The house is colder now
as autumn sheds its leaves
the push-pull falls wildly beneath the plows
along the edges of the gutters and eaves.
perhaps because the house is emptied
of all the faded color hues
when your heart lit the entryways
to the lifetimes shared, here
with you.
I watch the color palette change
chlorophylls leaking out in the icy cool
carotenoids producing yellow, orange, and brown
the corn mazes shriveling in dry stalked spools,
the old weathered maple blushing to scarlet red frowns,
the great oak in its russet brown undress
the aspen and poplar shaking yellow fringed gowns,
autumn chill alive and stirring north and west
within the colors spilled down.
I feel it in my body
my bones and muscle ache with each step
closing door and window with revelry
to the change to which I become adept,
holding the season's lost memories
tight upon my face of laughter and tears wept
a last embrace within the season's pace
and final goodbye
to the magic had. with all its grace.
We smile the most, but
they are the happiest.
And we look the best, but
they are the prettiest.
And we talk the most, but
they are the only ones having a conversation.
All is a lie,
what appears in the eye
does not match the true value.
We see dye, and continue painting.
Escaping, haiting, fading.
Thats what you are supposed to do.
With brushes.
Brushes they gave us.
Brushes that won’t leave us.
Brushes we didn’t ask for.
But got and kept.
They see the motive of the snake
the consequence.
They see beyond appearence,
where we fear interference.
The ad said naked, cold, and shriveling
So why are they clean, warm, and dazzling?
They see dye, and wash it off,
they use the toothbrush to wash the dishes.
They are clean, and
we are dirty.
We have the power, but
they have the muscles.
We did it right.
The juicy taste of red apple is a source of happiness, right?
We take a bite, and feel good
so we eat them all, so we eat ourselves.
But it looks good, so it’s right,
It doesn’t taste good, but it’s right,
WE, feel good right?
Right.
Right, right, right.
"Those who contemplate the beauty of the
earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts." Rachel Carson
Even a dead leaf caught up in bare branches
can seem beautiful to us
We take solace in the knowledge -
natures cycles are never ending.
Tender, new shoots reaching for light
inspire faith in all renewal
as surely as the beauty of
old trees gives hope in longevity.
It is all around us-
in the scents, sounds, colors, patterns
and miracles, ever repeating
that never cease.
We need to hear the birds, see the least little beetle
Revel in the scents of flowers, the fragility of their petals.
Take note of the serenity of dawn, give thanks
at days ending.
The moment we disconnect.
When our senses fail to notice anymore-
the shriveling and dying of our being begins.
Learn the wisdom nature teaches us-
to never take more than we give.
So, Artificial Intelligence can now write poetry
(I think I may dislike this)
We have similar thoughts
Its words are lovelier
Rhyme or free verse
hundreds of synonyms.
It can also paint beautifully.
(OK, now I hate it)
colors flow majestically
no trial and error
mixing always perfect
(maybe we should shoot it)
Poets and artists
can we feel our minds shriveling?
like fruit left to die
on a lonely vine.
Because that's what will happen.
Minds not used eventually wither.
Are we going to just sit here
and take it?
For I don't see us co-existing,
Do you?
(We should have shot it)
(By the way, don't give Artificial Intelligence
a gun!)
A unicorn's horn,
tattered and torn,
a half eaten Hershey's,
2 crushed candy corn.
The tiniest bat wing,
mummy's white sling,
skeleton's femur,
spider web string.
Witch’s silk hat,
yawn from the cat,
shriveling pumpkin,
Snickers smushed flat.
When ghosties have gone
this is the scene;
left over remnants,
post Halloween.
dandelions were stretched out along the roadside spent
wild lavender thistles were shriveling into brown stalks
we had no air in our car, it felt like we were in a sauna
the first few seconds were great, then it felt stifling.
how hot is it? I asked my niece. She checked her phone.
Heat advisory, heat index, heat…..here it is. A hundred and one.
In Kansas a hundred and one feels like six hundred and twenty-one.
Especially if you have no air in your car.
The grass had turned as tan as sand; it crunched when we walked.
Lawnmowers were called off, dirt patches felt solar-heated.
Roses, lilies, lilacs, crepe myrtles, and rose of Sharon had given up.
dandelions were stretched out along the roadside spent
Too many know
what they don't know
certain of it –
have faith in others
knowing even less
but think they know
more –
a bunch don't care to know
not wishing to do any
of the heavy lifting
too much wasted brain work
if some know already
who say they know –
Putin says he knows
so Russian soldiers
murder and rape –
Xi knows
so the Uyghurs must go
tortured
organs harvested
from the living –
Joe knows
so his son is made rich
dealing with Xi and Putin
who know –
trust in those who know
for what do we know –
young boys worshiped priests
and now know
years of therapy and shame –
crack addicts trust
who know the best stuff
their blood and bones
disintegrating beneath
poisoned
starved
shriveling flesh –
therefore what do I
almost know
besides not trusting
those who trust
in those who know
what we don't really know –
those on US Southern border know
victims of crime in defenseless cities
know –
or do they
I would like to know
someone please tell me
In the twilight autumn storm
Trampoline trees still green in the wind
Roared like oceans crashing a beach
Hail bouncing on their vinyl backs
Leaves shriveling in electric flames
Whipped from the tectonic clash of clouds
No music to the thunder
Bursts like bombs
A quiet came
Hours later
Our bedroom windows
Billow
With an overnight avalanche of black cold air
We at the bottom of the mountain
Flood of breath
A divinity
Dispelling our illusion
That we are separated from God
Under the blankets
My wife floats on a raft of dreams
Faintly murmuring her pasts with gasps
Mouth warming the back of my neck
Down my spine
Lifeline
A hand migrating underneath
Pulling me along
Inhaling exhaling pulsing together
Toward inevitable change of seasons.
7/9/20
"Sickening"
This is sickening
And quickening
Not at all, what I was envisioning
Nobody listening
Most chickening
Fidgeting
And limiting
Themselves to the point of being crippling
The effects rippling
And tripling
On top of it, we've got social distancing
Still dribbling
I've been chiseling
And scribbling
No matter what has been incoming
Pivoting
And occasionally grimacing
The temperature freezing, cold, mild or sizzling
The weather icy, windy, calm, scorching or drizzling
Clowns continue giggling
Petty people are still belittling
Over every little thing
Not all that riveting
It's becoming uninteresting
Sometimes I sip, sometimes I swig
Sometimes I flip the script
Even though sometimes it's rigged
Before opportunities are shriveling
And dwindling
Got to get it quickly
And differently
Meanwhile all senses are tingling
We all recognize them well.
The number of times we've battled.
An enormous number to tell.
Our world is shrinking.
Our society is shriveling away.
We're destroying our living planet.
Watching our world decay.
I don't intend to create a huge fuss.
Employ a moment.
You'll realize.
Our enemy is US!
*The inspiration for this poem comes from the comic strip "POGO" created by Walt Kelly
that first appeared in newspapers on Earth Day 1971
the dust of autumn
blossoms shriveling, leaves dry
seeds thrive underground
April 25, 2020
Jenish Somadas, Let the Pens Flow, Haiku contest
The bears and wolves are few;
one threadbare widow mourning,
two grays as consumptive as smoke.
The large dwindle,
their bodies grow more awkward,
more at odds.
The heavier beasts sway
like drunks in the scant woods.
Under a pelting dark they come.
Beneath a stabbing ice, one by one-
the animals.
I listen to their shuffling,
the scrape of a delving nail.
They are stealing, they are burrowing
led by the visceral prod
of a shriveling wind.
Hesitant paws withdraw as they near,
a restlessness keeps them gnawing
a middle ground.
I crane my neck from its ribcage;
they fall back and return,
wanting, always wanting.
The small creatures enter
where cracks fill with moonlight
they scuttle and hesitate,
a little way,
a little.
I am Turtle,
a makeshift thing,
cloud-splashed and sullied.
I sing back the needy shadows,
sing back the devouring light
in its little glass suns
least both meet and both fail.
Loud passion dampened
Lovers lay in the debris
Drifted apart in mutual hush,
Silence screams, as once before
Fragile skin burning in the light
Intimacy, shriveling in face of beautiful women
The lunas no longer love
Wings shriveled and crawling to the shadows
Withering
shriveling all up
inside, I
cannot tell
how long I'll remain in this
hell of a dry spell
No rainfall
here, except for tears
and sometimes
they go dry
too numb to cry, too tired
to feel inspired
The words crack
crumble in my mouth
before I
get them out
primal screams and shouts silenced
by fear and self-doubt
Soul searching
something worth saving
amid this
gloomy mess
sorting out my worst, my best
while I pray for rain...
___
Yet another Shadorma poem...
The United Nation of Trees
held their annual Falling Leaves Conference.
I was invited as a silent witness
and a loudly investigating reporter,
recorder of curious water-bearing and leaking history.
Our sacred water is now bought and sold
in mostly plastic bottles
manufactured by oil-fueled degenerators.
Our roots are robbed
of shrinking water tables,
underground rivers plundered and fracked
in vain genocide
against future EarthLife.
Our fading and shriveling leaves,
severed trunks,
raped forests,
cannot keep up with clean-air projections
for future EarthTribe health care.
Therefore,
Be it resolved
This United Integrity of Trees
shed our last leaves
to heal our soul,
longing for future healthy soil regenerations.
And so it was,
this united ballad of Trees
hosted our final Falling Leaves Conference
for a thirsty while,
hoping future AnthroSapiens
might learn to hear
this deadly fallen silence.
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