It's been snowing last
Night, golden leaves of Autumn
Cover the once-green grass,
Hiding the Summer days.
Button-up, little lady,
It is time to go into hiding.

Do we all need a season,
Of hiding? Cocooning? Intimacy
With our Creator? To be remade without hesitation
A squall of geese squawks
Overhead, moving on...

With Mother Nature.

Today I pulled a plum,
Apart with my fingers and my thumb.
I did not use a knife,
But held it open to examine life.
And when I finally ate
It tasted all the more richer.
And the texture
Was a virtuoso in visceral sensuality;
Vibrant and mouthful.
The enveloping heat from the sun
Moved through my body like a homerun.
And sounds exploded in my eardrum,
Replacing the peace with a sweet hum.

Even though I hold a bouquet of regret,
I shall not fret
Because You will ensure
I never fall.

I've just noticed, 
as I looked up from writing poetry,
A magpie purchased on the high back 
of one of my outdoor setees, 
Staring smack at me 
as I sculpt words.
Fixed, it holds itself still, measured.
Scheming its next swoop;
Taking in my features, 
I was a moving target.

It is lighter outside now,
Rather than the tar-dark
Of the night.
Cars are streaming past;
Their swoosh is like white-noise,
In the early morn.

Things are relatively static
Right now,
Until then busy-ness of the day
Commanders,
Then colour-blinds
All the senses.

Is writing poetry like my fidget toy?
A warm bath or a workout,
Still-ing, stalling and styling
My next proposition.

The birds tell a story,
Of what we humans do.
Their chirps and their tweets,
Are confirmation of who and what we knew.

Though we may not see
It, their eyes scan the skies.
And other varieties capture
our uncommunicated idiosyncracies.

The birds in the sky,
Test the temperature of our times.
They hold our secrets,
And much more importantly, our lies.

And so shall I.

Mud cakes, sand castles, dress ups and... Make-believe;
Child-like curiosity, awe, wonder and...
Other-world conceive.
Silence, in a busy grownups world gives opportunity for playfulness you can retrieve,
Embrace these moments, seek them out, faith like a mustard seed, oak trees sprout.

As the days fold 
Into chill-filled air,
The watermelon dayz
They seem long gone.
Even with the degrees
Still in the moderate thirties,
I long for those hot, stuffy days
Where we twirled our towels
On our heads and smiled, seed-filled,
And none could distinguish where
Sweet and drippy watermelon grins
Started, and the sweat long ended.

Lest we forget
Those who served us so,
Now, with heavenly angels,
Alive now, they teach us what we sow,
Shall remain forevermore or wasteless fodder.

We shall not forget them so,
Sacrifice, selflessness, valour undertow,
Remembrance of our heroes,
Provokes us to live now, lives of valour; value.

Hush, it's raining.
Heaven's cleaning the earth
with its gentle brush,
anew.

Critics collude together in cliques to keep themselves safe from reality.
Truth is subjective, they say, diluting its potency and dilating its delusions.
But grounded, truth becomes a platform on which to
kick critics to the curb,
Taste the dirt of their terse tunes.

This is my house, where
I can freely dance
Where I can be,
Without a second glance.
Where I can freely pray,
Thank you for hearing,
Seeing and providing.
Your cooling rain
deepens Your promises.

The sun has risen,
can you hear?
the songs of the morning birds.

Life begins to wake,
the gentle breeze,
blows softly against the trees.
A lovely view awaits.

The orange sky,
the feeling of life!
a beautiful sunrise it is.