Hating A Tree — An Exercise In Futility

I know hate is unreasonable,
a waste of energy and emotion,
especially when directed against
a thing which has no emotion.

Knowing the truth of this, however,
does not prevent the rise of ire and irritation
for I do well and truly despise the river birch
which resides in my front yard.

It is an ugly thing; thin, spindly branches
which droop and hang low,
falling to the lawn more often than
a disillusioned wife drops condescending criticisms.

It exhibits no pride of appearance,
none of the majesty or mystery of its
white barked cousin, its peeling and shedding
more like a quarantined severe eczema test case.

I cuss the thing daily, scowling at the scattered
twigs and branches on the lawn,
a spiteful replenishment of what I picked up
the day before. I really hate that tree.

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Fire

Why do you run

you fingers through

the fire?

Because to know pain

is better

than to feel

nothing

at all.

Indifferent

Death

moves slow

when sought out

ever waiting
within the shadow
the master of patience

indifferent to your plight
he offers peace to the sleepless

a welcome choice when her joy no longer
brings you joy, but only lesser misery

The End of the (Seven Bridges) Road

I think we all (of a certain age) dreamed of deciding

to go,

of following the stars

in the southern sky,

of being loved tame and being

loved wild,

of standing beneath the trees

in moss filtered moonlight.

I find trepidation in the hints of what

might lie beneath the shadows on that road.

Perhaps it is my tendency to

over think,

but what if we were to go,

what if we were to cross

the seventh bridge

and reach the end of the road

with the taste of honey

sweet on our tongues?

What if we never find it again,

or some other road

which calls the soul,

or another taste so sweet,

or stars so warm?

What if there was never

anything better,

or, perhaps more,

what if there was?

January Brown

​It is an ugly time of the year

in Georgia,

brown is the prevailing color.

The brown of dead Bermuda on the lawns,

the brown of trees stripped of all

but crisp, brown straggler leaves refusing to fall.

It is the brown of dried mud tracked into every home

and left on every carpet,

the clearly marked pathway of repetitive lives.

The clouds are low, soiling themselves

as they drag through the dirt,

tomorrow the dirt will return to mud

for it will surely rain,

rarely cold enough for the fleeting joy of snow,

just cold rain and mud,

always, there is mud,

and tracks on the carpet.

January brown is the brown of wet wood

and pine straw littering a forest floor,

it is the rusted out carcass of an old car,

it colors the mood and dampens the soul

like a shallow mud puddle

laid across your path.

Post Election Haiku – Working Title: Get Over It Already

The sun rose again,

odds are it will tomorrow.

Our lives have not changed.

Fall/Election Haiku

The leaves swirl and prance,

moved by the force of the wind;

no will of their own.

The Advance of Kudzu, or Greetings to the New President

Each summer I fight the continued attack
of kudza on the edges of our backyard,
the creep and climb of the intrusive vines,
tendrils of new advances appearing daily.

It is a strong, stubborn invader,
ropy and stringy, it insinuates itself into
the metal grid of the fence, twists around
trunks and branches, reaching for any opening

to infiltrate and establish a hold.
There is a feeling of sententious resistance,
a will opposing my attempts to remove
the encompassing presence from my property.

There are occasional small victories,
a growth perverted, an encroachment stalled.
More often it is a false triumph, the last bit
of growth out of reach, half of a root left

in the ground to grow another day.
I can see it happening, watch the unwelcome
intrusion of the green wisps as they infringe
upon the ability of other plants to freely grow.

The Authenticity of a Gossip

Lean in close —
against your better judgement,
of course — listen to the talk
of wild nights,
full-tilt indiscretions,
justifications and temporal promises.
Try to back away —
after all, this is really
beneath you — but linger
a moment,
wait for the balance
of the tale,
where doubt met pain,
disillusionment begat heartbreak,
and love was never
a variable in the equation.

9/11 Morning

I sit alone on the deck
with my coffee;
the first Sunday of the year with a cool
breeze and low enough humidity
to enjoy being outside.
I watch a smattering of birds
flit among the trees,
a butterfly or two traverse the yard,
the occasional reluctant sound of a day
beginning drifts through the trees.
I try and focus on the present,
the quiet, the peace,
try and grasp the significance
of a date,
and attempt to resist anger,
hate and worry.
The first tree to have turned is the one
most fully engulfed by the kudzu;
there is significance to this…
Leaves fall by ones and twos,
a slow drift through the quiet
of the morning.