Short Tinctured Poems

Don Johnson pens from his far south berth 
insightful poems tinctured with mirth.  
Of human foibles, plights 
and Aussie nights he writes; 
all while dangling down under the earth....

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Imbued rose colors
of birth. Sky tinted billowed
petals, junked. Florid

gardens, immaculate.
Scents of citrus heavens. Bloodshot
tinctured cotton

colors. Rubicund 
chalk crumbles, powders highlands
thrusting. An ingress

kerfs a hyloid 
barrier. Cruer clots. Spook.
Cimmeran smudges....

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Gilded parasol on horizon's edge twirling
Twilight's lamp shade dying embers swirling
Sun's spent beams with embroidered frills quilting
Patchwork of tinctured gases simmering
Deep red, burnt orange ridges brimming
Violet, creme pastels periphery fringing
Dusk's opaque veil with palling shadows dimming...

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Lay there sinking, thinking
under the surface of sodden anxieties.

Recall you darkly
the flickering hours, the tinctured years,
as sweat-stained sheets leech.

This room may be your last gasp,
but you can’t tell,
time distorts death as it does life.

Come morning, the body
(if it is still fitfully aware),
may be rinsed by an untried light,

an embalmed mind unwrapped
as muggy dreams are moped away
for one more uncertain day....

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The xylem saps are heading south
like the majestic autumn sun,
deep down into their woody roots.
Soon deciduous leaves will die
and their exquisite lingering
dissolution's will manifest
tinctured, ephemeral beauty:
crimsons, oranges, yellows and greens
and all the subtle hues in between.
A sweet, earthy scent saturates
the cool, autumnal air we breathe.
Then one by one each leaf succumbs
to a gentle rain or zephyr
descending silently to earth....

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