Year-round: A Collection Of Month Poems
A/N: What can I say? For my friend Mendelssohn, who loves music and wanted poems for Fall and Summer. For my idol Newkirk's Heroes, whose poems, especially "Explaining April", makes mine look like children mumbling. For fellow poet Toom iki, whose haikus are much more poignant slices of nature than mine are. For dear dear Amalin, whose reviews make me feel loved every single time. For everyone, all my readers. Enjoy!
When Simon and Garfunkel sung
of the sound of silence,
and the slow cancer that spreads through it,
and where, outside
frost hangs from particles of air.
not looking for warmth nor cold,
do we seek for the last edges
of sunblanched ice flowers
opening like the drips of an icicle?
the wind-blasted sunlight enough
for dreams of fog tonight
and the absolute zero
of a fraying swab of insomnia?
Ah! On cold January
you placed your ambition.
Like cold January, you searched for what
the unattainable could give you.
Dream, then, of leaf green snow
and crimson flowers
of whose warmth you can never hold.
of la petite mort
and point to the salmon pink remnants of love.
The cherry blossom frozen in a patch of ice.
The Japanese geisha watching
from behind a rice screen painted with fleeing birds
the powdered face hiding what expression may cross.
O St. Valentine!
Watch the bodies, how they twist and turn!
As if paths cross against a spider web.
Of bone white and flower pink,
the rose attached to her desk.
La petite mort,
dear St. Valentine,
what little deaths should we suffer
for the yearning we gave name to as love?
La petite mort,
the little deaths we endure
when, like the geisha,
we watch from the veiled surroundings
to where bells sing so softly,
none but the unloved can hear.
They sing of the little deaths
of St. Valentine
and of the fading love letter pressed with dry flowers.
My piano teacher
likes to play Chopin.
He has long graceful flat fingers
with veins, large and a faint tint of blue.
channels on Mars.
Except I'd rather like to think
that he is gaseous Venus
with her rings of ice and rock.
Chopin spinning in his head,
all tender brilliant spring
The grand waltzes like March,
creeping in with violent beauty and soothing liveliness.
Wisteria and dogwood and sunlit dandelions.
with nothing to take away but
the gray blush of winter,
and nothing to give but
the echoes of birdsong.
This much I know
of spice and mandarin oranges,
exotic scents and vanilla sugar
(gold emerald cerulean Persia India candles)
The thin yin-yang edge of new-bloomed air,
light peppermint green
paired with goldenrod pollen.
This much I know.
April is of serenades,
Schubert and Schumann
with a trace of Mozart.
of solemn cellos, Bach and Wagner.
What showers fall like silver mist
and elderberry wine?
Gardenia petals, magnolia leaves.
2 drops of blood:
one for love, one for hate
for dear, dear
We both have our reasons.
we find what we have lost
in those spring days that are illogical.
taking two human vectors,
restlessness and want,
mixing them, a dot product of sorts.
Told that nature is spontaneous,
do we apply simple formulated math
to that with no pattern?
May may beckon to me,
with the random song of grass and trees.
Thus, with no tears to cry,
it is only when restlessness and want become
orthogonal, nothing, or lust,
(maybe love, if one still believes in that)
that Spring, in the form of airy May,
seeps like immortal wine
through our veins.
one who believes in the song of Scarborough Fair
and one who follows Greensleeves instead
sing the same tune,
a melody as meaningless as May itself.
Dusky as his eyes,
Him holding vigil over a lone candle.
You framed in the doorway, watching him.
Me silently pondering the workings of smoke.
You say you care nothing for him.
Why, then, in the June twilight,
with dew touched grass beneath you,
the violin of crickets,
and the moon as a stagelight,
do you let your eyes etch his figure
into your memory?
His hands stretched out to embrace
warm velvet June sky.
His feet planted firmly against the ground.
an e. e. cummings effect.
the newlY born colt,
his hands like earth yearning for her lover sky.
yearning for him.
While I look away and surrender to June.
The feel of persimmon and eucalyptus oil-
That is not the way to begin.
But with what beginning
can we give to July?
Brings to mind
of bamboo and fleur-de-lis.
but who knows why?
The last of the summer,
crabapple trees in full bloom,
or so I remember.
no, that is of winter.
The story of Ceres and Hades.
Winter loved Summer
and kidnapped her,
only to find her like gold-flinted ice.
To melt away into
a small mirror of color.
Where he, icy Winter,
looks at himself,
a dejected Narcissus.
And Fall (no, no, it was echo)
faded away while melancholy Winter pined,
his hands wet with the blood of summer.
Not a murder story, but a sad romance.
Of the last ice cream days before the Fall.
Autumn is Falling.
(the wings of an angel
wraps dying sun in their embrace.)
The shadows of carefree days
and new-loved flute sounds.
Namesake of Augustas-
August, October, both nephews of proud Caesar.
Murdered by the knife of friendship.
the blazing scarlet battalions of war.
Let us play with names
and twist your name on our tongue.
The little girl is gathering cold lifeless shells on your beach.
August, autumn, August, autumn.
Scent of cedar wood.
Stretching gnarled branches.
The summer desert tents of Arabs
folding up and stealing breathlessly away.
the sound of wind through leaves
is still whispering
And if I should fall,
(coffee bean brown scent of crushed leaves
even though you say cinnamon)
by maple leaves and the powder white of birch trees.
more parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
when under a mat of silent soggy leaves,
A wave of undergrowth creeping like chocolate.
The microphone flush and cold against my lips,
have nothing more to say.
September, pulling at my voice with ribbons of emptiness
of what fall wraps as its cloak around me.
to protect me from Septembers antics.
Do you understand?
No, neither do I.
For though September, mischievous September, is playing
with my silence,
some underlying sense of life or death,
an unspoken death wish.
September loves and loses and loves again.
it will lose everything.
He doesn't believe in Halloween anymore.
when his mother dressed him up
in a fancy costume and made him parade around for candy,
or like when
the fake cotton cobwebs
hanging from black branches
made him shiver.
He calls it All Hallows Eve instead
and makes it his own All Soul's Night,
like the O-bon festival
He likes the October darkness
when he sits next to his bonfire,
the scent of raw apples and sharp spearmint
in the fire.
Cupping frozen white hands around his face,
but his eyes
darkened by pupils and the iris and October
watching the fire
tiptoe slowly into embers.
In the after math of some
November flows in
with liquid limbs but crystalline blood
Why like Grecian statues?
The names of a feline
like a cat treading quick with veins of burgundy
body heavy with sleep,
crawls onto your lap.
attention, love, hate, a decision.
But you, indecisive,
can only stare at November on your lap
and do nothing.
The battle scars
from scratching your heart with November
Burying the last of the year's leaves
under a sheet of ice.
Oh no, long dead.
Already stripped from the wine grape vines,
where secrets are caught and stored away
in a bottle made from the fragments of a mirrorfall.
a walk in otherwise lifeless woods.
Robert Frost-esque dream of footprints tracking down
to a clearing without gray sky.
A subtle trace of larkspur blue and orchard purple.
an echo of February?
December on its own.
December on its own.
Valediction to the fair year, to soft days of winter's light.
and blue white and-
~xiii. Epilogue for the Reader (because it is already)~
slowly sauntering downward
the author pours out meaningless dribble
in anonymous black and white.
to the reader:
like all beginnings,
belong to the reader.
What words are tossed in the mass,
of seasons and glory and sorrow and autumn,
they are to the reader.
Whether it is about
the fireflies of light on rain-dropped cars
the fallen history of a beautiful city,
it is to the reader.
What meaning is taken
from these words,
it is to the reader.
whether you are
the poem is for you-
and in that moment-
for you alone.