Showing posts with label autumn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autumn. Show all posts
10/9/16
9/9/12
12/5/11
11/9/11
10/21/11
11/24/10
11/18/10
11/10/10
10/29/10
10/21/10
9/27/10
11/27/09
11/23/09
11/16/09
11/10/09
A slight departure . . .
Although I have created this blog to celebrate haiku, I also would like -- from time to time -- to expand into other poetic expressions. This is all new to me. It is only in the last few years that I find myself turning more and more to poetry. I find that the cadence and rhythms soothe and often allay fears of despair.
So I will navigate slowly into this new territory, feeling my way as if in the dark . . .
Today, as I drove to work I passed a number of wetland areas and fallow fields. The sky was a lowering grey mass of clouds but the air has been warm these past few days. The colors are now subdued into soft ambers and rust, and trees appear to be made of worn leather and chamois if the light hits just right.
I love this hush-filled time of November, our respite before the holidays go full swing. It is a time of bittersweet melancholy, of remembrance, of stories and tales, of ancient songs that strike a chord yet are seemingly unknown. It is the time of bercuse, the French lullaby, of the nocturne and the adagio, of the slow dance towards winter . . .
Deep History
beneath mists
of woodsmoke
fields languish,
dreaming of
deep histories and ancient melodies,
of travelers' feet and
tillers' plows,
of brambles and bracken and
of seeds sown from pockets torn,
of countless wide blue summers
of harvests reaped and
of a new green that is yet to come --
So I will navigate slowly into this new territory, feeling my way as if in the dark . . .
Today, as I drove to work I passed a number of wetland areas and fallow fields. The sky was a lowering grey mass of clouds but the air has been warm these past few days. The colors are now subdued into soft ambers and rust, and trees appear to be made of worn leather and chamois if the light hits just right.
I love this hush-filled time of November, our respite before the holidays go full swing. It is a time of bittersweet melancholy, of remembrance, of stories and tales, of ancient songs that strike a chord yet are seemingly unknown. It is the time of bercuse, the French lullaby, of the nocturne and the adagio, of the slow dance towards winter . . .
Deep History
beneath mists
of woodsmoke
fields languish,
dreaming of
deep histories and ancient melodies,
of travelers' feet and
tillers' plows,
of brambles and bracken and
of seeds sown from pockets torn,
of countless wide blue summers
of harvests reaped and
of a new green that is yet to come --
11/4/09
10/27/09
10/24/09
10/14/09
10/2/09
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