Fall Poems

Well, I've written some more seasonal poems. The first two are new. Without purposely setting out for it, I've been playing with enjambment recently, where the line breaks happen in unexpected places that create new meanings when read on the page.


The Angel Statue
A crowd is a lonely place to linger
in the corner, expecting conversation.
That’s why I slip out the front door
unnoticed, to walk down the street,
to meet a friend between the moon
and the fleeting car lights.

Here in the open I am heard
and I hear: the twilight raking of leaves,
the child whistling out the window
and the truck backing out of the driveway.
If I too could escape, perhaps someone
would notice the silence I left.

Piles of rustling leaves line the road,
that and I kick, and my shadow
kicks with me at the angel statue
with stone wings and cold hands,
away from where the lamps give color
to dying trees and mailboxes.

But there are no letters waiting; no angels
wait by this egocentric door, only empty
cars, like discarded shells. My shadow
catches my breath, and we withdraw
before I take in the lights left on,
before my feathered outline falls silent.

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Not sure of my own feelings on this one. I both like and it and I wonder if it's confusing, which I don't like. And it might be slightly confusing because I'm unsure also of my own feelings towards the narrator: I sympathize with him/her, and yet I wonder if it might be partially his/her fault. I think the poem is leaning towards the latter.

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The Long Fall
When wind shakes the sunset
trees, leaves cast off into the ash
sky, like south-flying birds.

The leaves are as crows
against the clouds, but soon spiral
down into gold, silver, and bronze,

an unstill rain of red and brown,
like a soldier, falling for the last
time. I paw at each chance flake

to catch what’s left
of this long season.

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I enjoyed writing this one. I did the first stanza in my head, thinking I might make it into a haiku, but decided against it. This poem, I believe, sets a mood, more than it does anything else.

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Zen Garden
I do not know much about rock gardens
or the care spent raking tiny cream-colored stones.
I have stood before the untouchable edge and felt peace.
I have imagined it a container of wisdom
from which I could drink, but never enter in.

Being born with good ears, I wouldn’t call it silent.
The breeze is singing through the stooping bonsais,
and as I listen, two scarlet leaves wander into the garden,
led by the wind to meet their mother’s embrace,
while elsewhere wooden boards creak beneath footsteps.

Has the Zen lifted because of this Autumn drift?
I believe that perception is required to answer,
for after all this, when a Spangled Butterfly rests on a tall rock
and spreads his orange wings, like a book being opened,
would I say that “less is more?”

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I wrote this poem several years back. I can't remember now if I started it at my Japanese Summer Camp, or after visited the most famous Zen Garden in Japan (My MacBook came with this Zen Garden as a default wallpaper). Either way, the imagined scene and the final question still intrigue me.

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The Weeping Kind
Sitting on a park bench and throwing bread to mallards,
I overhear a child ask his mother
what would happen if he jumped from the top of the tree.
The response is immediate.
She says he’ll die.
This tree is the weeping kind;
its branches form such an innocent slide of leaves to the ground
that a child might believe he would never fall through.
But those who cry have already fallen.
Something is lost in the transition.
Innocence withers like leaves at the end of autumn
and the feelings of safety from an inner home die with it.

So many of us are crying in hidden ways.
The trees are shedding leaves in the aching wind.
The strains of the violinist come from beside the pond
over which these trees weep.
The walkers stop to listen, connect,
and close their eyes for a moment.
We are escapists, always moving away from pain.
I lose myself in the wind skimming water
and temporarily forget my responsibilities
and the things I can’t control.
We don’t want the memories, dreams, or happiness to leave us
or the questions and answers to fade.
So the child asks his mother again
what would happen if he jumped from the tree to the pond.
She said he’d still die.
It seems we can’t escape it.

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This poem is old, but I still think it needs some revision. That being said, I like the images and the overall shock feel of the poem.

Well, hope you enjoyed these poems. I'll post some Thanksgiving-specific poems on Thursday.