AUTUMN PONDERINGS By: W.B. Burkholder August 2015
Willow’s Breast A fallen branch from the Willow’s breast, An Autumn descent, and earthly rest. Its Mother dances in blustered breeze. Shaking off its Summer leaves. Skeletal dame, left in the wake, Sleeping now till Sun’s first kiss. Blessed in views and visions clear, of Willow’s dance and sounds to ear, A siren’s call of Autumn’s voice. Shaking off its Summer leaves.
Weekend Rain They’re calling for rain this weekend. Just in time to be free from the trappings of a weekly schedule. Sodden incarceration, While peering through rain soaked windows. Dreaming of a summer Sun that is too busy to warm my bones. Conveyed on seasonal solar orbit. Writing the obit for this year’s warmth. The forest across the road, Waving farewell with umbered hands, Writing next year’s green dialogues for their descendants. Rooted bands, Curling up, Slowly finding its state of slumbered serenity. Natures indemnity, Reparations to come. When the birds have sung spring’s greeting. Cyclical as it should be, Yet I wait for the rain, And possibly, For the forecast to be wrong.
The Song of Gilgathane O Gilgathane, you sing in meadows of sweet spring choruses. Rhythmic waves of tall grasses swaying. Crescendoed trumpeting of white swan’s songs… Within the blossom of Summer’s cheek, You rise to meet their glories. Storied past, all but forgotten, A hopeful future awaits ye dearest girl. And come day’s end, you rest upon a bed Dreaming of fountain heads rapturous end. Serenade of water’s fall. Loons call, Cicada’s click, The white noise rustle of night things dancing… Gilgathane, sing to me of Summer’s caress. Give us this gift again, of renewed season, and warm melodies, of a balmy breeze across our brows. Gilgathane, great gift to man. Continue to sing in meadows of sweet spring choruses.
Under an Ancient Oak Her eyes, were that of a pale blue, and in them, they reflected the incessant march of northbound clouds. Under the tree in which she lay, the sun speckled her bed in the dapple of a day lit glance. September had come and gone. Now, in the first breath of October’s caress, She lay under a woolen oak, whose wig had just begun to change. She had told him that this was her favorite place, where she could lay, and sleep, and dream. Where the freshness of each day filled her soul and embraced her dreams of solace and serenity. They, together would often come and rest underneath the arms of this ancient thing. Laughing and discussing the days to come. The Love that they held for each other. The hopes and cares of two entwined in life. It was on this day, that he came for the last time. Bending over, and kissing each pale blue eye closed. His final gift to her, this place.
The place where she would rest. Entombed in the earth under an ancient oak, Whose arms would hold her forever.
The Poets Hammer blows upon the anvil of creative curious design, All these smiths in an ink laden hammer. Poetic mixes, Kickin and spittin, On street corners, coffee shops, and cafÊs, Willing draftees in the army of rhythm Bent in lock-step to poem and rhyme Keeping time with the pulse of their pens Speaking and spittin of their now and thens. The fandango of words, Clicking upon the lips, Like black stilettos under sultry hips, The snap and clap in perfect time with metered Muses in the wings Keeping the eye on the rising crowd, Who seek the destinations of their truths. And we hammer them out in untamed fury, Upon this crucible of our lives, Forged and molded, As we the poets, Hypothesize‌
Torn Banners in Compassion’s Field Synaptic prolapse of human element, Un-developed mindsets stewing in Hypocritical hotbeds. Deaf to the far off cries Uttered by their own souls Seeking sedentary solutions To moral and physical challenge. Polluted mindsets, il-regret of burnt bridges, Fetid myco’s, The carriers of tribulated dream, And nightmarish chaos. Collective numbness, Collective blindness, Selective extinction of Societies… Passions of the heart On life support, Compassion, fashioned on a torn banner, Ragged and bloody, Yet on some fields, it still waves gloriously. Let this Breeze renew itself,
And spread once again Throughout the vestiges of all men. Let there be a glorious breeze to tatter and sway The hearts and minds of a violent race.
Turn the Page Resolute in stature, in high standing with victorious Virtue and vehement articulation Of rendered raptures… Exotic fruit falling from fat tree’s Dusted with the skin and bones, the blood of the sower, the picker, The Writer… Meshed together in effort and purpose, Surpassed by those who take for granted, seeds planted. The ranting minions of self-proclaimed virtuosos In all subject matter Save for living. O, tis the rant of a roving poet, seeking rhythmic epiphany, rather than substantive rhetoric. Heretical to some, maniacal to others, Nevertheless, Soothing to me. Spit out the blood and the bones of pent up thought! Always praying to never see the drought of ideas and words and imaginative Joys! Rejoicing with ink and paper and tapping keys. Only substantive thought should rule the day… Feet on the ground,
Pen in hand Moving, moving, moving Forward. Turn the page.
This Thing Called Man Revisited I sing within the embrace of a green meadow’s keep, Where I celebrate this life, and all that it means. When all seems lost, and ill-serene, I simply travel there in my memory. Communal salvation, Sugar for the soul. Where I let peace and simplicity, Take its toll. To venture out and extol These dreams, Is by far, A better gift to give.
Green Meadows I sing within the embrace of green meadow’s keep, Where I celebrate this life and all that it means. Where cacophony’s masses lament each breath, Who seek to perpetrate dying and death. I travel to places un-seen by them, And seek meditative freedom. Far from dictates of fiefdom’s reign, Far from the perpetrators of humanities pain. Liquid pools of reflective thought, Rippled waves of hypocritical thought… For I escape myself, And those things I have wrought. For each of us, The keeper of the cage to this thing called Man.
THE TREE THAT BORE ME I see the passing of my life in a falling leaf, And I am reminded that each of us have a season. Where our conception is bore from love, And our growth, The result of nurture and drought. It can be seen, it is remembered in mortality’s rings. Silent ovals, circular remembrance. Such is the season where I ponder upon such things. When I reap the harvest of life’s gifted wisdom. And in this realization, I find that the journey is accelerating. That Gravity’s summation is each man’s mortality. O that I would catch a youthful breeze, And be carried on the currents of youth once again, Carrying with me all that I have learned. But it cannot be, we stay attached to what we know, The tree, The weathered sentinel that taught us. Our greening, Our dependency came from their roots, Our history. And our independence; from the severing of youthful stem. However, the leaf’s journey is not that of a sheer vertical fall It is winding, wandering. The flitting in and out of happiness and joy, Of rain soaked, tear filled nights. Of mortal seasons, both warm and cold. And passionate summers hot and steaming. I will at some point find the earth, My final landing upon familiar ground. Where I shall lightly lay my umber body down, And return to the base of the tree that bore me.
The Swing of the Scythe The Colored schemes of rhythmic reds Clash against the envied greens, Man and woman in its stead, Mycotic renderings of hate and dread. Crimson banners waved wildly about With screams of rhetoric and Biased louts. Walls erected, Neglected souls Self-inflicted Predacious acts‌ While never learning all the facts. O to let the scythe swing, And remove this head! To Cleave it from the body of mankind. To wrest from its grasp All those notions Of pre-conception To seek redemption in the acts of humanity Rather than that of chaotic calamity‌
Entering Autumn The movement of warm days, under the mortal coil of time’s march. A summer sky is beautiful, yet fleeting. It is the youth of seasons, reckless and idealistic. Righteous convictions conveyed in warm winds with good intention. It calls to me, To be young once again. Alas my summer is done, and I am entering autumn, Where umbered wisdoms flourish, And with gratitude’s imbued, I relish those memories… Those movements of warm days. Life in all its seasons A cool and abiding lullaby.
Azure Hues Hands raised to meet the sky, she prays for peace and healing. Under clouds of azure hues imbued in the embrace of serenity. ‘Tis no lament, nor cry this day. Simple peace and joy, the way. She calls upon humanity to finally open its eyes, And put asunder doubts, and personal alibi. Seek the truth and see yourself, in reflective pools dancing. With hands raised up and celebrating clouds of azure hues.
Down in Valleys Beaming. Viable vista in valleys beaming, silken treasure, snow’s kiss gleaming. Dusted meadow, and crystal’s eye. Frosted caress of winter’s embrace. Gone the day of sun and roses, cicada’s song, and black bird’s wing. Faded finch and meadowlark; their voices now a distance throng. Sharpened drafts at doorsteps knocking, seeking the warmth of hearth and home, Down in valleys beaming, Snow kissed treasures, Silken gleaming’s…
Coins of Light O, passionate summer, With your warm eyes, And balmy embraces, Hold me closer to your beating heart. Let me feel its rhythmic pulse, Let it calm my tired body, And renew in me My dreams of reveled joys. I shall mourn the time When your coins of light Recede from autumn’s crisp hand. But I shall remember your touch, Your warm and jubilant caress, O, passionate summer, Do not wane, but stay, Forever.
Recollections Green paths, moss laden, Sojourner’s highway alongside a gentle river running. The white wigs of wispy rapid, Embracing rock and branch, Detoured and redirected, To form liquid designs of rippled joy. Rippled Joy, infinitive joy, never ending, Always moving; Moving forward in its chosen direction. Dreams of boy hood days, On the banks of slated memory, And moss covered recollection.
Where Freedom Lies Freedom does not reside in the flap of a country’s banner, Nor in the diatribes and postulations of elected men and women. It lies within the mindsets of men, who seek something greater for their souls, More than a flapping fringe, rapping in the breeze. More than the babble of politico speak. True freedom lies in the dreams that all of us seek. Comfort in knowing that none are sheep. That none be incarcerated in the molds of other men. Each of us, a work of art, one off masterpieces, not to be framed within single mindsets and doctrines. No, freedom does not ride atop gentle bending poles, where Lanyards clank subservient innuendos. It lies within the minds and hearts, conveyed by ink and voice, Within the souls of all, who seek a brighter path.
Grace by Far The articulation of dreams, ink imbued, sometimes skewed by empirical journey. Open door, revealing the heart. Lifting the myopic vale of humanity. Allowance for exposure, allowance to disclose such things that dreams decide. Abiding in pages of a literary sojourn. A small trumpet sounding, in attempts to cure, The spiritual deafness of humanity. Never loud enough it seems, save for the occasional passerby; Those within earshot of a poets humble intent. Where motives of the ulterior are non-existent. Where laments, momentarily silenced, are replaced with the elements of poetic forms. Observance of self, of man and woman, Of blustered winds, presenting gifts of Autumn’s glorious eye. My pen speaks to me this morning. It shares itself in collusion with my dreams. The conveyance of a literary postulation. Ink filled, dream stoked. Rebuking and exorcising darkened diadems from soulful shires. Where at last, freedom will reside, Love shall abide, and grace by far, shall rule.
POETRY Poetry is the culmination of lives lived, in its tears and laughter, in the beating of hearts, the internal rhythms of man, this prime mover of all that we do. Poetry makes us see ourselves in a true light, we only need to be brave enough to gaze upon those reflections that poetry provides. Poetry Cries, but it also celebrates life in all its many colors... it cries, it laughs, it mourns and rejoices, it is insightful, it is didactic, it is revolutionary . it is appealing, and at times, un-sightful, it is life, it is the conveyance of the human condition, the pulse and poetry of man.
Last Glance And in the waning hours of day lit caress, dusk settles in, and again, so blessed. Silken night sky, illuminated evening. Moon beams calling for tomorrow’s healing. Distant horizon as the day’s envelope closes. Tomorrow sits just on the other side. ‘Tis not the end, and never shall it be, just a series of moments, with sleep in between. Each morning a gift, each sunset the prize. A caress to the soul, A blessing to the eye. Quietude of a soft summer breeze, Lullaby for serenity and sweetened dream. No need to lament this day’s last dance, For tomorrow brings with it, More treasures and chance. This daily bread of sunrise and sunset. Pinned to us like a golden amulet. Such a treasure, beyond compare, The waning kiss of a day’s last glance.
Lines from “Serenity’s Tune” Melodic sounds of the Whippoorwills, silent forest below shouldered hills. White smoke wafting from fires burning, pilgrim’s pyres, warm sojourners. Countenance endowed from green wigged fathers, sister Lark, and river’s daughters. Silken laughter from satin shade, down in the valley, in its meadows and glades. Diminutive sounds, in crescendoed choruses. The breeze my Sister, and the trees my Mother. Sing such lines of serenity’s tune. O that these silent songs should bless me all my days, Inspirations gleaned from the simple song of the Whippoorwill.
Meditation 23 And in the waning hours, Where peaceful respites sleep, I retire to my meditations, That serene and quiet keep. When the cacophonies of silence, Quench my thirst of Parched horizons, Lo, the time is fast arriving, Of day-break’s golden glance, That I should wake And tumble from, A dreamy eyed repose. To gather the riches of Each breath drawn, To stop and smell the Rose
Being Present The bitter sweet tastes of life, condition the soul’s palate, Providing strength and solace in times of need and heartache. It is these experiences that allow us to weather the withering blows. The self at times, laments and rails against the perceived injustices levied. However, it should be considered that the proverbial blows are lessons, rather than attacks. Each of us needs our humility renewed now and again. To keep us grounded, to keep us set. Yes Set, not chained. To be grounded is to be resolute in our undertaking of life, To experience all the glories and blessings that we can glean from it, and in return, offer to others. Not in grandiose fashions, but by our mere, humble presence in whatever capacity that circumstances dictate. It is not a means of braggadocio, but a realization that by being present in the moment, Without fanfare, without pomp, That we just may make a difference in one’s life, in ones circumstance. Do not take for granted, your day to day interactions, For at least one, may very well save a lamenting soul, Just by being present.
Black and Broken Roads Explorative elaborations, Explanation, In sight of spiritual awakenings. At times a sojourn, At times a rocky road; With victory and joy, With tribulation and broken compass. But north is north, And east is east. Blood is life, And life is fleeting, Exploration of mind and soul, The deeper meanings Exist and survive, In spite of Blind eye and broken cane. Each day, The joyous trumpet sounds, Melodic crescendo’s of life, The sounds of sweet serenities, Fall silent to a deaf man’s Soul. O, that he hears, But does not listen Due to hardened heart so cold “Tis the cause, and regret Of black and broken roads.
Branch to Branch O, those who bleed upon the page, with blood and ink and literate rage. Too free themselves of barbarous cage, and seek serenities’ abiding kiss... The miracle, the cure, the ink filled pill, poppin pushed pencil upon a window sill. Fodder and forage for the eye to glean, pristine moments rendered. Broken blenders, the chaotic whir, Stirred and stripped down to the basics. It’s all about the view. It’s all about perception. It’s all about a semblance of redemption. At times, self-serving rhetoric, Hey man, most of us are to some extent, It’s that “Maslow” thing. It’s that orangutan; swinging from branch to branch that we all call man.
Broken Keys I once stood at the dark gates of an abyss; playing with lock and latch. I took the time to survey its dark form. This gateway with bloody hinge, rusted with flesh and bone. I reasoned at the time, that I was the architect, the designer of this passage and in a way, I was. I had at least fashioned the key, a homemade escapade of foolishness, wrought on the irons of heartache’s beginnings. This beginning… aye, there is a story in itself, but best saved for another time. I look back now and recall those moments, when all seemed lost, when each movement for me was a feeble assertion at a masquerade of normal. When one lives in the extreme limits of Love, they are sure to fall, and fall hard. However, this is not really about then, it is about now and what I was able to glean from that experience. In the simplest of terms, from one who has been there… “It is not, nor ever will be that bad, where walking through that gate will ever be an option. Epiphany comes at the strangest times. Those moments of enlightenment come at the most important times in our lives. When our vulnerabilities open our minds and hearts to the reality and truth of things. The truth of our weaknesses. Such things pry open our eyes, unplug our ears, forcing us to hear and see the reality of our mistakes.
I would like to think that I am not a boastful man, however I am proud of my humility, Ha! If that makes any sense. Because if it were not for that, my eyes and ears would have stayed tightly shut, and I may have just taken the step through that dark opening. So maybe being proud of it is not the right term, grateful might be a better coinage to use here, for I am grateful for each and every day, each and every sunrise that God gifts to me. I claim no stake, no monopoly on heartache. It is a forgone fact that it exists in many lives. Our ability to rise above ourselves, to rise above our heartache and self-perpetrations. My message is that EACH of us have those strengths. We all have the ability to snap those keys off in the lock, rendering that horrific passage inoperative. A simple sunrise 20 plus years ago taught me this, allowed me to break my key and get to the business of living. Truth in the fact that my convictions, and my lessons are mine, not to be forced upon others, but simply shared with the sincerest of hopes that a light will come on for those in pain, just as it did for me.
Brookside Red cedars resting In dampened swale, Hidden from the wrath Of winter’s gale, Gray skies dancing, Pallored and pale, Waiting for sun And the butterfly’s Sail. Rippled brooks running In babbled mystery, Each stone within Has its own history. Ancient crumbled mountains, Washed in tears and gilded coins Of long lost summer ramblings, And the brook’s incessant journey.
Circles The difference between a square and a vicious circle, Is that the circle has no corners, no points of reference. Therefore, we tend to repeat our paths, again, and again, and again. What does it take, what tool to use, to break this thing, And fashion it into a compass point, that dial that shows the way? Away from calliope like undulations and sounds of repeated misery’s? These elements that make the circle. Find the tools to break this link, and straighten it, to forge at last, a point of direction. A point of preponderant fact, that places you upon the course of joy and happiness. It is not the world, nor others, That inflict these miseries. It is dysfunction’s orbit that dictates these things. Put asunder, This circular chaotic journey. Seek your course in humble reassessment. Seek those points of light and direction.
City Sidewalks The ability of able stability, fragility absent, reputedly present in the here and now. Chrome spokes singing with the ace of spades stuck therein with a close pin clicking in the wind. Narrow Michelins tearing up the sidewalks... Aint no pity for the skid row citified Dream walkers, night stalkers And harlot hawkers. Gawking news reels of the national mindset. Peering with one eye closed. Tight lipped, high nose. Bent toes kicking at the door of propriety. Busted locks and rusted hinges Blood soaked door knobs Dripping. Debutants sipping mindless tea, In gated sidewalk cafes. Wearing high branded hootchie shoes, And designed bags that a poor man could live for a month on. O it’s the cost, it’s all about the coin, The lack there of… too much of, not enough of, No love for the lost, therein lies the cost. Moral poverty abounds Deaf and dumb to the sounds of humanities cry.
CLANDESTINE CURIOSITY The calamity of clandestine curiosities; squirreled secretly away. In closed boxes and closed minds. Lignite finds of one’s illuminated self. Without this darkness, there can be no light. A journey in realms of reflective midnights, Bumping and banging into self-erected walls, until finally, they are torn asunder and the light of pure day is allowed to illuminate our dreams. And then, there are those who relish darkened rooms. Who sleep in the native dirt of their past, alas, entombed in slippery circles repeating same old masochistic songs. In deprecation’s fashion, they refuse to see their destined illuminations. Again, those gifted with physical sight, find themselves spiritually blind. Gifted with device to listen, yet, emotionally deaf. Each with a mirror, cracked and crazed, And behind the glaze, clandestine curiosity.
Constant Craving The constant craving of poetical ravings keeps me glued to this writer’s seat, New wave ideal verses real, slick, Ghinsbergian beat. Paddy whackin and words are stackin, like a manic Kurouacin true believer, Climb and summit and drummit down in rhythmic, four four time Upon altitude’s view of seen serenities in dreams and beams and white cotton seams stitched in the backs of great literary works I can taste it, the mustiness of an old book the knowledge dripping from its corners and all those dreams that placed them there.
Conversation during my 10 minute free write And as sad as that is, what control do we have? We live each day as if it I were our last, or at least try to. All too often we take for granted our very breaths, the beat of our hearts, that which allows us to live, and breathe, and carry on through life to experience the joys and sorrows that it has to offer and/or perpetrate. Each of us must carry on and live the life that has been allotted to us. This life our classroom, our deaths, the graduation, our doctorate, the gift of heaven. And if the winds of misfortune may blow, my peace shall be found in the gentle flap of peaceful doves, and God's call home...
December in the Meadow Snow dusted and serene, The rusting implements of the farmer’s trade, Resting in fields alongside rolling hill And frosted swale, Wood smoke rising above shuttered shires, A cold wind blows on this December eve. Bawling cattle, Crying like lonesome widows. Windows frosted, And for now, The hay rake put to rest.
December Resting On most days in December, Winter’s hand scratches at my windows and doors. It is reticent in telling me why it seeks entry. I fear it is a thief, one who seeks to invade and steal the warmth of my hearth. But today, it has vanished, and in its stead, its sister falls in all her sodden glory, She brings with her just less than balmy air, still, with a chilled kiss… The animals sense that Winter is (for the moment) busy with other things. Advantage taken to harvest seeds and nuts and such. Overcast sky, the watcher of Winter’s return, Her pawl of gray hangs low and boils in altitudinal winds. And geese, who do not fall fool to the trick of Winter’s absent hand, Sing their journey’s song, seeking the warm caress of southern fields.
Distant Echoes Those far off distant voices of yesterday, At times, can still be heard. They are the echoes within my memory. The realities of different times The lessons of my youth The heartaches and joys of yesterday, Yes, yesterday. Sounds and songs molded, to make me… shape me in to who I am now. They are never silent, Always there, Echoing, Those far off distant voices, Like the slave in Caesar’s ear, Reminding me of humility, And the fall that comes after pride. The distant echoes, at times cacophonic. Warnings of sorts, Where I check my perch on pride And humble myself to the humility’s Silken embrace of non-circumspection. Those far off distant voices, They remind me of who I am, And where my journey began. A lone traveler, Seeking the songs Of distant echoes.
Dusted Road I journeyed down a dusted road, high summer’s heat abiding, The dust devils dance from side to side, in rhythm with cicada’s rale… And the golden hawks sail on thermals high, rising, to meet a topaz sky. And the white noise rustle of cattail’s dance, dancing alongside a dusted road… Honeysuckle blooms, that catch the nose, O to lay under, in sweet repose, and dream of all the days like these, Along a summer dusted road.
Farewell the Coins of Summer Delicately withdrawn, Gently pulled in windswept, northern grasp. Summer’s soliloquy So sad, Trees drop umber tears of farewell and mourning. Adorning the pawl of that season’s final resting place. Those who cannot bear the thought, Depart on Southern wings, Trying to chase those sun cast coins, And warm, abiding winds. O blustery eve of winter’s grasp, Sing your songs of umber tear, And let these coins of summer, Peacefully fade away.
Fissures of Men These fissures of Men, Deep, dark, Devoid of light and grace. The only spark of passion revealed, The flash of death from belching muzzles. Angered hate in eye for eye, Competing to see, Who the first is to die. Yes, Chasms black, Deep and cold “Tis no place For the heart to abide. Siege laid unto ourselves When fissures as these Are left to spread, When all that are left Are the dying and the dead. And in glories engrained We sing the refrains of Cause and bannered flags. And bury them in Heroes graves And widen the chasms again.
Winter’s Embrace The long, silent whispers of Summer, have finally faded. Drifted into the sleep of Winter’s embrace. It’s as though the fields have forgotten her. Sacrosanct in their indifference and frosted expanse. Instead of balmy breeze, Winter’s hand falls, with a strong and opinionated wind. The pawl of gray sky, wanders lethargic, drifts didactic-less. Always falling short of a Poet’s expectation. Herein lie the bones of Autumn, and Summers forgotten, an open grave of snowy reclusiveness. I wait for the moment of Sun’s return, And the caress of Summer’s lips upon my brow. Fashioned and festooned in gloried greens and yellows. Let me sing a soliloquy for Winter’s early end. To celebrate its passing, and welcome spring back once again.