Some mornings I take
my everything for
a walk… my shadow is
tall in a sunrise, reaches
to the West, excited and
hopeful for the coming day.

At noon, everything
shrinks inward,
embarrassed in the glare
of noonday sun.
Finding respite in being
very close and small.

And in the sunsetting
evening, rising up
tall and proud, it looks
away, to the East
longing for the day
to continue, to extend life.

At night shadow is of
artificial design, and
schizophrenic. There is
little purpose or direction,
except to wait and hope
for the clarity of day.

Then comes the fog,
which makes everything
hard to  discern,
like a grainy yesterday
photo of forever, found
languishing in a drawer.

Loss comes with the rain,
when the clouds bring
tears to clean the
Earth of shadow. It
can feel as if the Sun of day
may never shine again.

But the rains cannot last,
for the Flowers need the
Sun too, and they are
beautiful and life finds
a way to hold onto its
everything shadow.

For without it, life
is nothing.

Fall back maybe for the last time
as the church bells begin to chime.

Fall back for the birds who listen
to the sun, as fish flash and glisten.

Fall back or last future forward springs
tells us nothing of what nature brings.

Fall back for counting careful the seasons
why such measures? What are our reasons?

The world would scarcely notice us
when we no longer fiddle and fuss

over things like measuring time of day
or weeks, months, or length of a stay.

For this moment let’s fall back into our own time,
listening reverently to nature’s rhythm and rhyme.

I thought of an outlandish story
would be just what’s needed for
All Saints Eve, Halloween.

I thought of invented bizarre and
unexpected horrors and people
being manipulated and maimed.

But then I realized it’s all been
done before, there are no horrors
which have yet to see the light of day.

There are no terrors which have
not played out in the minds of men
in the darkness of night.

Devised and deployed tragedy
scares, suffering and sorrows,
continuous part of our histories.

We seem to need these evil
tricks in order to appreciate
times of joy and treats.

Is it no surprise what we
invent in our minds about
all others is born of distrust?

For we are products of our
own conspiratorial inventions
and collected experienced sorrows.

We should carve these into
our pumpkins of the moment
and leave them to rot and decay.

Toss them out and find our
joys and our loves and be
done with horrors and pain.

In the aftermath may we find
the good in all of us, for we may
all be sinners, and also all saints.

A word my fingers just found
in my head becomes a sound.

A thought not quite of full and form
like clouds yet to coalesce into a storm.

To get to “idea” there’s a ladder to climb
for a thought which is yet to be mine.

And there it goes, it was in my head
for a moment, now nothing instead.

Another popped, based on something heard
but also fleeting as a song, of a passing bird.

And this is how a poet sits down to write
when all seems an ephemeral flash of light.

So don’t bother wondering what’s on my mind
for, if you look there’ll be nothing here to find.

Around me you say to look —
the world is going to hell,
the climate has changed,
lovers of democracy have
become lovers of populist
autocracy, and there is
inflation, costing us more,
and crime costing the most,
and dictators making war.

As the ripples of words echo,
becoming rings in my coffee
and the aroma tickles my
brain gently and warmly
I hold tight my little
mug of peaceful-moment,
and all that matters, is to
taste the earth and water,
doing only what I can do.

There’s dangerous climate change,
there’s politicians stupid and strange.
There’s the horrors and death in war,
there’s those of dire needs to ignore.

There’s rights diminished and trampled,
there’s twisted surveys being sampled
for the sake of purported fight for right,
and for power which hides from the light.

And yet we live and love, build and yearn
for a better life we’ve done little to earn
by our social contract to one another
As we take from our sister and brother.

We know not what we’ve done in this age
of wealth, as we’ve turned into a sea of rage.
I fear we will drown each other in a roiling sea,
if we don’t help each other be the best we can be.

We must find reason in our heart and mind
returning to a world safer and far more kind,
where compassion and understanding reigned
and power for power sake is forever disdained.

There is something magical
about changing seasons
the cool leading to cold.

The Northern Hemisphere
bending away in fall, then bowing
toward the sun in the spring.

Witness the vast climate change
in such a slight difference
in distance to our star.

How blessed we are to
be in this just right distance
from a stable burning star.

To experience an abundance
of life, to have the ability
to understand this reality.

Or may this be a random event,
as we find ourselves on a planet
wobbling a few degrees.

To also enjoy the fortune of
an android strike, which
gave the planet to us mammals.

And the vast time to develop
as sentient beings who can
understand how this all can be.

A blessing or an accident
matters not so much, but
that we appreciate our gift.

We appreciate the delicate
just right conditions for us
to witnessed the seasons.

We should take care of
such a wondrous gift, thinking
about it a little each day.

As we enjoy our seasons,
our blessings, our just
right gift of life.

Violently shaking the leaves
portend their end, the trees will 
lose to the winds of future winter.

Violently we too will be shaken, 
challenging our resolve, and the reasoned
may lose to the winds of the extreme.

A coming  winter of brutal coldness
and harshness, these changes will be
unfair and deadly to the unfortunate.

We are destined to see these things,
as the powerful take dry weaken leaves
and build a fire to keep themselves warm.

But have faith for a spring of hope
where we are awakened to fight
for our right to grow and prosper.

And in the end we’ll sweep away winter
along with the ashes of fascism, as once before,
replacing it with a new summer of freedom.  

Likely you’re reading via the convenience
of your phone, while I enjoy the largess
of my computer screen, and the
convenience of my keyboard
to write these musings.

I never spell ‘convenience’ correctly,
until just now because the computer
conveniently corrected the ‘convenience’
In the stanza above and thus it was super
convenient to have a properly spelled ‘convenience’.

It is a funny word, as you say to someone
“call me at your convenience,”
meaning…  I’m not as busy
or important as you and I’ll happily await your reply,
even though it may be inconvenient to me.

Or, if you are a Brit, a convenience might mean
a toilet, which by now,… may be exactly
where you’d like to convey this musing, but if not
so inclined, I hope you find my musing
conveniently in reach of some thought
or another.