October 29.19

Age, some say,

is just a number,

inconvenient,

contrived encumber.

I shake my head

and must dissent;

age is real,

the past is spent.

In shingles curled,

in chimneys blackened,

in wood wind-sanded,

in facia slackened,

time’s signature

is boldly written,

and we are similarly

smitten.

Our mortar to dust,

our boards to splinter,

through many a summer

and many a winter,

we too show

the outward signs

of life’s erosions,

droops, declines.

But as parts unjoin,

fade and slip

arises still

proud workmanship.

And so with us

of youth bereft:

who we are

is what is left.

 

With thanks to photographer Mary Jo Bassett

and Conner Prairie Living History Museum, Fishers, IN.

October 27.19

 

Speaking only for myself,

I’d suggest that this could be

today’s interpretation

of Lady Liberty,

the inscription at her feet

a contemporary take:

“Instead of huddled masses

a massive bad headache!”

 

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.

And kudos to the unknown sculptor.

 

October 25.19

Sing a song of decadence,

a hymn to sweet excess,

paean to insouciance —

hail, oh, sticky mess!

Concupiscence so caramel’d,

so delicately plated,

inarguable its tenet:

self-restraint is over-rated.

 

 

With a tip of the hat (and maybe the scales)

to The Cake Bake Shop by Gwendolyn Rogers,

Broad Ripple, Indianapolis.

October 23.19

Chin up, people say,

and thus we raise our vision,

but the stoic looking up

can result in sad omission;

next our toes, ‘mid last year’s leaf,

in stature seeming humble

littleness abounds

in comfy forest crumble.

We can ill afford to slight

the low and lofty mixed:

balance is decreed

sky and ground betwixt.

 

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.

 

October 13.19

When fire heralds the day

and the lava of dawn boils over the world

what urgency seethes

to be heeded.

 

October 9.19

October rain,

like dirty lace curtain,

makes me look twice,

dubious, uncertain;

I can’t be seeing

what I think I see:

spring blossoms

on the crabapple tree?

It must be raining

an optical illusion;

there can’t be such

botanical confusion.

Petals of pink

as winter descends?

Is there something afoot

this anomaly portends?

The year just gets weirder

as rains turn to snow;

I’d ask “what next?”

but I don’t want to know.

 

October 1.19

To breathe

I need a sky

not in sliver

but whole pie,

a dome immense

and prodigal

of emptiness

brimming full.

Where courtly grasses

bow to trees,

unshackled miles

of restless breeze.

Horizon vast

with unknowns rife —

in such a place

I’m sure of life.

 

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.