SO SOON, AUTUMN

Photo by S. Auberle

While walking in the too-soon autumn woods, this poem arrived:

OUT OF CONTROL

Hello...nice day...

the economy of words

is uttered quickly by a stern woman

on the path, almost grudgingly

and I wonder why she bothers

to speak at all,but I smile,

reply and trudge onward.

My muse appears to be

in the same frame of mind,

though finally releasing,

after endless silent weeks,

a few paltry words

I cup in eager hands.

Poems should be overflowing,

rich and dripping with butter,

wine and hearty cloves of garlic

clinging to them.

These few words are melba toast,

celery,and vegetable broth.

So how, I hear you asking, did this poem

suddenly jump to a food metaphor?

Oops, here comes another one:

poems should be scented

with rain and roses and cloves

and hearty man-smells like baking bread

and woodsmoke-scented shirts,

they should be silky and furry

like an old yellow dog or your chest

where I love to bury my nose.

They should be singing

the Hallelujah Chorus

or Rollin' in My Sweet Baby's Arms.

Poems should be red and hot pink

and glowing orange tongues of fire

and now, clearly, I see,

this poem is completely out of control

so I attempt to rein it in, except

here comes a horse metaphor

galloping haphazardly down the trail

where the stern woman crouches in fear

at an approaching mad rider

with one clearly disturbed muse hanging on,

the poet trailing an abundance

of outrageously juicy metaphors

in her (one last absurd metaphor) wake...

- mimi