It's Coming

The temperature is in the eighties and that feels warm, but an autumn wind is blowing. What a great time of year. About two weeks ago, while running at dusk I felt it for the first time. For weeks I'd been anticipating its coming, even as the dog days of Texas summer dragged their feet. I took Wallace for a run and we found a field that was recently cleared, leaving stumps and the scent of cedar behind, to play in and watch the beautiful sun set. On the run back the wind met our sweaty bodies with a coolness not felt for months, a delicious foreshadowing that fall is on its way. This reminds me of a favorite poem by Bill Holm.

August in Waterton, Alberta

Above me, wind does its best
to blow leaves off
the aspen tree a month too soon.
No use wind. All you succeed
in doing is making music, the noise
of failure growing beautiful.

If you're not used to reading poetry, just remember to breathe. There are very few words so they are each one there by choice.

This is kept by my desk and computer, where I write; where I stare off into nowhere land; where I confront demons; where I face my own failure, or the teasing of it. This poem reminds me that failure in art will lead, if one endures, to success. The failure itself might even be beautiful, might even be art. I also keep a Pearls Before Swine Cartoon posted by my desk to remind me to laugh at it all.

Now is the Time...to Rhyme?

A few things I appreciate in a good poem:

• A creative, descriptive title that is NOT a line in the poem.
• A title that is nearly as long as the poem itself.
• Sass.
• The word "tunes."
  
• Poetry on taboo or unexpected subjects that makes me think, especially by asking an absurd question.
  
• The phrase "long, lonesome Sundays."
• Use of rhyming, esp. a rhyme scheme without sounding childish or idiotic.

Wait, what is this? Oh, lookie. Here's a little poem that happens to meet the above criteria. How lucky to randomly and unexpectedly stumble across such a gem! Yay!

A.E. Stallings

Triolet on a Line Apocryphally Attributed to Martin Luther

Why should the Devil get all the good tunes,
The booze and the neon and Saturday night,
the swaying in darkness, the lovers like spoons?
Why should the Devil get all the good tunes?
Does he hum them to while away sad afternoons
And the long, lonesome Sundays? Or sing them for spite?
Why should the Devil get all the good tunes,
The booze and the neon and Saturday night?