Field Day

Any second now:
Soon it'll be time to rake up
plenty of leaves from the lawn,
walk in the park
to reflect/meditate
on how suddenly
this season has arrived,

time to get into the car
& go, just leave -
who needs to know where.

Any second now:
Soon it'll be time to brave
the cool air & rain,
somehow try to make it
inside before getting all soaked...

Such is life in a place like this.
You have no idea of what
the weather's going to be like
from day to day.

Any second now
it'll be time to make the most
of life while still outdoors
so we do whatever it is
we feel like doing
& pass away the hours
as if there was no tomorrow.

"Celebrate we will..."
So we shall while the sun is out,
while the sky is clear
& while warmth still is in the air.

All Clear

Early autumn. The leaves
are finding their way
off of the trees & onto
the ground, the sidewalks,
onto the roads & streets.
The air is cooler now
since this month has arrived.

All of this time
I have waited for moments
like these to take place,
to find their fulfillment
in scenes like this.
This is the inception
of a new season,
with another one closing in
before we know it.

On days like these
nothing beats the sight
of fallen leaves, bare trees:
there is beauty, there is
still life living on
for all of us to notice.

Greenway

Down the old railway line
we can still hear the echoes
of the Chessie locomotives
charting their course
to the heart of it all:
off toward the station,
off to the yards they'd go.

But now the trains
don't travel this route anymore:
every stretch of this whole line
-steel, wood, & spikes -
was abandoned 15 years back.
All that remains are the ghosts,
the echoes of life that lived
on this route,
the minor memories of having
lived under its enchanting spells.

The droning of the whistle
was enough to rustle one
out of sleep back in those days.
Now those sounds of yore
are now silence, serving as
testimonial & living proof
of the decline & fall of a great dream.

What could have been:
15, 16 years before trains used to
make their solitary journey
into town...That was when
life was more carefree,
before the bean counters
decided enough was enough
& chose to shut this line down
for good. A trail has taken
its place now & we're thankful
that some traces of this line's history,
some of its memories have survived.
Yet listening to the faint echoes
of a locomotive whistle returning
to the forefront, I have to stop
& wonder sometimes:
Is this enough to keep life going,
to keep life living on in honor
of this defunct route?

On the greenway bikers & walkers
propel themselves to wherever they're going.
And the old telegraph lines
which still stand sing their lament
of times gone past.
The echoes of time remain strong,
refusing to be unheard.

Sunday Morning, 10/26

Early morning, around 6:30 a.m.:
It is still dark out on the open road,
a few headlights or so
the only signs of light to be seen
for who knows how many miles;
no doubt, life sure does feel alone
at this time of day.

On the interstate, all is peace
& quiet for the moment:
some semis making their deliveries,
a few vehicles passing
on down the line -
nothing to get hung up on.
These are times for reflection,
for one to remain vigilant.

Vigilance: another word
for awareness but still...
I must say this word once more
as I wander back homeward,
decently rested from
the previous afternoon's festivities.
Vigilance: not a word to be taken
lightly at this hour, at this moment -
so I go, hand upon the wheel,
notes of caution still kept in mind
as the southward trek continues on,
without interruption.

Soon the first rays of light
will burst through the horizon,
& I will reach my destination
safe & sound.
Until then,
I am carrying my vigilance
with me, fully prepared
for come what may.

After The Fall

On the road to the stadium:
a slow drizzle falls,
clouds cast their ominous scowl
over the countryside.

(No doubt,
this is not ideal weather
for tailgating & yet,
& yet
I am off to do just that.)

The fields are stripped clean
of this season's harvest,
the trees reveal the true colors
which fall brings in spades,

all the while cars, trucks & buses
of folks going on their own
little pilgrimages, whereabouts
unknown speed down
the interstate,
with attitude & bravado to spare.

For some entering town this morning,
the rainfall might come
as a surprise or a cruel act
of simple eavesdropping:

No matter.
Still the brave, the courageous go,
find their way to a little piece
of heaven unlike anyplace else
they've ever been.

The parade will not be over
& all tailgaters in attendance
will see to that.

Memoirs

Memory after memory unfolds,
reveals itself
if only for a moment
before returning,
each one to their familiar confines.

Some get thrown back
in the drawer whence they came,
others get put in a diary,
not to be revealed
until the timing is right,

then others have the lock
& key on their good names.
Only time has the strength,
the resolve
just to release them from

their constant sleep & slumber.
Like a letter which gone unread
for years
or a writing which has not seen
the light of day for decades,

these memories return
from their long sleep as if to say,
We have not grown tired
& faded away like all the rest;
we are still here, only waiting

to make ourselves known to
an audience who will truly listen,
who will truly appreciate
how we came into being,
as it were, our genesis.

For a lifetime we have been
seeking an audience who will
wholeheartedly appreciate
our worth, our value, & most of all,
our own unique history.

So they go, each their own way,
confident that they will find
the attention which they have been
desperate for all these years,
right here in front of us.

Every memory
we have found is waiting
not just for the brush-up,
not solely
for a cursory praise:

No. They refuse to go
into neglect & disarray
this easily anymore.
They have returned,
& this time it is for good.

They don't seek a hiding
place, far removed
from the view of all.
Right here & right now
they are waiting to be

revealed in all their glory,
in all of their heartfelt power
which time & age
could never put a check on.
These memories of which

we speak are timeless,
so full of life long after
its creators have passed on,
their legacies still leaving
a mark any way they can.

Thrill Seeker

Vamos,
the man of the hour
keeps saying;
vamos,
let us be going.

Get on,
get out: leave here
as of right now.
Don't look back,
only forward.

For soon
the real departures
will begin;
nothing you can do
about this.

It's time
to get a move on
while you
still can:
For once, get going!!

Who can say
just when or where
we're going?
And who
could ever know?

Just go.
That's all I'm asking
& have asked
of you
since we first met,

since we
first ran into each other.
Why ask why?
Any given time
the open road

calls out
to us we have to obey.
It is now time
for you & I
to leave.

Vamos.
This is not the lonesome
sound of
goodbye
you've been

used to
hearing for ages, not the
distant echoes
of farewell
nor the fading music

which ends
on one note & one
note only.
To tell you
honestly, we're making

our entrance
into the great unknown,
not an exit.
Vamos,
let us be going.

Ready For...

Saturday morning:
time to rise & shine,
go on, get out
of bed
still hungover
from the night before

& have yourselves
the time of your lives.

It's time to go
whoop it on up,
even if it means
showing up
for this event
half there, half awake.

The real fun begins
in a short while
& today is shaping up
to be not only beautiful
but also colorful
as well.
It's time to live it on up
while there's still lots
of fun to be had
this weekend.

Is everyone
ready for this?
I sure hope so
because if not -
oh my.
I wouldn't know
what to say
should some of you all
come unprepared.

It's time to get out
& celebrate the end
of one long, crazy week
in general.
On mornings
like these you wouldn't
want to have the time
of your lives
any other way.

History Lessons

On the old highway which leads
into town
you'd be surprised to find
a part of your past
which you thought you'd lost
forever still alive & well,
still as headstrong as ever.
Around here,
if one looks diligently enough
one will find a little history
about this place
that has survived time
& the elements.

Here it is, at long last:
another book of pictures from a bygone era,
sepia-toned photographs
taken around the 1930s -
old pole barns, an old schoolhouse or two,
an old church on the corner
of who knows where & what roads.
Several decades later, these memoirs
of life past are still standing
for us to see, & are so much more
than roadside markers which tell us
where we are going, where we're from.
These pictures of home are also
a part of our lives, inextricably entwined
into our heritage;
they are more than a passing moment
of dedication to our fathers
& those who came before.

You realize that these landmarks
have always been here for the longest time:
sure, you may pass them by
at light speed, not give them
much thought at first
but over time you'll discover
that they're here to stay,
as if to tell you that you can't
disavow your past, your very roots.
A part of us still is sustained
with each passing glance
into scrapbook after scrapbook,
with each passing photo being taken;
a part of us still survives
without wavering, without losing track
of time, without being written off
as so much nostalgia.

Down the road one goes,
knowing full well that history can't be
escaped or evaded:
from truss bridges to old bulidings
one sees history,
one sees life still living on,
refusing to make itself irrelevant.