Ascent

The turning of Summer affords a special freedom; one which is not found in the vast expanse of cloudless days and long evenings, but rather in the welcome release that comes with life's quiet rest. Autumn allows us to put away the frenzied activity of the past months and look instead to the slow peace that resides in rainy days and leafless trees (aided, of course, by hot fires, cups of tea, and the like). It is a measured freedom, but that does not keep it from being boundlessly liberating.


Ascent

Mist on the water, my soul is light,
a quicksilver shadow now taking flight,
to glide on an autumn-whispered breeze
above crimson crowns on the royal trees;
past clouds in the sky, mounts capped in snow;
place stars in the heavens; I count them low,
for no earthly cords can bind me long;
my soul makes to fly and my wings are strong.

The Last Leaf

I anticipate the coming months, I know, but I could not wait to post a true Autumn poem. It's about time we had some real weather!


The Last Leaf

One leaf left upon the wood,
and time once was that it withstood
the shearing winds, but wick and fill
have fled before the autumn chill,
that little breaths can free its moor
and send it forth from timbered shore,
to plot its twisting journey down
and settle lightly on the ground.

Humility

Well, the title of this week's post has a certain fittingness to it; I finally buckled to the conformists and added links to my blog. It is only fair that I pay some credence to those who have provided me with some small portion of inspiration or happiness, and perhaps, through them, you, too, may find something worthwhile. I reserve, of course, the power to add and remove links at my whim, and to shamelessly pilfer them from other blogs. It's a sign of flattery, after all.


Humility

Praise is poison to the heart
that cannot bear the sweet,
and glory nurses gluttony,
when given it for meat.

Better, then, the blunt critique
to tear the prideful down,
with meekness for audacity,
and thorns for laurel crown.

Happiness Missed

Every once in a while, I attach myself to a poet I particularly admire (don't worry, the dead variety) and try to emulate his or her style of poetry. This one came from my 'Emily Dickinson' period.


Happiness Missed

Happiness is often missed
in haste to satisfy
pleasures that, like breaths deep drawn,
soon scatter by and by.

But the grief that follows thence,
when understanding wakes,
ne’er is voided nor delayed
when on the heart it breaks.

So pass not the quiet need
that whispers to your soul,
for, in leaving it behind,
you leave what makes you whole.

Words

Every year or two, I make a brief sabbatical down to Southern California. I do this in part to visit old friends and to relax, but also to assure myself that, despite the chaos in my own life, there will always be some things that remain unchanged. California is my anchor, and the people I know there are sincere friends - the sort that will be just as true whether you talk once a day or once a year. So what does all this have to do with the poem? Well, I wrote it a while back, after I had gone three years without visiting California, and was suddenly struck by a deep melancholy and a desire to see all the people I'd left behind. There are times when you are surrounded by people and yet you are crushed by loneliness; you are missing that true companionship that is rarely found and never replaced by common friendship. That is where I was when I wrote this.


Words

There is sorrow and sadness in all that I see,
as even in moments of laughter I’m blue,
and nothing I do is now done happily,
for it has been so long since I’ve talked to you.

Falling Asleep with a Blank Page

A little more free verse. This might be the last one for a while. I suppose the title is a bit of a paradox, but I couldn't think of a better one.


Falling Asleep with a Blank Page

Midnight,
and the muse
has left me
for the poets
of the East.

The Forgotten

More mildly-structured free verse; this is becoming a trend. Give me a few more weeks, and we'll be back to well-ordered scansion, but for the moment, allow me my fancies. This was written in a graveyard, and I must say, as morbid as it sounds, graveyards are wonderful places to meditate. They are almost always well kept and spacious, with lots of greenery and statues, and the occasional pond; unlike parks, you will rarely ever see another soul; and by their very nature they are extremely conducive to self-reflection - good luck being flippant in a graveyard.


The Forgotten

It is sad to see the fields of graves,
once well-tended, now forgotten,
covered in a careless bed of leaves,
such a quiet, faded end
to so many loves and sins,
and to know that I'll return,
not a visitor of the dead,
but a man, soon forgotten.