Carole Falk

Complications

Hanging in a memory for 60 years—
the cashmere softness,
the rich color,
the scent of the fox shawl collar— a very special gift.

Back then I donned its elegance for my father’s approval,
a princess who loved so unconditionally.

Dapper, cultured, with the bearing of a prince—
he radiated charm and charisma.

But later, his errors stained, tainted the memory of the coat.

He had strayed, fooling himself, while ruining my mother’s life.

I said nothing—
though I knew it was wrong.

My mother, forever constant and caring, had been wronged—
I felt her pain and and knew where my loyalties should lie.

Yet I couldn’t help but adore —
my Daddy forever—
the handsome star who gave me the gorgeous coat—
and so much more.

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Suite Of Seasonal Haiku

Spring

amaryllis bulb in red wax
tumescent and tall
a new year’s blossom
_____________________

lantern flies arrive
each beautiful
bringing death
_____________________

a bald eagle returns this spring
his kingdom below—
he flexes his wings
 

Summer

two Canada geese soar across my window frame
a graceful swooping from right to left—
down they plunge in tandem
two furrows in still water
_____________________

shrubs vibrant in greens
radiant blue and lavender hydrangeas
swish and sway
_____________________

the moths bid farewell to the candle’s flicker
I bid farewell
to summer’s fleeting night

 

Fall

October’s green leafy maple
turns crispy orange all in a day—
my November eyes touch change
______________________________

Red and gold enliven autumn leaves
they brown too quickly
crushed by feet
_____________________

fiercely blowing wind
roils leaves
whips the face—
knows what’s coming

 

Winter

a convention of crows
sitting on snow-kissed branches
black   white    brown
_____________________

through the windshield
birds sit on electric wire
score on a page
_____________________

snowy brushstrokes add white texture
dramatizing still branches and reeds
soon to explode in technicolor 

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Ode to a Cherry Tree

Arriving early this year the winter curtain parted; 
a new act began.

Your blooms preened with joy, and
saturated pink atomized the air.

But best, you brought peace.

Elating my heart in this time of viral terror
stems slow-danced to the rhythm of renewal.

Within three days your blooms lived their cycle--
but never in vain, for bees hovered. 

How special is your ephemeral cycle-- 
pregnant bud to bursting bloom to spent petals.

You retreat slowly into your garden background, 
a member of the chorus once more.

You will grow and rehearse for next year’s show, quietly, unnoticed
until your moment in the sun.

I  applaud your display--
glorious defiance mixed with resilient beauty.

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Elixir

Clothed now in my many years, I balance on an uneven path down to the creek

older beeches escort me with their still elegant sweeps of grey and taupe

 

today I think I hear an orchestral spring song—

 

the song surrounds a gift— 

                for below in the water 

                         the regal wood duck floats in wider and wider circles— 

                                    quietly presiding 

on a day late this March he has returned with his mate—

                             the rhythm of natural renewal:

his head wears a feathered crown 

                        his body is draped in emerald iridescence

while… 

his simply dressed queen 

                        roosts inside the castle my own mate made of wood for the hope of new life

I stop to witness this majestic moment— 

                              before 

                             turning upwards— 

                             to what’s left of my day. 

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Synchronicity

Every spring three viburnum preen proudly like a set of triplets posing for a family photograph.

Birthed at the same time by a composer who wished for listener’s smiles, each season they

await their turn.

Instead a surprise, now happily anticipated—

 

for as the years passed, they bloomed sequentially,

each a part of an orchestral movement,

instead of the desired booming crescendo.

The first opens its tight bloomets in tune with a regal redbud dressed in lilac

And—

 

                when the conductor swoops his baton upwards,

                the second unfurls like a metronome’s steady beat

                while nearby forsythia jump from brilliant yellow to green.

 

Then—

 

                with the baton’s gentle downward sweep, the third begins its ascent.

Finally enveloped by the totality of virginal white and voluptuous floral scent

spring’s melody rests—

after repeating its resplendence in triplicate.

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Ancient History

Astrape and Bronte, goddesses of lightning and thunder—

festooned with flowing hair and draped in gossamer,

reflecting light as if from silvered mirrors, 

raged ear-splitting fire onto all below—

fields of grass, cities of granite and even the sea—

Mere mortals couldn’t comprehend the terror, 

the bloody rages that returned again and again—

unforgettable shows of power

and then inexplicably—

silence, calm so that even moonbeams

seemed incomprehensible until 

men could give them names.

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 © Carole Falk, all rights reserved