Here are some revisions on a few poems that previously appeared on this blog. By next week I should get my creativity back on schedule.
On Autumn Rides
SHINE light through mists and pedal into bliss,
Rise with the sun, ride out beside someone;
Admire the fall day from the road, then rest
In mounds of colored leaves dried by the sun;
Repair the rubber of a flat with ease,
Then back on the saddle to ride some more;
You’ll crest each hill, and pedal into dells
With quick speed downhill; you’ll let yourselves soar,
Wildly soar, wheels spinning through the trees,
Until you reach the farmland’s flat release,
And feel the breeze o’erwhelm your winded selves.
Who hasn’t heard the crunch of frosty hoar?
When Summer’s sunny days with haste unwind
To leave the ground a frozen slippery floor,
Thy tires quick-sliding through a harrowing bend;
While struggling through the undulating wheat,
Push’d back by wind’s cool whisper, when a look
Spots the quick flash before thunder glowers:
In moments when the weather dries the street
Surface and sun breaks through the storm’s loud hook;
Then finding that tail-wind, and downhill crook,
One glidests then with ease for hours and hours.
Why must the storm come now? Why, why today?
Think not of it, there’s still so much for you, –
As tree’d isles burst from fog-morning day,
Caressing shimmer-seas with emerald hue;
Breathe in the fresh-cut grass-scent slowly warmed
Beyond the frosted furrows, let it waft
In sweetly and blend with the salty tide;
When ravens cry to clouds and small gnats swarm;
Cold lovers cling; and now in blankets soft
They gather wordless in a cozy loft;
Sharing a cider at each others’ side.
Languish on the limpid
dermis of a lake,
Beyond the silk moon’s gaze
and skeletons of trees:
Ten thousand forgotten faces.
When he died so died my creativity, taken by a thief
Of mourning. I still tried, but each thought seemed tired and old.
Once shimmering prospects evinced fool’s gold.
Grandpa’s eyes glimmer through mine to remind me of the brief
Bright before the fall. When disbelief
Slipped in to shatter a once-bold
Boy, muses scattered from a fresh-dug tomb, uncontrolled,
And my dripping eyes let dreams slip in the grip of grief.
How long to embrace this urge to erase
Each written line? Smothered light searches for a slit
To shine through, but I’m locked in place:
A stasis where inspiration fades and I can’t get
To the details. Left for naught, not ready to face
For years: no way to write it out or choose not to omit.