THE POET'S HAT - More poems

Impressions on a winter walk

The sun pulls back her last soft rays
from rocky mountain face.
The day has no more sunlit hour,
but fades to death with grace.
No gasp, no final clutch at life -
the lowering darkness comes.

Upon the lake a pinkish hue,
reflection from high clouds,
reminds me of a maiden's blush
when innocence is marred.
No going back to what once was,
regrets for "could-have-beens".

Pointsettia's brightly painted lips
are like an aging dame
whose lipstick shouts defiantly,
though time keeps moving on.
Each petal holds her crooked smile -
a smirking taunt at death.

Dry sticks and twigs lie useless now,
smooth long bones cleaned of flesh.
No juice or sap runs through their veins,
these limbs forsook the life they gave -
the summer green they spawned,
the child embraced in mother's arms.

Drifts of crumbling, cast-off leaves
lie scattered on the ground
and make a patchwork blanket
in a hundred shades of brown,
soon to decay into the glebe -
lost summer's unmissed relics.

Late frangipani smell like myhrr,
embalming a past now gone,
and woodsmoke from a chimney curls,
the haunting scent of the pyre.
Earth rests in her perfumed, deathlike sleep,
in her comatose winter slumber.

Madness before rain

All wait for the first rains of summer
searching the sky for a sign -
nothing..just oppressive air
and sinuses blocked

The parched earth too
yearns for relief
still nothing -
wait and wait

A slow creeping madness
takes over man and beast
seasonal insanity reigns -
still no rain

An old man leaves his rocker
walks to the end of the road
sees no sign
and walks back again

He bangs his stick on the gate
returns to the chair
feels a slow tear run down his face
but no rain

The dog looks at the sky
growls and rolls over
dust in his nostrils he sniffs the air
hoping for rain

The young mother sighs
weary at the dryness of the air,
longing to get away from her mundane life
but no rain falls

A lone cloud drifts across the landscape
fades into the bright blue sky