in the fall

why fire's hot, fall's cold
science knows, but nobody's thinking about it
just happens that way. so
i'm Nobody, ok, and i think about it,
wish these either weren't either, or
were in balance: candles, crisp leaves,
blue-grey wind.

on the avenue's a man, looking
lost; dis-oriented; on the 'phone he says
"there's gravel, a blue sign, cars,"
historic novelties. but they're everywhere. "come
get me?"

words are grand friends, who leave
fall's cold if hot fire's to be had.
so it is with us mud-dwellers:
in life's cold fall i leave my friends
for fire's heat. grand or human, they do the same
to me.

"what's the blue sign say?" says
his 'phone; he squints yellow eyes to hear
our grand friends glitt'ring white meaning-full--!
but no! they're gone, incomprehensible!
mere pixel-ated hieroglyphs! "i can't," he admits;
"then neither can i," replies his 'phone
in a hang-up.

i'd visitors on Thursday. fall's cold
drove all my words away; they found fire's heat
elsewhere, perhaps. i offered my remaining
guests silent drinks and better seats in place
of conversation. "ah, my grandest friends
have left," i apologized. these couldn't
understand.

"i've nothing now," declared the gristle'd
man, illiterate and blind under
my blue street-sign. nearby's his 'phone
ringing: he imagines impotent help-offers
coming through tinny, cheap, and not
coming through.

why's this man alone? i stand and cross the stairs,
push the door open looking out; it clicks behind me.
nobody's about. his 'phone's ringing and i
scuttle down toward him with no words at all
feeling fall's chill press my grand friends back;
"come up, i have fire's heat, upstairs," i say
thinking to offer a drink, a better seat. so
i'm Nobody, ok, and i think about it
but he'll be outside for some time and i
never stood up to leave.

my view of him scales back
including late dusk clouds,
that square red brick apartment house,
plastic window-frame,
crisp-colored leaves,
a thrusting wind.
such as we are, mud-dwellers;
we leave fall's cold for fire's heat.



September '09

Moderna

i love you, City. but i fear for you
and what your citizens shall do to us
in years to come. your concrete chimney flue
cancer won't be the worst of it; they'll fuss

at your fall-colored history, and shy
from bitter sweat and oppressive Rust ache.
sterile tales will these tell--no sons of thy
muddy womb, no more such cruel river strength

we knew before. it rains in my City;
shy citizens peer out for salvation,
river rain washing clean our gutter grease.
oh bide our sins, Urbana: years shall come


to shake the bitter dust of 








September '09

poetry history and the sea: vi

in dismal grey i wandered back, along the aimless cobblestones, breathing shallow thoughts. days stretched into weeks, months: my slow soul slept. i took up drinking, which made me hunger; took up smoking, which made me thirst. the drab brick walls closed in around, and City growled low and menacing, chasing me toward gloomy hills.

i met History in a cemetery, pause-walking in unkempt grass; he stooped to right a heavy-fallen headstone. we pondered on along, stride for step, and i asked him how long, dear friend, how long--have we lost forever Poetry? he told me gently Death is jealous of his own, and always has.

we came to a river, dark and rushing, and found the Sea quite weak within; he told us of a partial man who'd leapt to Death upon his bulk. i listened quietly and walked apart, leaving two silent forms behind: shattered triune, sharing grief to keep mere memories alive.

if only had the Sea's poor partial man been whole!--but ah, cruel Death is jealous of his own.

and i thought of you, o departed poetry: how you would have wept and come to joy, in your cavernous gentle eyes.




poetryhistorysea.blogspot.com
August '09