Town Can Wait

jo'b   

Corn in tassel 

We smell it after rain

A breeze rolls over in the trees

And sends another shower down

We put off our trip to town

Ancestral: As Lost as Before

Plural was never to be

in our syllable of time

our brief melody

violins in a gale

on cliffs overlooking the sea

                         Clannad cover (top), Cliffs of Moher, County Clare, Ireland (bottom)

Smoke

jo'b   

 

We once found our balance

on the cusp of evening

as the light failed

and mist rose from the valley.

Today we wait inside

for the wind to shift,

and we listen

for the whimper.

.

—channeling T.S. Eliot

Teacher

Click to enlarge.         jo'b   

                    She does her work

                    and waits,

                    just outside the frame.

                  

                    She does her work

                    And waits alone.

                    I learn from that.

Sci-Fi

edited from the public domain   

 

 

Get her to the coast,                    

my loyal friend.                   

A ship awaits.                   

                   

The strength of our mixed blood                    

shall thrive, and once again,                    

may kindness reign.                    

Fortune Teller

(from the public domain)   

 

Mostly nobody answers.

I took shelter in my bones.

Days passed. The sound of rain.

Whether she has gone or if she was ever here.

Who among us is the enemy of water?

Reality is mutable and strange. 

A hawk cries overhead. Trees stir.

It isn't up to us.

Mist after Rain

jo'b     

Dripping maples and oaks.

A raven calls.

The soul settles for an hour or two.

The Wind has Died

A.I.     

                              

                              My little boat,

                              Take care.

                              There is no

                              Land in sight.

                                                       — Charles Simic (1938-2023)

No Land in Sight, New York, Knopf, 2022 

Copyright, 2022, Charles Simic

Radio Zen

Summer in its second movement.                               jo'b   

I let it play softly

in my hip pocket,

strings and flutes,

maybe an oboe,

sustained notes,

interstellar melodies,

universal hums,

it keeps me calm

so I can focus

on the temporary joys,

(and aren't they all)

blackbirds rising from the wire

in modest murmuration,

a weave of swallows,

the toad in porchlight

at the kitchen door,

maple leaves turning over,

thunderheads building

and the wind rising—

summer in its second movement,

me in my fourth, softly.

Hemlock Trail

jo'b     

A cloud is on the mountain,

a divinity of mist

in the last few acres

of virgin forest.

I have kept my promise,

but nothing comes.

What is the difference

if not love?