PALE LEMON FIRE IN A PARTLY CLOUDY AUTUMN, poem by Dennis Mahagin

Nearly noon, on Thursday

late October, and I see the trees

swaying within a wind that means

only business,

no fragrant breeze

here, no idle

burlesque:

merely rote

screams, blue note egress from boughs

with foresight and worse, they bite back the bark

in street light poses, they feel so much

better, much better come

the dark.

This time of year, this time

of life it breaks

down the anger, ache by ache, cold moan

in the heart attack

eaves, but maybe you know it

by now, too? by God

we must not feel so sorry

for those leaves, in free

fall, going to a place that gets

umber, then full

on, naked in a month: Winter

is the ruddy face of a poet

at sixty…

Or the ticking

of radiators

in my youth, they run on

steam,

sticky sheets left

obliterated in the middle of the poster bed

of those welfare hotels, I’d check in

for kicks only, sucked off

dry by the usual specters, too many raven-haired sins

to enumerate them

now,

down the block, some bloke fires up his chain saw,

and back in my brain, the fat Irish bard

in green felt derby hat: … Let it go, boyo … But oh

to anticipate the wood smoke, arriving soon

in a kind of unison, doubles as an astral

sob; now it’s about half

past noon.

Dennis Mahagin is the author of two poetry collections: “Grand Mal” from Rebel Satori Press (https://www.amazon.com/Grand-Mal-Dennis-Mahagin/dp/1608640515) and “Longshot & Ghazal”from Mojave River Press: http://premiumreading.com/content/unbelievable-longshot-ghazal-dennis-mahagin-online-get. Dennis is also the poetry editor for the online magazine, FRiGG. He lives in southwestern Montana.