In variegated swirls of innocence
She flashed across a hundred different brains;
Her words, so many fine-tuned instruments
To bring to life the latest fashion pains
Of many different patterns she knew all;
But all she knew she was but loth to share –
To stand and laugh at loathsome mercy’s fall
And point, in hopes that others, too, would stare
By colors torn directly from the press
Of new wine in the skins of wrinkled old,
She taxed the new pariah’s wickedness
And left fine statues broken, in the cold —
With all the venom she can call to hand
She’ll ban simplicity from every land
A on again, off again, thing.
She was my longest love in many ways,
With us so often on, or off, again;
She was a part of each divergent phase
Of all the things I tried to, could’ve been
She called me once in quite a fevered state;
Her voice its magic worked on me in tolls;
I drove six hours – then we made love eight –
A fire burning on in glowing coals
But something about us just was not right.
The chemistry was there, and we could talk:
But our values were different, so in spite
Of all the good we had, I chose to walk.
We have stayed friends, and lately I can tell:
I’m just another ex to her, as well
Then solace comes, in dreams of cooler weather,
When autumn’s voice will free the captive heart,
The music of what can be done, together,
The silence of what must be borne, apart.
The color on the hills: a box of crayons,
The scent of leaves and trees and autumn things,
In sweaters, charged with hope, and maybe ions,
And other comforts fall so often brings —
We stand upon the threshold of departure,
Not from our lives, but how we choose to live,
The waiter, and the worker, and the charger,
A time to take, a time to hold, or give —
For life’s chaotic, but, it is not lawless,
And time itself can bring us hope and solace
For she was hostile, meaning, she’d improved;
At heart we crave illusions, like control —
It’s everywhere we’ve been, but never moved,
For profit’s so much lighter than a soul.
I know of course I could, that’s why I can’t;
Don’t point at hatred like it isn’t yours,
It’s only us that keeps our chances scant,
We miss the fish, and tear ourselves on lures.
Her mind’s a desert, and her heart’s a swamp –
He cobbles poetry, and tinkers verse –
We cover dust and ash in fame and pomp,
And practice what we know we can’t rehearse.
Oblivion, more habit, now, than quirk
Is not the only answer that will work.
So, did Love once remind you who you are?
And now, do you remind Love who she is?
Perhaps we overstep in thinking we
Have understood enough to see that far.
For very far, indeed, must be our ken
If we think that we can direct Love’s path;
No more can we control the very stars
Than tell Love when she must come back again.
The light may fade, the angels fold their wings,
The dinosaurs come back to roam the earth,
And habit tie itself into a bow:
While we must merely stand, and watch such things —
But Love — It lives and travels as it will,
So in Its time, prepare to drink your fill
The truth is this: our wishes and our dreams
Tell more about us than appearances.
What truly is, ensconced behind what seems:
The barriers, the interferences
That come from doing all our everyday
Must-dos, that hide away our woulds and wills,
The nose to wipe, the one-more bill to pay,
The moving shadows stored online as stills,
That though they maybe colorful to see
Are more about what isn’t there than not.
The yearning humans, viewed complacently,
For what they do to just keep what they’ve got.
Appearance, less a window than a door,
For all of us, who know, inside, there’s more
She was the autumn: elegant and kind,
But full of loss. The colors turned, and so
Did she; to coming wintertime resigned,
And pensive in the glade, the interglow.
The too-much gift of nature sometimes borne,
Until the leaves come off, and days grow dark;
The comforter who slips away to mourn,
On solitary walks out in the park.
She was so much and yet so little known,
Admired, but not really understood —
I see her there, as fallen leaves new-blown,
Out on the edge of fall, within the wood.
She was the autumn: kind and elegant —
But life came hard; she folded and then