4th Friday-October, 2016
Once a month, about forty to sixty authors and listeners gather together in a conference room at “The Lodge” in Sequim, WA listening for an hour and a half to readings of prose and poetry. The authors have five minutes of uninterrupted time to read aloud their works. Applause is generous and since many of us are seniors, there is a level of gracious awareness for less than perfect delivery. Many of the readings are from life experiences gleaned around the world working on pipelines, sailing, military maneuvers, battling forest fires, breaking horses, treks into the wildernesses of by-gone days, heart-break romances, kidnappings, etc. shared with tearful or maybe belly-laughing descriptions and clarity of thought. Some readers are published authors, others who just do it for the pleasure. We welcome young readers, too, and I admire and am humbled by their talents.
What follows is my “Play List” for this Friday. Since my name was drawn but I didn’t get called due to lack of time at the September reading, I get to be among the first to read on the next 4th Friday. Mine tend to be theme-based and this group is about autumn. I’d like to try out my experimental Triune of Haikus, a threesome of haikus centered around a subject or season. From the following poems, I will read perhaps five with maybe a haiku if the 5 Minute Bell hasn’t sounded. These poems are all new to Writers of the Spit but regular readers of this blog or my public Facebook page may find some of them familiar; however, most have been reworked.
Play List – 10/16
“An Awakening unto Autumn”
What colors you ask?
I’d say rust and amber…
for I no longer carry red inside
to enrich generations unborn.
Rust, the stain of oxidizing iron,
the central molecule of blood
and amber, the color phase of youth
before the ivory of age.
Rust and amber
mineral and resin
releasing and encapsulating
awakening muses of poetry.
Shaken loose by autumn’s gales,
washed with copious rain drops,
apples and pears lie strewn upon the ground;
the tang of their sweet fermentation fills the air
reminiscent of a champagne cider
but melancholy plucks my heart strings,
for even Indian Summer must end
when winter signals its approach on the distant mountain tops.
“The Weaver Archetype”
The Weaver spins the mythos of our lives,
into tapestries rich with sensual awareness;
from our nightly dreams and daily visions
she plucks wistful strands, hopeful strands,
stringing them on looms
framed by our personal stories;
she threads them with silvery rivers and creeks
from tears shed, joys shared;
she weaves colored strands into sunrises, sunsets,
fields of wildflowers under brilliant blue skies
embellished with smiles and laughter;
she weaves evocative poetry
into breezes carrying exotic aromas
of cedar and cottonwood, a sagebrush prairie;
she weaves vibrational thread sounds into the music
of birdsong and quivering aspen leaves;
the rhythms of movement and the passage of time
into dance and labor;
taste into sweet, ripened fruits
and the comfort of a full belly;
touch into safety and a loving embrace;
and she also weaves in threads
of tolerance to language and habits
amid humans diverse in culture, nature and form
all sharing a greater mythos journey;
from birth until death, the Weaver watches over us
helping to weave our destinies into living tapestries
full of potential, beauty, gratitude…
and she waits for us at death’s door catching our last out breath
spinning it into the mythos of our new incarnation
along the spiraled path.
“Grandmother Cedar and the Lilliputians”
Behind a living screen of shrubbery and brambles
Grandmother Cedar remains at rest
becoming one with her wetland community.
A gigantic spiraling opened running her full length
exposing wooden flesh to the elements
when she collapsed onto the silty, storm-drenched river soils.
Inherently armed blackberry canes hold her steadfast with
Lilliputian diplomacy; their slender vines exploring Grandmother’s trunk
with territorial rights to festoon clusters of purpling summer fruits.
The matriarch’s displacement from the skyline not noticed
save by eagle and raven seeking her familiar snag top
and the wandering soul coming to offer prayers.
Imagine dusk ascending the mountains
becoming the backdrop for the valley filling in
with mists and haze, the smell of burning leaves.
“Autumn Triune of Haikus”
A wet, sodden leaf
assisted by gravity
onto ground below.
Litter piling up,
enrichment of soil.
“Frost Fairies” Haiku
With frigid fingers
frost fairies nip autumn’s fare,
the chill has begun.
“Evidence of Change” Haiku
Wind changed directions,
red rose petals south of fence
yellow on north side.
Thank you and for more of my work join me at https://www.facebook.com/patriciamay.demarco
May your journeys be filled with beauty and your walk peaceful.