Tuesday, October 25, 2011

autumn leaves

autumn wind –
the ground's turn
to display leaves


he's forgotten
how many years it's been . . .
falling leaves


falling leaves –
many sad memories
gathering today


Saturday, October 22, 2011

Hardwood Floors

It’s the smell. The smell of hundred-year-old
hardwood floors in this old school I recognize most,
floors grown thick and corpulent with untold layers
of pine-scented oil - floors darkened, smoothed
by the trample of children herded, then corralled
in dank stables down these long corridors. I also
remember the confinement I felt, pinned within
these stables, wanting nothing more than to be free,
with the wind of youth brushing my untamed hair.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Saturday, October 8, 2011

The Corner Space

My son has started writing
poetry and it really pleases me. He's always had
a creative mind and heart, but hasn't had much
opportunity to express himself. This is now
a catharsis for him.

Eric S. Gossett

I remember that we had too much clutter and how
irritated I was that even dust couldn't cover everything.
I also remember our shopping trips to buy the clutter
and the unknowing looks from clerks who didn't realize
they had just sold us a part of our lives. We stacked clutter
in cabinets and closets, shifting older clutter to the attic,
and even found a piece for a particularly lonely corner space.

It felt so strange when we divided possessions and made
decisions on who got what, again moving the clutter, and
all the while I was emptying my heart. Today I sit quietly
in this house, watching through a window as autumn leaves
tumble over empty brown fields, and the weather
seems to mimic my emotions. There's a chill in the house,
and corners echo of better days, days when we weren't
as strangers. I know it's my imagination but that
empty corner space now appears to mourn from the shadows
as if it were a corner of my heart, its loss and mine wedded.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Magnolia and Dogwood

It's deep night, damp and sticky with the
residue of southern heat which refuses to
totally dissipate this far into the night.

The night is thick with the voices of insects
and sleepers sweating atop their sheets,
committing sins in their vivid imaginings.

Dreaming, I'm standing by the wide river
wishing I could fly with the breeze through
the trees, the soft, warm, cradling breeze

that comes up from the Mississippi River.
It stirs the boughs of cypress and oak trees
and arouses a wind chime's music somewhere

down the dimly-lit street, while scattering
a newspaper like huge leaves; a wind that smells
of magnolia and dogwood blossoms and

river mud. A full moon casts long shadows
which melt into even darker, yet benign
shadows. The night has compiled its secrets,

mysteries, transgressions; surely that is the
charm of night - it frees the mind to settle not
on what seemed important during the day,

but on the longings kept locked away, hidden
from the disclosing light, struggling to break
free and take wing with this night wind.


Drawing on my memories from Louisiana,
where I lived nearly nine years