seasonal.

I don't know what to tell you. You'll be leaving soon.

I can feel it, the same way one feels the nervousness

of being born. No need for any scholastic examination.

No need quoting scriptures from

Ecclesiastes or Sexton. I passed a man in Walmart

who stood in the aisle and stared at his phone, unable

it seemed,  to move. Is this the s**t that mimics what the

heart can do; freezes the rich wordings of typed

approximations against some moral universe, like

a dead  addict is propped in some downtown doorway?

Miles is dead and have been. So is Gandhi and Lucille Ball.

I mean, there is no experience that shows us what

experience feels like.

Christmas carols are being sung on AM radio. I think

it's Sinatra or Jim Neighbors: Ghazals or red poppies. Can

it matter? Whatever discography swoops down

to demand my tears for lovemaking, nothing lasts

in this  distance of allegorical spots, for long.

However silent the night.

Reviews

[78Jon]

Again, it's a bit hard to follow without a rhyming scheme in it.

[h d e rushin]

thanks...78Jon

[Beccy]

We have become too used perhaps to the surface familiarity of the seasons. We celebrate in simple fashion, Spring as the season of rebirth, Summer, a time to bask in the sun, Autumn, no more than a brief hiatus of beauty as she prepares us for the shock of the bleak song of winter time. Yet beneath this comfortable familiarity, there is, if we stop and think about how it all works, an overwhelming complexity that requires a perfect dotting of I's and the crossing of T's.

Thus is is with all of mankind. Who along the way, (in my opinion,) gathers far too much thought than is necessary to live out a mere three score year and ten.

Outstanding poetry! Beccy

[h d e rushin]

thank you my dear friend Beccy for those kind remarks...dana

[kmartell]

Our house on the Canadian border contained scent from air lived in many generations, from which I heard in summers a 1932 calander tapping in the breeze. This poem is from that speaking about experience, what is the present but the past.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

the heart stops beating, our lives our seasonal...we are born in our spring, live our summers, start to die in fall and are gone in winter...but as expressed in this poem...if we make some kind of lasting impression with our lives, we might just be remembered in coming seasons by others who follow us, when the silent night turns into a new day.

[h d e rushin]

excellent idea my dear friend...thanks so much...dana

[W.k.kortas]

It wpuld be easy and breezy to say "Well, the holidays are so depressing for some folks, aren't they?", but there is more than that here, something deeper, something akin to existential dread, the idea that nothing is permanent, nothing is fixed. The last four lines are pitch-perfect, utter magic.

[h d e rushin]

thank you this morning my dear friend for those kind remarks....dana