice, cigarettes, wait…
One is made pragmatic by experience;
A grave man
Speaks grave words
Of which the living cannot hear.
I would not spend $50,000 to buy shit.
Old-time orthodox tradition;
If fish didn’t kill themselves
By swimming out of water
We wouldn’t have cellphones.
Relative relations wouldn’t spring so fast on advantage.
Men wouldn’t stand on two legs,
Or breathe the thin air.
Or Fuck or Fight,
Or even care.
What is art for?
Based on rhymes,
Behind closed doors.
And then they tell us to read:
Edgar Allan Poe,
Where “Lawyer” isn’t even a Word…
-Small town folk,
With small town ideals.
Maybe I’m joking,
Maybe I’m ForRealz.
Because I am
Cut from the same cloth.
Then they tell us to fit in this:
I was merely stuck in a book,
You merely read some words.
If things weren’t going for me
I’d probably too act on urge.
Now, how does one do the first part again?
Each blade of grass
In the sun.
Some appear blue-green,
Others appear well-done.
Scorched in noon-day sunrays,
Dancing in the wind for fun.
Each blade of grass is an individual.
Each blade of grass is but one.
We live in warm beds,
We comb hair on heads.
We light smokes,
We tell new dirty jokes.
Standing in shambles,
In the sun-
Damage is done-
-Sweet sad song.
-Waiting for a kiss.
Crunch of crisp autumn apple;
Intensity was at tenfold ample.
Camped on thought-
Blood Moon coming soon, a forewarning,
And after that one must survive morning.
Another book to read,
Language, words, grammar and punctuation;
Literally, a fine luxury.
Even the morning seems acutely somber
Broad clouded skies hold steady longer
Green leaves thick ripped from their place
Void departed relatives we save nigh space
Juxtapose this deep cutting- chilled contrast
Waiting for summer’s waning neb to fast pass
Vexed by cruel and unrelenting, stiff nature
Fool-heartedly with their lives they wager
On a single day we wish to stay the same
On forcible winds we wish to have changed
Man can live amongst this time and watch,
As he winds the seasonable swift ticking clock.