Autumn Does No Favors

Summer shrinks. img_1638
Gentle grip that clings to green loosens.
Dusty August turns musty.
Shoulders back, eager growth slouches into autumn.

 

Fall’s bright promises crinkle into dirt.
Sun, that squinted through leaves,
glares past branches
in the season of denial.

 

Equinox of expiration delivers death,
sheds feigned conviviality,
marches us unwillingly into
the fourth season.

Optometrist

Harry, not Houdini, 
but, Haberkorn
wrought great wonders.
Dr. Harry Haberkorn, OD,
shined lights in my eyes,
when I was ten,
scribbled strange numbers
on his pad,
said come back in two weeks
when your glasses are ready.
As a non-believer,
not wanting sissy specs,
fourteen days flew by.
I read the little letters
on his stupid little chart, Whoopie.
Then, Magic happened outside his door,
when the sidewalk was close and clear,
when I spied individual leaves in trees,
when I saw seams on the fastball.
Let Houdini disappear.
Haberkorn, provides real magic,
when he makes the world appear.

End Of Season

Trying to lure a few more rays, casting
casting to the beams but,
the sun done made up its mind.

It shined enough for today.

Salmon, so thick
in the channel six days ago,
that you could walk on fish and water,

heeded a spawning appointment upstream.

Just two fishermen left,
fishin’ more by faith than sight.
Just one more cast, one more cast,
gets them one more cast toward being unhooked.

Dark One’s Pets

On nights of the palled moon Conceptual image of a face with stone boils
mist zephyrs swim in the midst
of darking night
and give shiver
to scare you indoors
to lock doors
to keep mist creatures at bay.
Mizeffers, their name in ancient day,
make their presence known
with skitters cross the roof,
scratching in the wall,
chill across your skin,
cold fingers tracing your spine
to make your shoulders shake.
Although you blame sounds on
mouse, or squirrel,
or chill on frosty breeze,
you soul-feel it’s the Mizeffer.
But, never speak that aloud,
because those who meet the Mizzefer,
never testify.

Balloon in Two Movements

Not likely to live long, Red balloon
red balloon wills itself
to vibrance.
Soaring now, escaped
from the sausage fingered
two year old who,
teary eyed, watches the ascent,
roaring disapproval loud enough
to drive down property values,
helium fueled red flyer
climbs higher.
A single red lung,
knowing to exhale is to die,
exhilaratingly lost in clouds
when the end pops quickly.

Continue reading Balloon in Two Movements

Demi Birthday

A half birthday is 
seldom partied.
I almost never ponder anyone’s
half anniversary, including mine,
at least until today.
A nosy new app on my cell
wanted me to know I  reached
6 months into 67.
Officious crappy app,
keep your alerts to yourself.
Then, again, half birthdays,
yield twice as many parties
from now ’til no birthdays.

Perfume

Music to
tap toes by,
snap fingers with,
sway hips,
create feet driven
by the beat.

Now, the last dance.
I cradle her right hand
soft and feather light,
wrap my right arm
to the small of her back.
She lets me lead.

Cheeks touch.
Hips brush.
Eyes embrace.
Her heart beats
in response
to mine.

Last dance
of the last dance,
a memory caught
on the scent
of warm cookies,
every time.

One Locker Reunion

Yes, I knowLockport Lockers

they probably have
put in new lockers since
I graduated 49 years ago
But, I like to think not.
I like to imagine
the 48 kids after me
who hung coats
in my locker
But, it’s hard to imagine.
All those kids,
kicking the locker door,
when the combination
wasn’t twirled just right
But, that’s hard to picture.
I want to believe,
I heard locker doors slam
the other night
by scores of teens long gone
But, my hearing is too dull.
Picture the crowd if all
the locker users of those decades,
crammed into the narrow hall,
elbowing their way to the lock
But, that could not happen.
There couldn’t be a reunion
of the users of locker #217
just outside the doors,
of the US History classroom
But, wouldn’t it be cool.