Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘October’

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go,
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost –
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

 

Read Full Post »

21624063354_217c9db89a_o

In trees I walked at Smoky’s feet,
And calm the forest floor.
‘Twas late October and the leaves
All Autumn’s colors wore.

It rained a bit the night before,
And though the earth was damp,
My shoes did not pick up the mud
While on my silent tramp.

The fallen leaves well-paved my path;
They made a yellow way
That Dorothy’d been proud to walk
In Oz in her brief stay.

The leaf-laid carpet and that trail
‘Twas all my eyes could see,
The forest closed out all the world
And I was cloistered, free.

There was a great serenity
With Nature as I walked.
I listened as my soft steps fell,
And as the forest talked.

I passed a stream; it gurgled peace,
Caught drops of last night’s rain –
A few that fin’lly fell – but why?
(The reason not yet plain.)

I saw another mystery;
It struck me as most odd.
A leaf, then two, came floating down
As slow as turtles plod.

I saw then, out among the trees,
One here, another there.
First glance, they seemed like butterflies
With wings in disrepair.

They did not scurry, did not slant;
Their vertical was straight,
As if they were a dropping stone –
And yet they had no weight.

I took the line of their descent;
Gazed upward where the trees
All disappeared from sight by height –
And then I saw the breeze!

And then I knew why raindrops fell
When there was no more mist,
And why the leaves were shaken loose
But fell without a twist.

How isolated I felt then!
The world was not about.
And now I knew that Nature, too,
E’en Nature had shut out.

Like spiders coming down a strand,
The leaves did downward crawl.
And watching their descent I knew
Why men call Autumn, Fall.

——————————-

The photo is mine and was taken in Smoky Mt. National Park.

——————————-

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

Read Full Post »

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
or insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys.
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair –
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin –
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all –
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all –
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep…tired…or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and faster, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet – and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all” –
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That was not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor –
And this, and so much more? –
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, or was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous –
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old…I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Read Full Post »

Celebrating National Everything Day

October took a toll on me in ev’ry way.
Each cause had its brief moment and each dog his day.
Columbus Day I celebrated, and a yea
I gave to Techies, teachers when they, too, held sway.
I feted bosses, elderly, the UN – they
Were easier than the mother-in-law hooray.
I feasted on dessert, bologna – drank frappe;
To feast still more – on nuts and eggs – a wide array:
On pumpkin cheesecake, pasta, and a mincemeat tray.
Before I golfed and babbled, took the time to weigh
And then, without a beard, I named my car Jose
And gave it to a hermit as his praise and his time’s pay.
But after lauding moles and navy, too, I’m gray,
And have decided that I’ll take a rest, gourmet,
My Personal I’m-Tired-Of-Celebrating-Day.

 

——————————————————————– 

http://holidayinsights.com/moreholidays/october.htm

——————————————————–

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

 

Read Full Post »


Jack-O-Lantern

Jack!  Oh, Jack!
Jack!  Are you here, Jack?
I’ve lost Jack!

——————–

 

Earthquake Zone

Notice the
San Andreas fault
In tire tracks.

——————–

 

The Whole Maple Race

Each one comes
In his own color.
All – beauty!

———————

Jack – photo by Nick Pye at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/meLyJNG/Pumpkins

Earthquake – photo by Adrian van Leen at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nKbDt6a/sandtracks4

Maple Race – photo by Martyn E. Jones at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mvmLTTw/Colours+of+Maple+syrup

———————

* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/

———————-

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.

Read Full Post »