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They create out of
nothing whole scenes, entertain
from mere suggestions.
The Windy City
carries aloft a million
dreams on fierce updrafts.
Post-tryptophan, we
watch Forrest Gump and digest
the day’s memories.
Don’t count calories.
Savor silken pumpkin, tart
cranberries. Taste joy.
Tempting smells - so strong
they nearly satiate the
appetite - drift by.
Brine, barbecue, deep
fry, roast, smoke? How many ways
can you do one Tom?
I’m the kitchen air
traffic controller, and the
oven my runway.
Canned pumpkin sold out.
Damned overachievers! I’m
a “last-minute” type.
First snowfall blankets
unraked beds of leaves. Nature’s
default is beauty.
Google found me with
wind for thursday november
2007.
Reading haikus is
like eating chestnuts. You stop
after a bad one.
Why does burrowing
under thick down comforters
bring such sheer delight?
Wet dampness always
seems colder than that first soft
warm blanket of snow.
After the high school
show they flirt over pizza
sodas at Uno’s.
Instead, a pumpkin
cheesecake. Traditions are good.
Cheesecake is better.
Trees have never held
leaves as late as November.
Frost was wrong. Gold stays.
Fourteen wild turkeys
on my back deck raid the grape
vines looking for fruit.
Chuck tests our house for
energy efficiency.
We’re tight as a drum.
Thanksgiving creeps up
fast, like a turkey farmer
wielding a sharp axe.
Hadn’t realized the
thermostat had to be set.
Freezing at 60.
Brought in the ficus
tree. Fallen leaves fly about.
Wind whispers, “snowfall.”
I forgot to bring
the jade plant inside. One
by one its fat leaves fall.
Pumpkin cheesecake in
the oven. Nutmeg, ginger.
Fragrant November.
Stars so sharp they are
holes in time, the past shining
into the future.
How can one person
be so excited about
an extra hour’s sleep?
That candy still sits
there. What would Fat Bastard say?
“Get in my belly!”
7am could
be midnight. Kids stand on street
corners like hookers.
Every year they say
they’re too old, but hit the streets
for that sugar fix.
I answer the door.
Offer kids cooked broccoli
They demand candy.
Only buy the good
candy because you have to
live with leftovers.
No pumpkins any
where, except for Wal-mart which
wants ten bucks a pop.
Wearing the mantle
of autumn. Cold starry nights
days of leaf-strewn gold.
An apple, as red
as it is crisp, awaits on
the blue floral plate.
Argued over what
candy to buy. She wanted
KitKats. Blow Pops won.
The new furnace kicks
on, and I rise to the warmth
like yeast bread baking.
Home sick, she lies in
bed, stomach queasy, still in
her day-before clothes.
Halloween spirit
eludes me, like the ghost of
someone I once loved.
Turn the clocks back next
week? I could use that extra
hour of sleep right now!
Decorations for
Halloween still not up. Life
seems scary enough.
Suddenly it’s too
chilly to wear a tshirt.
Autumn’s in the house.
Back east, the skies are
clearing, blue unending. Cool
dampness. Leaves changing.
Nighttime landscapes blaze.
Lines of fire on hillsides trace
borders of life death.
Evacuated,
one woman watched her home burn
live on CNN.
A walk uphill at
4am to say goodbye
to the neighborhood.
Cup of pleasure wafts
aromatic steam warming my
lips pursed for a sip.
California burns.
Your life separate from us?
Now just smoke and ash.
We visited once.
Soaked in your hot tub under
the lemon tree’s shade.
Spring Valley is bone
dry. Here in New York skies rain
tears of compassion.
What’s necessary?
The triage of memory.
A pyre to the past.
Her view from the hill
- once so fine in good weather -
just blackened landscapes.
Anne emails to say
smoke plumes rise like shrouds of loss.
Below, hell ablaze.
In bad rains bathroom
ceiling leaks. A slow tick tells
of water stains mapped.
Squirrels have eaten
my pumpkins. They eschew fall
negate Halloween.
Tomorrow it’ll be
eighty. Mother Nature is
having hot flashes.
“Playing with Fire” as
Bride of Frankenstein? Perfect
role for Halloween.