November

November

November is a time of little endings.

when we are spending our strength today

to make tomorrow secure.

But life is uncertain, and we can’t be sure

of anything.

Leaves wither and drop, revealing clouds of gray.

The barbecue is put away.

 Days shorten, and the cold descends,

and our snowbird friends 

fly south.  I know

This hemisphere will tilt  again toward the sun, 

and women, slim and young

will dance in the summer moonlight.

How I loved that summer moonlight!

But my dancing days are done.

The Little Guy

The committee in my head

hears a lot from him lately:

the little guy, hiding behind his chair

screaming, “We’re all gonna die!”

He’s right of course. 

No one gets out of this alive.

But right now, just this breathing moment

I AM alive.

Why should I spend a good day

listening to his fear?

When I could sew or write or bake

or sing and dance 

(in the feeble lumbering stumble I have come to.)

Breath goes out, breath goes in. 

Heart goes thumpa, thumpa.

My favorite toy, my mind, is wearing thin in places.

names have unraveled,

and memories tangled.

But I still know a few jokes,

and the world still holds love and beauty.

We’re all gonna die, 

but not today, sucker.  Not today!

All the words

The words
all snarl in tangles,
scrambled angles,
curves of words that trail away
without rhyme or reason
or even a pleasing
turn of phrase.
Like fry, they flash and flee
through the still clear water of my mind.
The words used to be my pets.
They came purring to my hand
and curled
content and perfect on the page.
The words were a fountain, now gone dry.
They have become a shadow of an echo
of the voice that lies.
There is sunshine and blue sky
and my heart lifts
but the words won't come to play with it.
I could force some doggerel to jog along,
but even if clever, it wouldn't sing true.
I am afraid of what the words might want to say.