Ode to Autumn

September

tempering the year

forever pressed between two lives

an Aster in bloom

confused for something full

and too soon plucked

red faced exile in an unused book

bleeding into the words of dead men

who denied you your due

I was born with the knowledge of you

delivered into the limbo of a seasons ungraceful end

to wait for the beginning of death

not as we all do

but as women waiting for love

sister, mother

I carried you in my blood

heart filtering everything

but the fever of my wild intuition

a knowledge of something more illuminated

than the stained pages of man's sanctity

my small female hands touched the Earth

like a baby, pushing out

at the walls of its mothers womb

never wanting to leave the peace

that comes from finding oneself fit

attached to the world like a vital organ

you and it requiring one another

a fleeting sensation when time insists on turning

wavering like the memory of pain after the fact

which they say, we retain little of

moonlight poured abundantly over sightless eyes

but with the knowledge that it is evening

everything moves

to the ceaseless rhythm of death

the maid dancing knows that she will end

as the crone

withered into nourishment

for the boot heels of next year to press

I caress you still

sister, mother

I am in love

with this

a moment on the wheel

briefly spun into life

the fall

allows us to become whole again

to forever find ourselves beginning.

For the children (those fortunate enough to show their corpses in the news, and the rest)

The world is faltering

pieces falling apart

the decline of infrastructures

unnoticed or mocked

well you know my show is on and besides so and so said everything’s fine

and I know that its my fault

as surely as our bones

are made of the same matter

stardust some fondly say

but alas I a romantic

must tearfully admit

we are but dead residue

remnants of something wonderful

and our initiative is failing

the evolutionary process

that decided

to choose me

and you

should have been more selective

genocide

is a well known word

but the images of war

are too grizzly for right society

(unlike that show

you know

the one your prepubescent

and highly confused son

masturbated to last night)

and callousness reigns

like Asma al-Assad

looking into the eyes of the devil

while she's made over at the mall

bags and bags and bags

I wonder if they recycle those

to store all the small bodies

plastic in children’s pain killers

day care centers

parceling out sedatives

I mean, why teach

these lousy little things

these play dough people

with love splashing out

from every eyehole

every place

capable of expression

into the miraculous world

every one containing

an avant-garde piece

inside their pure and sinless

(yes you insane disease, sinless)

souls

I say bring the world to their knees

if only to force them

to face a child's perspective.

seasons

Summers end approaches
and I am suffused by thoughts of longer nights
as faint tastes of Autumn mock the seriousness of his sun.
Winter is unknown
sleeping dead as the crone in the Earth, but still
I am reminded of four months from now
when morning gathers a chill around her
caking frost on all the flowers.
It is Spring who defies the doldrum cold
and in the months which follow and proceed her demise
I imagine myself making love against her soft belly
against the new growth bursting forth
from the Earth's reanimated corpse.
I will be possessed in the petals of a dream
an endless honey cream pouring hotly from me
a white bubbling stream
entering rapidly into the sea.