September rolls around again,
Brings hope of November rain.
Seasons cycle through the year,
Warm winds signal Fall is here.
Though we sigh of summer gone by,
Love we thought would never die,
Warm days under the hot sun,
Joy-filled with vacation fun.
Welcome Autumn, patterns so well-known,
Multicolored leaves off trees wind-blown,
Ripe pears, acorns dropping to the ground,
Squirrels, deer and turkeys gathering ‘round.
Patterns of the season, same as every year,
Patterns to us so familiar and dear.
And yet, not the same
A new game.
Lake is low,
Ill winds blow.
For days and days.
Runs among us.
Pattern is torn
We are worn.
And we cry.
But, remember, humans always cope,
And they never, ever quite lose hope.
They find space to play and sing and dance
In the most direst of circumstance.
This long year will run its course,
This vile virus lose its force,
Patterns dear for which we yearn
They will in due course return.
But not the same game as before,
A new and different pattern is in store.
And it will neither be better nor worse,
But just life’s river on a new course.
And we will adjust,
Because we must.
The Day the Sun Didn’t Rise
Stayed in bed.
Later, still dark.
Checked the clock:
Looked out window:
Dark red sky.
Where was the sun?
Sent smoke our way.
But we went on
Drinking our coffee,
Eating a croissant,
Reading the paper,
We turn to the ospreys
Comforted by their seasonal patterns:
Arrive, fix up nest, mate
Lay eggs, raise chicks, migrate.
The same every year.
There are glitches:
Unseasonal storm, chick dies
But they take it all in stride,
Returning always to the pattern,
They accept life
Belief of one sort or another is a primal need,
It provides solace, certainty, security and hope.
Belief once found its major refuge in religion,
In time belief abandoned aging religion for science,
And science will remain its domicile for a while.
Belief found fertile ground in religion and then in science.
When host again is spent, where will belief next find its shelter?
A Pious Hope
Has today for far too many
Become a tedious torturous experience,
A source of pain, fear and boredom,
A place from which escape is necessary.
Has become our Shangri-La,
The gift of our Electronics Age,
A source of delight and novel diversion
A place that's sedating us to death.
Our reality is a trying ordeal,
Our faux reality's a mortal intoxicant,
Neither's a fit habitat for humans
And both must yield to a better reality.
Our ruthlessly competitive thing-centered world
And our world of analgesic distraction
Must give way to sanity and humanity,
To a community of thoughtful brothers and sisters,
Of humans content and at peace with one another,
Where want is met and life's a joyful adventure.
A pious hope, perhaps--but hope it is!
An Enigmatic Species
We think too little,
Love too little,
Give too little,
And talk too much.
We work too much,
Waste too much,
Protest too much
And know too little.
We're ever restless
And quickly bored.
We're an enigma,
Up to the best
And given to the worst.
Leaves we are,
Blown by the wind,
Burned by the sun
And lost in the night.
Epigrams by JM
Small problems with small solutions
Obviate big problems with no solutions.
Questions are no less informative than answers.
Expectations are our doing and our undoing.
Patterns are both our salvation and our damnation.
Píccola says: When hot, I seek shade. When tired, I find a bed. When worried or in need, I find my people. When they're gone, I go into my cave. I do not worry. And when they return, I am so happy.
Autumn from Vivaldi's Four Seasons.
Calming classical music for a troubled season.
September: Patterns Broken