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Autumn Leaves
volume 6 number 7
Autumn Leaves volume 6 number 7 |
The fire logs sigh in contented consumption
The rain
clouds hover carelessly close to the ridge tops
And in the kitchen the
frying pan pops a pleasing promise
But that's not our purpose for
living.
Phone calls break up the epoch that silent walls
Spell
out so succinctly
Letters written are addressed to some other place, perhaps
more stable
But that's not the real reason thoughts aren't expressed.
Bills unpaid or bounced checks marking attempts to
pay
Parental responsibility reduced to a monthly payment
While the artist
hungers for a chance
Money and equity sure make for cold value
assessments.
Christmas spirit and clamber for gifts soon given
Carols
and gatherings and thoughts of my sons far away
Awaiting the day I can see
them again
Too real, it takes the magic out of the Magi story for me.
As the season comes on, I hear John Lennon singing so
sardonic
"So this is Christmas/and look what you've done"
And I wonder
what of my whittled down psyche and persona I have left to give
But that's
not our purpose for living.
Somewhere out there, there is a mate for my
heart.
Somewhere out there, there is a tribe moving
Toward itself as a
circle
But that's only the beginning of new hope.
So this is Christmas
So how does that differ from
yesterday?
If you got nothing left but bone, give the bone
That's special
enough, no matter what time of year it is.
And, yes,
Merry Christmas, in your own way
While the
season lasts.
Ho!
