Dead Leaves
Dead leaves
rattle
down
the street.
Dead leaves
fly
in the cold grey sky
blown
by the rough north wind.
This is the season
sad sailors
are lost to the rough grey sea.
poem
poem's a door
what's it open on
world of the black sun
world of the lost dreams
poem's a door
what's behind it
a little piece of mind
a scraggy scrap of heart
poem's a door
where’s it lead
can't go through it
gotta lock - getta key.
I Don’t Cling
I don't cling to life
it travels too fast, too far
and randomly, couldashouldawoulda
doctor, writer, better parent, faithful
paths not walked - unwalkable, now
for reasons vivid, and reasons obscure.
I don't cling
yet, life clings to me.
November 24
With the sun's
waning benediction,
this is the last day of the year
we will dip our feet in the river.
It seems
a symbolic act
though symbolic
of what we can't be sure.
There are
always signs and
portents - in wisdom
or babble, the world whispers to us.
jimmy shaker writes these
