“There is a time in the last few days of summer when the ripeness of autumn fills the air, and time is quiet and mellow. I lived that time fully, strangely aware of a new world opening up and taking shape for me.” ~ Rudolfo Anaya, from Bless Me, Ultima

John Scorror O'Connor Burnt October
“Burnt October” ()
by John Scorror O’Connor

 Wednesday night. Partly cloudy and warmer, 63 degrees.

Spent the day with Olivia, and now she’s asleep. We’re going to need to put together the single bed because she’s almost too big for her Pack ‘n Play, but that’s something that I need Corey to help me do as it involves rearranging and stuff. Tomorrow I’m going to take her to visit my aunt and cousin.

I tried to do a quick stir fry tonight for dinner, but it was terrible. The noodles were old and tasted like blech. Thankfully, she likes Spaghetti O’s. Yes, I know, processed food and all of that, but hey, I was punting. I tried to do the right thing, only it didn’t happen. She was just as happy to have the pasta.

I’m hoping that I’m able to fall asleep soon as I know that she’ll be up early in the morning. So for now, have some poems, and let’s just pretend that it’s Tuesday. Okay?

More later. Peace.

Albert P Lucas October Breezes c1908-09
“October Breezes” (C1908-09)
by Albert P. Lucas

Two for Tuesday (on a Wednesday): October

October

I
It’s odd to have a separate month. It
escapes the year, it is not only cold, it is warm
and loving like a death grip on a willing knee. The
Indians have a name for it, they call it:
“Summer!” The tepees shake in the blast like roosters
at dawn. Everything is special to them,
the colorful ones.

II
Somehow the housewife does not seem gentle.
Is she angry because her husband likes October?
Is it snow bleeds softly from her shoes?
The nest eggs have captured her,
but April rises from her bed.

III
“The beggars are upon us!” cried Chester.

Three strangers appeared at the door, demanding ribbons.

The October wind . . . nests

IV
Why do I think October is beautiful?
It is not, is not beautiful.
But then
what is there to hold one’s interest
between the various drifts of a day’s
work, but to search out the differences
the window and grate—
but it is not, is not
beautiful.

V
I think your face is beautiful, the way it is
close to my face, and I think you are the real
October with your transparence and the stone
of your words as they pass, as I do not hear them.

~ Bill Berkson

                   

John Francis Murphy October Mist 1902 oil on canvas
“October Mist” (1902, oil on canvas)
by John Francis Murphy

Late October

Midnight.  The cats under the open window,
their guttural, territorial yowls.

Crouched in the neighbor’s driveway with a broom,
I jab at them with the bristle end,

chasing their raised tails as they scramble
from bush to bush, intent on killing each other.

I shout and kick until they finally
give it up; one shimmies beneath the fence,

the other under a car.  I stand in my underwear
in the trembling quiet, remembering my dream.

Something had been stolen from me, valueless
and irreplaceable.  Grease and grass blades

were stuck to the bottoms of my feet.
I was shaking and sweating.  I had wanted

to kill them.  The moon was a white dinner plate
broken exactly in half.  I saw myself as I was:

forty-one years old, standing on a slab
of cold concrete, a broom handle slipping

from my hands, my breasts bare, my hair
on end, afraid of what I might do next.

~ Dorianne Laux

                   

Music by Jill Andrews, “Rust or Gold”

“Nothing looks more painfully calm than an autumn twilight. The sun rays pale in the quivering air, the old trees cast their leaves. The country, scorched by the ardent beams of summer, feels death coming with the first cold winds. And, in the sky, there are plaintive sighs of despair. Night falls from above, bringing winding sheets in its shade.” ~ Émile Zola, from Therese Raquin


 

Monday evening. Clear and temperate, 65 degrees.

I’ve been in a bit of a fog for several days now. Not really sure what’s going on. Just beginning to feel a bit better today. I had my six-month check-up with my PCP. Forgot to tell her how I’m craving sugar all of the time. I’ll have to try to remember to call tomorrow to say, “by the way, when she asked if anything was new, the answer was actually yes . . .”

Sorry I’ve been so lax lately. Thanks to the newest followers. Hoping to get back into some kind of groove this week. For now, have this little ditty:

Can you name the 50 different words in Dr. Seuss’ ‘Green Eggs and Ham’?

Well…can you?

                   

Late October

Midnight.  The cats under the open window,
their guttural, territorial yowls.

Crouched in the neighbor’s driveway with a broom,
I jab at them with the bristle end,

chasing their raised tails as they scramble
from bush to bush, intent on killing each other.

I shout and kick until they finally
give it up; one shimmies beneath the fence,

the other under a car.  I stand in my underwear
in the trembling quiet, remembering my dream.

Something had been stolen from me, valueless
and irreplaceable.  Grease and grass blades

were stuck to the bottoms of my feet.
I was shaking and sweating.  I had wanted

to kill them.  The moon was a white dinner plate
broken exactly in half.  I saw myself as I was:

forty-one years old, standing on a slab
of cold concrete, a broom handle slipping

from my hands, my breasts bare, my hair
on end, afraid of what I might do next.

~ Dorianne Laux

                   

Music by Trentemøller, “Deceive”