The Ache Returns
Oh, I feel autumn's ache
as that next season nears.
My loneliness awakes,
and hope gives way to fears.
I feel the ache growing
as "w" months rear
their ugly, approaching,
gnarled hands that took my dear.
Of, if only this ache
would sleep or disappear.
Springs or summers I'd take
to hold love's mem'ry near.
Frosty Reception
The world's colors explode
In a final gasp of variegated warning
Of the great cleansing of hues
And blanching of what was
There's a chill that comes
With cold eruption
Of what promises yet deceives
Explained when life's colors pale
A turnstile on a planet's axis
Ushers passengers
Along the circle
Of hope strewn with pitfalls
Colors hurt when they bleed
Smell rancid and rotting
Best not to rationalize
But blanket it all in frosty mercy
The moments lost
The moments lost, and passed
They won't return, they never come back
Love blooms like flowers, however
When Autumn wilts a flower
It won't bloom again
In Spring, sunshine, or rain
So, when you and I, and no longer us
What use is a million others?
Can't repent when the die is cast
They won't return, they never come back
Eyes can deceive us
How can we trust?
Doubt can break us apart
Never let it rule your heart
Ones you'll miss forever hence
Hold them ere they drift afar.
You can make excuses; apologize till it lasts
They won't return, they never come back
The moments lost, and passed
They won't return, they never come back
Autumn is here
The spring has ended
the critters of insects silenced
The trees chose which leaves to keep and which to let go
What is this season? anyways,
an echo of the past the spring
an echo of the future the winter
They say spirits stay in autumn, maybe they are there, waiting
if they would be kept or finally let go of
Autumn is not a season
its just a choice
to be kept or to be let go of
Autumn is an echo,
Autumn is a smile
of pain, of happiness, and all else.
Autumn is an ache
The Fall
Creativity, loved
bled, and bloody
left me,
autumnal winds
stretching out
my draft deafening door,
swinging low
with lament:
...you used us
like a drug,
and now
we're fully wasted...
useless body! and breath what
could have been made, cohesive
for consumptive ritual,
you slaughtered
and butchered--!
with Life seeping out
its shell casing, housing
this bullet, aimed falsely
in vigilance, of a second helping
...eating is nonsensical
...and sleep is a wake
for grieving demons,
their gnashing of teeth
foretold
in Revelations!
for those who long buried
with primitive spade and hatchet
the half-spent core, reactive
that which sprouted fevered
exponential saplings, of temptation
blotched green and gold and red...
fading to russet,
brittle and deadening...
an ache I'd hope to feel again
shedding this blanket of snow
It’s autumn in my womb
It's autumn in my womb
Leaves are falling
New growth stalls
Tender shoots burn
With the first hard frost
Yet sap still flows
It stops and start
Confused by the changing
Of the seasons
Not yet ready to abandon
All thought of new life
And surrender to the
Dormancy of winter
As fertility wains
So too do my dreams
Crumble to dust
Before my very eyes
I weep, I rage, I question
Who am I, if not a mother?
There is no answer in the air
Just my hot breath
Puffing in clouds before me
My misery hanging there
Before it too fades
And disappears
As silent as a sunset
Dark days beckon now
Filled with hard earth
The quiet of winter
When most birds fly
In search of warmer climes
Of more hospitable hosts
I cannot flee this season
For it is around me
And within me
The slowing tick, tick tick
Of a biological clock
That can no longer be wound
And will soon cease ticking altogether
I am the flowerless orchid
The maiden aunt
The branch that bears no fruit
Were I a hen or cow
I would be marked for slaughter
Some days, when winds blow fierce
Within my aching heart
I think that slaughter
Might be a mercy
For to live with this void
This bottomless, gaping sadness
Is a torment beyond that
Which I can bear
Spring will come again
To the blossoms and trees
New lambs with frolic
Chicks will hatch and tweet
But though the seasons of the world
Will warp and change
My womb will stay in winter
Cold, dormant, in decay
No life will spring forth
From these folicles of disappointment
There will be no swelling
Of my belly or my breasts
No late flush of youth
Soon, the sap will stop
And I must face the truth
For I cannot escape
The smiling face of babes
The pride on mother's faces
The gurgling laughter
And plaintive cries
Oh autumn, please give me more days
To grieve and hope
That somehow this is not
My changeless destiny
But the leaves they change
Oh how I feel autumn's ache.
In the Swing of Things
all input seems good
till we begin analyzing
Pro-cessing... it...
we amplify emotions
& wonder...
what is that shit?
& what could it mean
what if...?
& we get busy tinkering
with compulsion
to neutralize
& neuter it
because we only want
what we want to hear
& see?
this Is how it was meant
as we sit reflecting
under the barren tree
having mulched
every discordant leaf
that dared deface
the suburban lawn
with fragile sense of self-import
still somewhat green
against the ancient dirt
all things are pushed
out towards
decay
& Hurry up! we say
good riddance,
we've no patience
for the pace of the elderly
who remind, no one takes time
to really listen anyway...
our dog creaks on its walk
and we pull the lead
for pressing obligations
two steps away...
Com' on!
& we are
that listless
hound
in sepia
leveled brown
on brown on brown
& our silent movie
fades to blank
2024 OCT 14
Having to Wait
How I feel Autumn’s ache
of being forced to bid us “Goodbye.”
Of ceding the landscape’s rustic palette
to Winter’s overbearing, slate gray sky.
As Autumn remains dormant
slumbering under a fleece of melting snow,
waiting patiently for the moment to stir,
allowing Spring’s bounty ample time to grow.
Having endured Summer’s long, parched days
wilting from the incessant, soaring degrees,
then Autumn can burst forth once again,
regaling us with a kaleidoscope of earth-tone leaves.
On Being Virginia Woolf....
Melancholic haze of fall’s days whispers,
Beckoning like surging waves upon the wind
To create a shadowed veil from depression’s
Already foreboding sensations it sends
Fleeting aspirations, like withered brown leaves,
Drift, scattering across the gardens of my heart
United in deep-seated wistfulness of emotional platitudes
While ceasing never in its quest to thwart
The solitude of long sought after, evasive peace;
Strengthening, it wreaks havoc with all doubt and
Dryness of the soul’s river expands, imitating
The heart’s long starved, thirst driven drought.
With the fall’s ache comes a residual of murmurs,
Mirroring a lack of any impending hope in sight
As winter’s encroaching call, like destiny, creeps in,
Akin to death, reminiscent of a failing plight.
“How I feel autumn's ache.”— Virginia Woolf
Cynthia Calder, 10.12.24