Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

These autumn leaves are sung enough of; but
they rot like corpses in a thawed-out morgue
or sides of ham all hung to dry and age
to taste. Whatever warps the mind to find
a miracle in leaves that trumps all else
must also blind the mind to greater change
than foliage achieves--but when the leaves
are gone, there falls a kind of miracle
of true proportion: light. The sunlight falls
eight minutes from the sky to rapture dirt
that, long unnoticed, might have stayed away
in shade and shadow. I would take the dirt
above the leaves--the spectrum of its life
is colored more impeccably than leaves.

Joel, this is beautiful. I love the imagery and the sentiment it conveys; it leaves me with a taste of grass shoots and the feeling of being covered in soil- the smell of earth all around.

I enjoy your poetry so much, thank you for sharing this!

And thank you for your wonderful compliment in regards to my pieces. My words are plain but I hope to express something others can relate to as I experience them.

Keep the great writing up!

definitely rings of classically deep thought and sublime phrasing

You're a fine writer, Joel. Top shelf material. One day I'll own your books.

Ah, and you're fine friends. Thanks for your kind words. It's writing for the sake of writing these days...some experience in an excercise of creativity again, a different kind of creativity than I've been up to lately, and so it's nice to be encouraged. Thanks again!

Thanks for the poem Joel. I don't spend much thought thinking about your intentions most times I take you at your word.

Forty years down the road I been putting some thought into my final expenses. For some reason, superstition probably, I can't bring myself to go for cremation. Even if it is so much cheaper.

You brought this line to mind from The Big Sleep Sounds like he is describing an orthodox Jewish funeral.

«Just a plain pine box,» I said. «Don't bother with bronze or silver handles. And don't scatter my ashes over the blue Pacific. I like the worms better. Did you know that worms are of both sexes and that any worm can love any other worm?

Pardon the ramble
beautiful poem I thought.

Sorry for the morbid thoughts Joel
I get too literal too personal
your poetic sermons are a trip for me.
never a bummer either

So out of reach for me are the words to express that thought I was reaching for above
It would take an advanced degree in math
the immortality of dirt
the continuity of life

Great poem, Joel. It only confirms what good taste Doreen and I have...lol Imagining the spectrum of the life of dirt is great exercise for the imagination as well as the fingernails.

Guessing I'll have to post my Fuck You Trees poem here now to show my support, though it will seem a little silly and juvenile next to this glorious work of art.

Scott

don't know if you have to take either one
seems you get both eventually.

and yeah, fuck the trees
always getting rotted leaves in my gutter..

Fabulous poem to read on an early quiet Saturday morning....and I thank you for it!
H

Somehow, I smell autumn and apple cider in this poem. Soil and the smell of the sun warming it, the taste of pumpkins and cinnamon...Not in the conventional way, but in an nautral way, the way they would taste right out of the earth...I just love this piece!

Classic poem, Joel.

The sunlight falls
eight minutes from the sky to rapture dirt
that, long unnoticed, might have stayed away
in shade and shadow.

-fine words.

the coolest joel.....thanks for sharing.....

Perhaps it's holy modesty that hides
the loam that's home to roots beneath the toads—
perhaps the veil of grass is like a bride's
attempt at privacy before the roads
of someone else's privilege dominate,
if even lovingly, what happens next.
And why should dirt and earth impersonate
the lives they host when life is so perplexed
and torn, from paragon to paradox,
attempting to be beautiful for us?
I'd rather know the quiet change of rocks
from magma slow to mountain, slow to dust—
and moreso if that naked dust might bring
the autumn earth to proper clothes come spring.