Friday, October 27, 2017

October is the Orange Month



I was looking through my electronic pile for poems about Fall. I found this one, written a few years ago and lost in the mist of time.


October is the Orange Month

Across the back field to the woods
October is the orange month
and when the low sun lights the leaves
after a long September rain
the glow is almost like a fire
that fills the air with what one could
mistake for warmth, but no—
more like the colored sunset
that celebrates the leaving of
the light, the heat, the life itself
the bonfire of the long green day

***

Come take the October foliage cruise
come see the spasms before sleep
the end of photosynthesis
for all that is deciduous

those of us that still remain
will shelter with the evergreen
whose bitter sap and needle points
stand head bent when the winter comes
to scrub the landscape clean


Sunday, February 12, 2017

Grandfather Poem


One of a series of meditations on the arc of our lives.


John T. Wrinkle (1883 - 1973). Born in Missouri. Contracted polio at 3 years old, orphaned at 8.
Won a scholarship to MIT, graduating in 1906 with a degree in architecture.


If he thought at all
about social standing
and what it meant to
work at a desk
and wear clean suits
it was probably just
in the hazy way
that most of us stumble
through teen-age years

he wasn’t much for
horsing around
a teen-age boy
is a boy apart
when his body has
let him down
but he was bright
as bright could be

If he felt at all
out of place
in the Boulevards
of Copley Square
the halls of university
if he did he carried it
quietly
tweed wool suits
every picture a tie
a cane

always seated
pipe thin legs
shielded by trouser creases
modeling peace
modeling slow and steady work
laid out before us to
take and hold or not
a quiet place to start the ride
into our own tumultuous age.


Welcome to SoCalYankee, writings by Frank Kearns. Thanks for reading!
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