golfosophy

between fifth green

and sixth tee

there is a long path through the woods

of birch

and oak

and aspen

and scrub brush with crimson berries

and you can hear the wind

and birds

and squirrels

as you walk along

golf ball in one hand dragging clubs with the other

and life is

this path and these trees and that ball and the wind and the sun

drifting through the shade and the stones under your feet and

your steady gait towards the next swing

after the rain

puddles pool

at the end of driveway

like thoughts of peace

or feelings of freedom

folding into themselves

like an envelope holding a letter explaining everything

I reach out

fingertips dipping into cold wet

and draw back

hand

dripping

and touch my face

like a benediction

Trump haiku #8

cat 5 hurricane

of lies collusion racism

sexism obstruction

what it means

opera sun

through dusty sky haze

reduced to orange folk song disc

midday dusk

dramatic as eclipse

act one of comedy called summer’s end

for we know

what’s coming and

the joke’s on us retreating

behind walls

and windows reduced

to shadow people starving

taking vitamin d

while winter plays slow

dirge through hearts made of dust 

bonus summer

September winds tint

ripe golden prairie with a

last gasp of wonder

Autumn dance

spider

strands

diagonal

sunroom doors

I can see them

magnified

shining

exquisite

in the morning sun

the work of two or three days

destroyed when I open sliding door

and walk out into leaf busy lawn

ground hard and dry

trees still green but starting to autumn

stroll past garden into small woods world

teeming home of squirrel and sparrow

wind whispers through branches above

and I stop to listen to this September jazz

swing me into

eight-

legged

           spin 

Psalm XII

a flame flirts my memory

of sweet sun days

soft grass bare foot days

arms warmed days

hair bleached days

slide swing days

summer love days

and that once we walked the path

to the waterfall beside escarpment gorge

with wide-eyed boy in tow

treading lightly in prayer

yellow irises

open

shining

like the sun

in our vase on

coffee table giving

themselves to our hungry

gaze fully completely holding

nothing back not like the guarded

tulip or the many petalled rose and we

can open too and play our Debussyesque

preludes of dark and light of scars and broken

bones of empty arms and the brush of fingers on

skin of a toddler’s toothy un-self-conscious smile of

truths and lies and the battleground of love and hate in-

between to the world knowing the irises will listen yet when

I look now I see one of them has a broken stem

Trump haiku #7

we’ll heal if he’d heed

but he’ll never heel ‘cause he

kneads to be center

retirement reflections

August autumns out

into brown crumbly leaves

scattered on

dry tan grass

sprinkler oscillates

clear drops disappear

into parched lawn

soon these crinkled days

will become truly

third season

season of complex chords

season of changes

season of burning

season of equinox

season of movement

season of jackets

season of jazz

tomorrow

September pours out

its deep red wine