Tag Archives: seasons

Lughnassad

Summer’s bent and turned to gray,
his heat begins to wend;
in these dog days of decline
his smolder finds its end.

Now the lad with darkened locks,
his heart born full of ice,
begins again to wax in strength
and plot the sacrifice

of the green and winsome king
whose fires consume and warm;
in the shadows, winter brews
its months of snow and storm.

From the fields, sun’s regent walks
among the first-born sheaves;
in their surrender lies his bounty.
Soon, the turning leaves

will announce his kingship ended,
and that fateful siege
when his lance will be unmended
and a new crowned liege

will ascend the season’s throne
to lull the world to sleep
through the gray and bitter months,
when the sun must creep

at a distance, as the world
lies fallow until spring,
and the Sun will claim once more
its green and leafy King.

Summer’s step is not so sure
past each year’s Lammas eve;
mere months mark the lifespan
of the king. But do not grieve:

in the womb of winter’s deep,
the cold new king will sow
the sunlight spark that will in time
defeat again the snow.

01 AUG 2005

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Critical Path

July is gone, and the pecans
have now begun to set
on the old tree along the bayou;
sometimes, we forget
the simple things that mark the seasons.

We’ve no need of clocks
or calendars. Whatever reasons
we invent to block
the infinite expanse of time
into convenient lengths
quite often rob us of our prime
and downplay our great strengths:
such as the art of observation,
which serves to remind
us that the root of our frustration
is failure to find
the purpose for our human lives
in seeking power and might,
whereby our cause alone survives,
and therefore is proved right.

That humans are endowed with minds,
foremost, and only minor brawn,
should give us pause, and some new kind
of goal to focus on:
like seeking prominence through thought,
and sharing of that wealth
by proving wrong what we are taught
that profits just ourselves.

for R. Buckminster Fuller

31 JUL 2005

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Dividing Up the Blame

Wind blowing through a courtyard
Shattered windows turn their broken eyes on me
Blind, can’t see the street because I’m crying
for my soul is in the gutter, trying to find release

Is there something on that wall?
Looks like some writing on it, it says
Just six more hours until the dawn
Then you can crawl back where you came from

Some sin, something I can’t remember
Memory’s the enemy shot down on these streets of love
Lost, in the battle, in the fighting
for my soul, an empty victory in a war that does not cease

Is that someone up ahead?
Looks like a friend of mine, who said
“You won’t stay warm without the wine,”
and passed right back into oblivion

Oh won’t you give me something for the pain
I can’t stand another night out in the rain
Please don’t call it charity, but help me just the same
While I’m waiting for the jury who are out right now
Dividing up the blame.

Spending my time searching for nothing
To add it to the nothing that I own
Spending my last dime on a bottle
So I won’t spend this night alone

Wind, blowing cold against my body
Shuttered windows turn their sunken eyes on me
Blind, seeing nothing but the nothing
in my soul, an empty shadow where an angel used to be

Is that something up ahead?
Looks like a fire burning.
Pull up a chair and throw it in
It’s six more hours until the morning

Oh won’t you give me something for the pain
I can’t stand another night out in the rain
Please don’t call it charity, but help me just the same
While I’m waiting for the jury, who are out right now
Dividing up the blame.

You say I’m guilty
I say you’re guilty
We’re all guilty
If no one’s guilty.

1991

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Season’s Crossroads

Wouldn’t know it from the weather,
but the summer’s almost gone.
Those lazy early days have faded,
though the swelter lingers on;
and the memory of the schoolyard
has begun to slip away
as if lessons barely ended
prove you know something today

Wouldn’t know it, ‘cept the calendar
is near another page.
Each checkmark by a number
signifies another stage,
and another blue sky faded
slowly into dappled gray.
All the colors run together;
only darkness will remain.

At the crossroads of the seasons
you can only stand so long
before something calls you onward:
something yearning, something strong;
there is nothing left a body here to do,
except believe in a miracle or two.

Wouldn’t know it from the weatherman,
but autumn’s closing in.
Though the dog days are still coming,
they will grow weary and thin;
and the sunny joys of summer
that you thought were here to stay
will be covered in the green leaves
that you sit under today.

At the crossroads of the seasons
you pick your point of return;
and pretend your new direction shows
you things you need to learn.
But there is nothing much to do beyond just ride,
and believe you’ll come out on the other side.

21 JUN 2005

for Pete Ham

If you’ve ever listened to much Badfinger, you know who Pete Ham was – lead singer, guitarist and primary songwriter for the group who wrote, among other things, Without You, which was much more successfully recorded by Harry Nilsson and recently again by Mariah Carey. He committed suicide in 1975.

My favorite song of his is called “Perfection”:

There is no real perfection
There’ll be no perfect day
Just love is our connection
The truth in what we say

There’s no good revolution
Just power changing hands
There is no straight solution
Except to understand

So listen to my song, of life
You don’t need a gun, or a knife
Successful conversation,
will take you very far

There is no real perfection
There’ll be no perfect man
Just peace is our connection
For giving all you can

There’s no good kind of killing
Just power taking life
It’s all good blood that’s spilling
To make a bigger knife

So listen to my song, of life
You don’t need a gun, or a knife
Successful conversation,
can take you very far

(c) 1971 Pete Ham

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Midsummer’s Night

Again the axis ceases its slow spin,
and slides across the rachet to reverse;
the day and night become each other’s twin,
and spheres align across the universe.

In this time, when the veil between the worlds
is thin and day admits its fleeting hold
on time and space, the fabric is uncurled,
and often there are wonders to behold.

Midsummer’s Night — when faeries hold their court,
and light the sky in firefly delight,
when what seems unreal masquerades, for sport,
as hard and fast reality. You might

believe on other days the world is so
wrapped in logic, that its soul is dead;
but in this moonlight, if you dance, you’ll know
the world as it might be; and then, instead

of crying for the would and could have beens,
in vain lamenting your loss of control,
you might let go the world of only seems
and see, for once, the real, the true, the whole.

20 JUN 2005

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The summer in New Orleans melts

The summer in New Orleans melts
ambition from your bones;
and inspires dreams of northern climes,
of much more temperate zones

where flowers last a day or two
before they start to wilt,
and the ground does not suck ravenous
at water where it’s spilt,

where saunas are a novelty.
Here, one does not require
expensive redwood boxes built
just so you can perspire.

The air fights you at every breath;
it’s thick, and wet and hot,
and lays to waste wrought iron,
turns all exposed wood to rot.

The oh-so-languid pace of winter
here gets slower still;
expect no summer revolutions
in this fetid swill.

17 JUN 2005

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The Swarm

Like whirling dervishes they congregate
around the bright lit porches and streetlamps,
their bodies hurling like mad wax-winged clouds
that seek where water meets with tender wood.
Against their onslaught, darkened houses crouch
low to the earth, hoping their bones are dry
enough to seem less tempting to this horde,
and seem to hold their breath ’til it swarms by.
They even chase cars down the wood-lined streets,
as if those headlamps led like piper’s notes
to glens and forests filled with hardwood trunks
where they could feast for endless hours in peace.

From block to block they travel, seeking out
a damp and fetid place where food is near;
and then, when night’s ink blots the grey of dusk
they fold their wings, crawl off and disappear.

It’s said they follow, blind, a rebel queen
who must split from her family or die;
to save the kingdom as it grows in size,
each daughter takes a legion to the skies.
Their soldier’s stomachs fill along their trail,
from Pontchartrain uptown to Magazine;
through live oak and great cypress-covered streets
destruction marks the way that they have been.
Where they’ve encamped, the kindling’s turned to dust;
at just a touch great beams and walls collapse,
while parque floors and Quarter ceilings flake
away to skeletons and fire traps.

Tonight the window lamps are left at dim.
The armies of Formosans are astir;
and woe to those whose timber lies beneath
the echo of that hungry cassion’s whir.

26 May 2005

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