TWELVE MONTHS OF POEMS

JANUARY SNOWS

First comes the thaw.
A heartless tease from a gentle breeze,
bringing showers and hours of warm.
No storm in site; just the right temperature
to make a nice White Christmas
a fond memory. Every sensory stimulus
is less provoking as I stand, choking back
my enthusiasm. A wide chasm between
reality and what I know to be an illusion.
It is this intrusion of this lake; unfrozen and
enabling, labeling these shores as
the snow capital of nowhere. Glancing to stare,
aware that the forecast calls for resurgent flurries.
You scurry to catch a quick glimpse of the skies
and there before your eyes you realize.
The snow machine is well in tune.
I hope it ends before we hit June!

 

FEBRUARY 3

I was in no position to be born,
in the breech; feet first, a fresh “face”
coming to the fore on that frozen February morn.
Until then, my days on earth up to the day of my birth
were a placid float, suspended in muted serenity.
But, the anguish of my poor mother would serve
to provide shocks to propel me into action,
gaining traction in this field of my amniotic shield;
a permeable hideaway of liquidity.
But damn the masked man in white, he startles me;
a sharp slap sets my ass to flame and a tearful wail to my lips.

 

MARCH MADNESS

It feels just like a sick day,
I feel it in my bones,
my hands, they shake and tremble,
it won’t leave me alone.
My throat seems sort of scratchy,
these eyes are red and burning,
my joints are badly aching,
as far as I’m discerning.

I won’t waste my vacation time,
it really isn’t fair,
I’d pray for a touch of fever,
so my boss would know it’s there.
I don’t take a lot of time off,
it’s really not my style.
I’d save myself some trouble,
but I’ve got it all on file.

The other guys around me,
look like they are susceptible,
there’s hacking, sniffing and malaise,
it truly is perceptible.
It appears an epidemic,
Has broken out with sadness.
I wonder if it has to do
with a new bout of March Madness?

 

APRIL SHOWERS

No fooling. April comes first. Spring takes root and leaves winter in its wake. April is the beginning month in the rebirth of the soul and spirit. You can hear it in the sounds and sights that surround us. The birds are chirpier, the days are sunnier and the poets all over the place celebrate. A cascade of words. A torrent of thought. A flash flood of frivolity. All rolled up into a month that promises to be creative and inspired. A shower? An April shower to bring the flowers of poetry to the fore, come what may. No fooling.

Poetry abounds
springing forth with the flowers
and April showers

 

MAY RAIN

Clouds, dark and ominous,
a predominance of wind and chill,
not enough to kill the plants
but enough to make them dance
in the whip up of weather.
A silence falls; precursor
to a storm approaching,
encroaching on a good day
with the threat so offered.
A mist begins, begetting a shower;
a sudden downpour ensues
while you rush to the car
with keys in hand and a hope to reach
the power windows before
giving the seats a good soaking.
Tough luck. It’s a shame
you don’t move as quickly
as you used to. Rain – 1, seats – zip.

 

JUNE PASSIONS

The sun-baked sand
where our feet stand
offers the perfect
point of view
for you and I
to witness the sun-
set in the distance.
I chance a kiss,
the sip of bliss
from your soft lips.
Our silhouette
unseen by eyes
sneaking a peek
of our tryst.
In the evening mist
I breathe through you
and you breathe through me,
in this moment
Heaven sent.
Whispered words of love
and the crash of waves
are the sounds we hear,
along with heartbeats,
strong and clear
with one conjoined sound.
We have found treasure
in pleasures we bring,
it makes our hearts sing
On the sun-baked sand,
where June passions land.

 

JULY: IN THE EVENING WHEN THE DAY IS THROUGH

Hear the crickets chirping across the field,
in harmony with the cicada call. All is still
in the evening when the day is through.

You step out to the porch swing, bringing
a cup for you and one for me. A cup of tea
in the evening when the day is through,

steeped and steaming, it has me dreaming
of how mellow love is. It is the soft breath
in the evening when the day is through,

of a summer breeze, there is ease in her motion,
a notion that soft caresses will soothe each heart
in the evening when the day is through,

as it has from the start. Listening to night fall
not making a sound as it hits the ground,
in the evening when the day is through.

There is just me and you,
our teas and the summer breeze!
In the evening when the day is through.

 

AUGUST MUSIC AND MAX

All I know is there was this farm.
Acres of open spaces
to sit//stare//prance and dance.
It was a chance to connect
with the land//the bands//
the lovely nymph passing acid
and ass, a nice little lass
at that! Summer never felt hotter.
Would’ve spotted her, a face
in the crowd//to remember//
to launch a thousand trips.
Piece//love//music
hair like Jesus//multitudes
of chicks and dudes,
kissing off the beatitudes,
beads and leather vests//chests bared
and fellas with no shirts too,
true confessions in August//
free love and granola.
Mohair and moonpies//
more music and sex and drugs.
Old man Max throws a bitchin’ party!

 

SEPTEMBER TRAILS INTO FALL

Jacket zipped and collar drawn,
I walk the trail of hidden dreams
all through the night until the dawn.

Nature’s chess game with me as pawn,
a victim of its plans and schemes,
jacket zipped and collar drawn.

The warmth of August will soon be gone,
as September winds start gaining steam.
All through the night until the dawn,

the dew pressed footprints on the lawn
are not as frightening as they seems.
Jacket zipped and collar drawn,

my solitude goes on and on.
The fire in my heart forever teems
all through the night until the dawn.

Morning approaches, a quiet predawn
and you have invaded all my dreams.
Jacket zipped and collar drawn,
all through the night until the dawn.

 

OCTOBER RESCUES

Fighting a battle often lost in the darkness
of a weary mind. There is no rest there.
Cursing the single candle lit to offer
its illumination; to infiltrate this
mental stagnation. Accursed slumber
why do you wage against my will?
Will you release me like the leaves
of October’s colorful flurry, left
to scatter in the cool winds from place
to place; a migration to discover the peace
that I crave. You have found me, October.
You have extended your lifeline in fine fashion,
a saving assist for one clamoring for control
over heart and soul,
over heart and mind.
I clutch your hand as I am flung over
the edge of reason. Your season is here.
You want me near, October, where I belong.
Anything else would be just wrong.

 

NOVEMBER BEGINS IT

We step into November.
A cup of coffee steams,
leaves meander
outside of my window
and yet there’s a brightly colored Christmas tree
plastered upon my TV screen.
Bobby Darin crooning “Silent Night”.
I’ve seen in the stores.
It is filtering into advertising.
But it will not infiltrate into my house
until at least Thanksgiving.
The seasons change on me overnight.
I should have Seen it coming.
And so it begins…

 

DECEMBER

Your bitter comes before November goes,
a harbinger of the vignette to come.
Seeking refuge in the warm hearth of home,
away from the cold that freezes your toes,
sequestered from the Winter’s frigid snows.

Bittersweet, you watch the children at play,
in anticipation for Christmas Day.
But it is certain the curtain will call,
an abundance of Lake Effect snowfall.
Until the New Year comes, December stays.

 

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