about a poem


The world is in chaos

(maybe it always was)

it seems more so now

 I don’t even read the newspaper

it’s on the radio

a sideways slide away on my phone

in emails

blogs, podcasts, webcasts, twitter

(I avoid Facebook)

I could go crazy

as I inhale country diesel air

and guiltily sip coffee from a paper cup

(forgot my mug)

 driving home on a balmy autumn day

 88.1 blaring

wild Irish fiddlers, Spanish love lyrics

wild drums, saxophones

(music Soundhound never recognizes)

and then—yet again

I gaze at autumn leaves

scattered around almost barren trees

and have an insane need

to give them words

(are they not just leaves on the ground?)

How to speak of them?

spread out, a shapely expanse

scattered-blown in appliqué

of brown on green–

year end’s iconic encore.

©2016 ontheland



wind blown from autumn trees
a stream of gold                                      (© Jane Reichhold)
 songs light our path to winter
 as riches crumble to loam.           (© ontheland)

This short poem is called a Tan Renga. Tan Renga looks like a tanka but is written by two people.   In this case the first ‘stanza’ is written by Jane Reichhold.  The second (final two lines) is my response, prompted by a  Carpe Diem feature in honor of Jane Reichhold: “Carpe Diem Universal Jane #3: Riversong”.

October moon

October is already approaching midpoint and once again our view of the moon waxes into fullness, on Saturday night.  Hunter’s Moon,Travel Moon, Dying Grass Moon.  This is the time of year when, in northern North America,  native hunters went hunting to stock up food for winter.  I am neither a hunter, nor an eater of meat so this time of year is more about plant harvesting and getting ready for winter.  I wanted to write a poem to go with my monthly moon post so I put my reflections into an October acrostic:

Overhead—look up!—sun slants through blue, dark clouds, morning mist; patches and tapestries of orange, russet, red, yellow; autumn’s iconic play;

Cold fresh dampness glistens suspends, energizes muscles to sore exhaustion;

Torn memories pull, traces of past fallacies rise, fall—sprouts attempt encores while autumn resists temptations;

Orange-burnt marigolds self-replicate in generous abundance—pumpkins outround the moon;

Brown brisk stalks of mullein rule the sky as ubiquitous bees bask in purple borage stars—crickets buzz;

Evening blinded by sunset rushes to night; yet stubborn gardeners toil under moonlamp—what once was still day, now is night;

Reaping leaves, fruit, and branches for food and mulch; memories mingle in seamless timeflow waxing empty of distinct features.

©2016, ontheland.wordpress.com