Orange leaves collude
With brown, and russet, and red
In my October
Bonfires blaze brightly
Crackling logs, shooting embers
In my October
Hoodies and sweaters
Tall boots with warm woolen socks
That’s my October
Okay, I live in Florida. Our autumns here are fairly subdued, but I have fond memories of autumns in Illinois where the leaves turned impossibly beautiful colors and the sound of leaves crunching under foot was music to my ears.
Peace, people.
Someone referenced old wooden doors yesterday and brought this old post to mind. It’s not great poetry, but I love the photo I took of this door in La Antigua de Guatemala.
https://nananoyz5forme.com/2015/04/27/door/
There’s an 80-something woman I know, dyes her hair magenta, wears Chanel No. 5 and purple blouses
My banker is a young, Black man with perfect teeth, and the soul of a poet. He performs at open mic nights
I’ve heard of a child who isn’t. Born on the wrong side of an imaginary line, she huddles with others in a cage
The woman next to me in the grocery store marks her territory with an angry stance and sad, old eyes
Death claims a friend, robbing all who loved her of her sweet spirit. She comes around in my dreams
Me? I’m a watcher, hoisting a glass to those who’ve touched my life, for better and sometimes for worse
Who are you? Add a verse.
Peace, people.
Found the photo of the sculpture on Pinterest.
There’s a storm brewing
Winds raging, lightning strikes near
Thunder claps along
Wizards watch with glee
From the safety of their lairs
Raining down vengeance
And the wildness flows
From dark clouds filled with anger
Take that, you heathens
I know, I know! I write a lot of these silly poems about storms, but I haven’t gotten it just right yet, so I’ll keep on trying. The storms out here at Doright Manor are epic. Words just fall short of describing their majesty.
Peace, people!
She seeks the future
In the tea leaves’ swirled remains
Such intriguing shapes
Tasseomancy
From the handle, then clockwise
Reading ’round the cup
What fate awaits her?
Which symbols reveal the tale?
She hovers and yearns
For some reason yesterday morning I responded to a comment on my blog with the phrase “reading tea leaves.” The phrase stuck in my head and formed itself into the poem above.
I’ve never had a tea leaf reading done; although, many years ago I had my palm read. At the time Studly Doright and I lived in Kansas, and the palm reader told me I’d soon be moving to Florida, and that I’d meet my soul mate there. I just laughed at the time, but within the year Studly accepted a transfer to Melbourne, FL. Of course, I already had my soul mate, so I suppose her reading came true, since I meet him at the door almost every night. 😉
Peace, people.
Of knees, I have two
Symmetrically, left and right
Please, don’t fail me now
My body ages
A kink here, another there
Knees are first to go
So I limp and gimp
Groaning from hither to yon
Do bees’ knees suffer?
So I tweaked my left knee somehow on Saturday, and I’ve been hobbling around feeling sorry for myself. I’m sure it just needs a bit of rest. Maybe I should elevate it and drink wine.
A house without books
Is a heartless edifice
No stories, no soul
Build for me a shack
Every wall covered with shelves
Each shelf filled with books
No ivied mansion
With fixtures of finest gold
Could be more desired
I’ve been going to estate sales again. No real treasures this week, but I realized as I walked through houses, marveling at the objets d’art, some beautiful, some bizarre, that people have collected, and browsing through these museums of their lives, that I spend far less time in a house where there are no books. I suppose that makes me a bit judgmental, but a house with no books seems incomplete.
This is fairly hypocritical of me. Ninety percent of the books I buy now are for my e-reader. And I know a good many well read people who seldom buy a book, instead borrowing from libraries. I do still purchase print books, though, and I have a good many from which to choose. Still, when I die, and you visit an estate sale to pore over my worldly goods, look for my Kindle. There are thousands of books on there.
Peace, people!
Winds have bowed him awkwardly,
Casting him askew to the others.
Maybe, though, he’s just leavesdropping,
Inserting himself into the discussion between
The sweet magnolia and the mighty oak
Across the way, shaking boughs and
Whispering poetry, listening for the owl.
Maybe he’s yearning for the lake,
Hoping for a cool breeze and a sip of water,
Or perhaps, like you, he’s just weary and
Seeks the loving arms of a companion.
Who am I to judge this leaning tree?
I’ve leaned too, in my day, and
Will again in the days to come.
Tomorrow
I will take the time to linger by the lake,
To touch my toe tips to its cool surface and watch the flash of fish
Slip beneath the weeds.
Tomorrow I will pluck a daisy, counting off the petals,
Each one a vindication or a soft rejection, who needs that kind of
Fickle love anyway?
Tomorrow I will bake the bread, rolling and kneading and
Watching it rise, the smell of warm yeasty goodness almost making me
Swoon with giddiness.
Tomorrow I will honor the friends whose days were cut short,
I’ll wear patchouli on my wrists and dress in a gypsy skirt, maybe with bells
Announcing my arrival.
Tomorrow
All the night things were fooled by the glowering skies. In the hushed anticipation,
Frogs began their nightly chorus as crickets laid down a steady beat, echoing into
this false dusk, punctuated suddenly by stabs of frantic lightning, bombarded by the
rolling of a timpani, mallets on skin, presaging the arrival of a downpour, the
outpouring, the deluge. We hunker down, my cats and I, after a sharp crackle and
concussive reverberation. Too close for comfort. The lake creatures have gone mute,
given up on their futile choruses, now that the storm has come.
We had a lightning strike a couple of minutes ago that might have topped anything I’ve ever experienced. It was close, the thunder immediate, and my heart is racing. Wish I’d still had the camera going, but the audio would have needed censoring.
See that bare spot on my lawn? That’s still fallout from last year’s Hurricane Michael. And we’ve got a potential hurricane heading this way as I write this. I’m not ready for another storm season.
Peace, people.
Praying for Eyebrowz 