2015 Autumn Equinox Issue


Nature Boy by Smith

Nature Boy by Smith

September Song

A toad down a well
sees only some of the sky,
cannot judge true hue.

We have fire and
we have coffee, what a buzz
watching rising sun.

Daily waking life
stone stacking stone stacking stone
seeking the unturned.

Wife sits in silence,
I peak in through her windows,
try to see who’s home.

Hug to hug we hold
recharge station equation
any time ease need.

Got a thrum sprocket
sproutin’ up in my pocket
for your love socket.

Lady bleeds with moon,
Rerunning her tithe to time
in old bloodbound loop.

Sitting here in heat
knowing soon the snow will come,
shiver just a bit

Green leaf seeking sun
for some photosynthesis,
raising sap in tree.

Picking raspberries
under the sun in the thorns,
warm firm flesh on tongue.

Fire feeds fire
as flame eats flame flame climbs flame
in arousal rise.

The bees mix pollen,
nectar, their inner enzymes,
vomit pure honey.

Oh my how quickly
the weather changes whether
from sweat to sweater.

Leaves tumble, trees die,
rot in soil, feed fresh seed,
new time grows from old.

Sun and leaf meet green,
bark runs sap from each to each,
earth, sun, fire, air.

I hear far off cry.
Is it bird? Cat? Plant? Human?
Such are times we’re in.

Some have less not more,
others just the opposite —
where’s the fair whether?

Sleep rolls over me
dulling war and famine, pain . . .
think I’ll sleep some more.

Life oft requires
finding the one position
that hurts a bit less.

Sooner is better,
cold lunch on hot afternoon,
but later is fine

Life’s flotsam jetsam
flood our living surface in
tide of daily use.

No matter how hard
you try, or much you focus,
sometimes things go bad.

Low light lake and sky
forgetting where ends begin,
here and there unclear.

No scream for ice cream,
no urgent rush to recess,
need to clean your room.

All the aches of pain
in spirit flesh imprisoned
temper each new dawn.

If I had a cow
and named him Moot, Moot would moo
unless Moot were mute.

Fresh from our garden
newly plucked in my cupped hands,
smell of rosemary.

Crickets count degree,
play le jazz hot or go cool
beat depending heat.

A dead clock reads right
by accident twice a light,
otherwise is lies.

I’m driving dirty
through this laundry list they call
The Rules of Order.

~ Smith

bree he wolf song