Skip to main content

The Fall

The Fall

You ask for signs and see
Blowing across a frozen lake
Some scattered leaves
Burning, as if the wind could
Start a fire
Or the ice give up sparks of heat.

It’s time for the fall so
The leaves don’t surprise you
As they fly from branches,
released by death to ride uncertain winds
like the kites of careless boys in late November
who are too distracted by the cold to hold on tightly --
Leaves bounding in a random dance,
Trying to bounce their way across the promised winter.

It’s the movement of fire in the timing of your head
That makes you wonder if this is a portent
Or an answer,
Or just some strangeness unreported –
Some farmer burning trash,
Or a city in flames making its own weather--
(The ashes of civility blowing in from the middle gives you pause,)
or a star exploding to show you the face of God --
Whirling flamed chariots of dancing death to make a point to you alone.

But this sign is not for you, it’s just wordlessness
From the muscle that runs beneath --
the muscle that boxes and binds the gods.
And the only meaning
Is in the movement of dead leaves
As they blow into piles for a latter thaw
to be born again as something else.

No thoughts or dreams can cover up
The truth that we are simple meat
Given enough in senses to occasionally see
the sparks that fly from frozen lakes,
to know that the beauty of the fall
lies in  the promise of a spring.

Mike Brady 2010

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Wedding and Funeral

Went to a wedding and a funeral this weekend with Mary. Sacramento, Santa Rosa, then home– a whirlwind trip through weekend bay area traffic. The traffic was horrible – life changing horrible, but not unusual.
As with most things, it’s a balance of an the unnamed terror and an easy chair in a padded room that rocks. 
The wedding was delightful, part of an interconnected strong woman’s club that marries off their daughters to provably weaker men. And so, the cycle continues, but the company was nice and I’m too old to wonder at the process anymore.
The funeral was for another interconnected strong woman, who, by hinkey or dinky, was a scary woman that I used to work with as a nurse. She would have been surprised that I outlived her, much as Charles the cat was. Please pay attention out there – this is how life works.
(To be fair, she didn’t put up with shit and I liked to throw handfuls of it around as if I were Christ standing on the back of a broken piƱata heaving candy cigarettes to the…

Only once

For clarity, I think I will write this only once.I do not write confessional poetry, and I do not write things down as a form of therapy. I write because I have something unique to say in a unique sort of way, a way that I think is universal in an analogous manner, not as any sort of literal telling of the truth.  I trowel spackle onto pages with a straight edged blade, I don’t paint aging widows with a brush. (My soul has been psychedelicized, but this shit’s not about me.)It comes in this form – that this relates to that, in this way – A form that I think illustrates things that are too true to be looked at straight on – personal truths that are usually discovered through interactions with other people – truths that are often relational, unreliable and subject to the weavings and debris of human beings. Truths that sneak out and become a miraculous surprise of insight – like a Zen master hitting you on the head with a baseball bat at just the right time.I don’t think I’m the only on…

How do I know when I'm done?

I left a message on Facebook for someone I care about that ended with the words, “one won”. I did it just because I thought was funny. That led to a whimsical discovery that I no longer had to place a period at the end of my sentences – in fact to do so would be rude and identify myself as an old person. 
It seems that, for online use anyway, a period has become a loud shout -- a purposeful exclamation point useful only in drawing unnecessary attention, or as a way of making an angry burp of anti-social angst. Sentences no longer end, they gently back out a side door when no one is looking -- they’ve become bars without a jail, or that angry driver just ahead of you who hesitates before moving through an intersection just to make a point of how stupid you are.
Since a period is no longer an end to a thought, its new function has evidentially become nothing but a stuffy ritual of formality that writers can now use to mark up or down generalized feeling of huffiness, or perhaps a way to s…