Meditation for 11-28

As November sits down to a vast banquet full of all the goodies imaginable, she feels a twinge of pain. She does her level best to ignore it; the feast is what she has desired for a long time. But the pain becomes unbearable as the banquet progresses; she knows what it is, but she does not want to admit it. The guests are concerned with her appearance. They wonder why she is so wan. But November knows; the pangs of her travail have come upon her, too early, much too early. A prolonged labor is not desirable, but it is here.

She knows not whether she will survive the birthing, she knows not whether it will be natural or if she will have to undergo a Cesarean. All she know is that it hurts now...

She knows her family history, however; the birth always results in death. Hastily, she pens a final directive, instructions for her people and for her child.

She scrawls the following words: "My child, I may never see you. I wish you to be named December. May your life be filled with glory and the wonder which I have not known. Be kind to the people. I was not as kind as I could have been. It was an enormous error on my behalf. If I do not get to see you, I beg you to be happy, to love those around you, and to live every day as though it were your last. Fill your heart with love, as love never dies. I love you, my child."

Now, she waits for dusk...and for the darkness to settle.


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The time of the season

With a sinister chuckle, Autumn reaches out to the south and touches it with her icy fingers. As if she wants to say, "I'm still here, and I still rule," she ices the air to the best of her weak power in the southern lands. She still fails to nullify the latitude; the south returns her evil chuckle with a sarcastic laugh of its own.

Autumn is co-regent with the night, but she doesn't mind; it... forces the area to abide by her rules, to adjust to her patterns, to accept the occasional nightly chill. She accepts this small victory and might be able to hold her sway over the area if the conditions are right. It remains to be seen if the sky remains in its dark shroud or if the winds manage to draw back the curtains and let the sun into the room.

Autumn may be a flake, a weakling in the south, but she is no fool. She'll get the most out of her short reign, in whatever way she can.

 

 

 

From my Forthcoming book, Meditations of an Old Man

Waving farewell to September

September gasps joyfully at the burst of color, despite a prolonged labor with her child, October. She fully realizes that this will be the last colorful tableau that she will see and is saddened by this fact, yet she has great joy that October will carry on the Tradition of the family of months, the family of time.

She understands that her time is brief, that her moments are fleeting, skipping away from her like a joyful child.

She knows, too, that her child's time will also be brief. It has always been that way. It shall remain that way. It is the will of the fates.

As she cries out in pain over the last few hours, her joy will become a peak higher than Everest, stretching out beyond the edge of the solar system...For she knows, too, that upon her death and Child's reign, that next year she shall be reborn...a little older, A little wiser...but with the same fate.

The birds bow their heads in grateful thanksgiving...and continue their journeys.


Enjoy the season.  Times is fleeting, and unlike September, the time which goes does not return.

     ====AS I SEE IT=====

I still love poetry.

As many of you have discovered, I am a poet.  I love poetry in almost all forms.  Some I don't understand, so I find it hard to include it on my list.
I love the rhymes, the meters,   I love a good limerick, and naked verses were the first type I did...in a journal, anyway.

This morning gave rise to another.

The morning of the twenty-third,
I heard a silent cry.
"I know that sound," I quietly mused.
"Something had to die."

It was early morning
the sun not yet on the rise.
The night was dark, the stars were out,
but the moon was in disguise.

I opened my door and went outside
while I held my breath,
hoping, somehow, to shield myself
from the prominent smell of death.

But the air was clean and sweet
on this dark and cool night.
But what of the sound, the cry I heard?
Could I have not been right?

The silent cry I heard again.
To find the source, I glanced around.
I saw a single, reddened leaf,
floating gently to the ground.

But in my apprehension,
I felt a twinge of grief...
Could I have really heard the death cry
of a single leaf?

A breeze blew softly through the branches
but with nary another sound
More of the leaves broke off a branch
And floated to the ground.

I realized, then, what I had heard,
It wasn't a leaf's cry.
It was the final cry of summer:
Summer had to die.

As we pass, like Earth, through seasons,
passing swiftly like a fly....
Let's appreciate our summer --
Because our summer, too, has to die.