Halloween Treat

Against autumn’s golds And browns,
A sudden, almost
Psychedelic
Purple-blue:
One jaybird on the trail.

Plop, plop! …
Plop … plop … plop!
From this one old oak
An acorn shower!
Browsing on the Summer-sere hillside,
The first turkeys
Since spring.

Time-change weekend,
We’ll regain an hour.
Start it with
A cup of coffee.
Too dark at 7 a.m.
To view the
Lovely garden.
Not even a single Neighbor up
This early on Saturday.

Strip of paper
Used as bookmark
In tanka collection
Bears one printed word:
“Untitled.”

So desperate
For a poem
This morning
That I use
Anything that
Comes to hand!
But nothing good
Comes to mind.

Suddenly I think
Of Dutch poet
Anselm Hollo –
Without discussing
The quality of his work
(Which is very
Good, IMHO),
What a great name
For a poet!

Stacks
Of vacant thoughts
This Halloween morn.
No mask needed now
I come costumed
As Old Man.
OK, then!
TRICK OR TREAT!

Hated Halloween
As a kid.
Never had the money
For a decent
Costume
And no one
In my family
Passed along the gift
Of invention.

Even that one year
When I got that
Great rubber skull mask
I hated how hot
It was to wear
And how it
Made my glasses
Steamy. No
Chill of grave there!

I was always glad
When we were done
Trick-or-treating.
Didn’t like candy
All that much
Except for
The bittersweet,
Dark chocolate.

(Don’t tell
My grandsons
About all this –
They love Halloween
And I never
Wanted to spoil
Anyone’s fun.)

Thinking on it,
I always hated
Mysteries and
Scary movies.
Something in me
Made (makes?) life
Itself mysterious &
Scary enough –
I need no further
TERROR.

Must have been
A combination of
My gentle genetic bent
And my mother’s
Constant paranoia
(In her defense,
It was fed
By her generation’s
Pre-sulfa-drug,
Great Depression
Era) about
Almost everything.
She always
Kept the shades drawn
Even on the most
Beautiful days,
And would caution all
To be on the
Lookout for
“Bad Guys”
(The chief of whom,
In her mind,
Was my father).

The click … click … click
Of the battery-powered
Clock on the mantel
Sounds almost like
The old key-wound clocks of childhood.

Nothing to be done
After all this
Time
But write it
All down
In ersatz verse,
A lovely way
To help pass the
Remaining days,
Or, more accurately,
The mornings.

Used to love to write
Late at night
When dark thoughts
Crowded in,
Or weed-fueled
Silliness.
Now, my mind
Works best
(& none too
Quickly at that!)
In morning’s natural
Sunshine mode.

Even the friendliest
Cat looks wary
& disturbed
If addressed
While eating.

I’m writing with
My new harmonica pen
That was one of two
That were gifts
Along with
My Harrison Harmonicas
Company coffee cup
For buying
One of their
Custom instruments.
I canceled my order
And got a refund
But they’d already
Sent the rewards
For ordering, so
Just told me to keep
The cup. They
Didn’t mention pens.
They gave me
The refund and
I didn’t find
The pens till
I was about
To use the box
To mail something else.
Ah, life’s
Unexpected blessings!

Now how to pay
My monstrous
Credit-card debt?
The refund
From the harp purchase
Won’t do it.

Must sell
EVERYTHING!
Get out of debt!
Or win the lottery
(Almost typed
“loitery …”
I’ve already
Mastered that)

Fat chance!

Saturday, October 31, 2009:
(c) Robert Loomis