Bio Note: I began publishing poetry five years ago when the late Firestone Feinberg accepted a handful of poems for Verse-Virtual. Lately I'm trying to write a poem every day, work on a novel, file one story a week for the Boston Globe, and keep yapping at fate. I've had poems lately in The Literary Nest and the "justice" issue of Necro Magazine, and am looking forward to next year's publication of a collection of short stories by Adelaide Press. For poems, flower pics, and occasional politics see www.prosegarden.blogspot.com.
I am a refrigerator, my accumulated coolness weeping away. I am a kinship group of fully extended oak leaves swaying and spinning ceaselessly in the punctuated gusts of the new-season storm that walks in among us (like the uninvited guest at the neighborhood mixer we have not, in fact, ever held) to turn off the lights and the machines that keep us all ticking. I am the sound of the distant tires huffing off to a place where things can still get done. I am the silence of things not getting done. I am the wind deep-breathing after a calculated pause as if to remind us who is lord of this condition. I am the emptiness of the silent house, the shadows in the room's missing corridors, the powerlessness, the sound of one pen writing.
Walking Up Bikers' Mountain
What do we have in common? That hell-bent-for-leather descent, blatant contrast to our struggle upward to what, in fact, we have no idea: A full gung-ho rally of folks with well-developed calves? A parking lot of gawking 'vista' tourists such as the over-publicized 'cobble' crawl we passed up that afternoon to find our own slogging fun... Or just another switchback in autumn's march-time windfall of glorious days falling on both the youthful conquerors of local mountains who sacrifice silence to the thrill of the chase, and those who no longer hear those bugle calls for the timeless sirens of the sunset? Once, in the long ago, my son rode his BMX into the woods behind my 'street bike' repurposed to find a way among scrubby trees and the occasional stony exposure, barely keeping vertical along sketchy trails of local use by folks who can no longer remember a time when they found hours to hang in the woods... We two hung together, maintaining just enough headway to keep my old two-wheeler from falling over, a joint forward-momentum that has endured the years, the way an old dirt road keeps twisting skyward, and young daredevils steal an hour from their doom.
…are 'the best thing in the world,' she said. We say it again this year. We say it with the faded goldenrod that turns to cornmeal star-bursts when we bring it indoors. We see it in the carmine teardrop leaves of the season’s first-bearing, first-turning fruit trees, blushing from the kiss of borealis; in the burnished seeds of always-impending Phragmites, copper-brown as the grain of some other autumn harvest; and, this week, especially among the asters, those children of stars that line the roadsides like avatars of another spring, reminding us of every reason we have ever possessed to focus on the road ahead
©2020 Robert Knox
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