Farm Autumn

Berry season ends;
There is the scent of second hay;
The moon hangs full, red,
Nippled with possibilities -
Winter barely waits -
White flakes gather in the north;
A deep chill touches the nights
With the smell of wood burning
And hot chocolate simmers
Against the cool night air.

Horses, huddled in pasture,
Have started their winter coats,
Resenting the curry combs
Forgetting the warm barn.
The cows low desperate
Waiting to be milked
as if their tits have swollen
with the ample moon.

Someone,
Quick,
Climb the ladder
Pick the apples
before they bruise to the ground
unworthy to make the pies and cider
to celebrate the year,
We must revel the harvest,
gather the last mown hay
bring logs from the wood lot
that is but few miles away.

There is a small spruce
that has been growing in the shade.
We'll harvest her for Christmas
Come December's darkest day.
Strung with popcorn lights and tinsel,
We'll gather round to sing
The blessings of our lord,
The glories of our king.

For Frederico Garcia Lorca

When my love leaves, there will be no music;
When she returns, there will be only tears.
Farewell, my love, journey far to your joy;
I shall wait in silence for you here
And weep again on your return.

Ay, ay, ay; and weep again on your return.

The orange groves have lost their beauty;
The finest blossom has gone away
To seek her fortunes in the cities -
To dance and sing in the cities
There to make others gay.

Ay, ay, ay; and weep again on your return.

Now you have become a gypsy,
A wanderer through life;
And I, cursed, am blind to beauty,
Cursed, am deaf to song,
Until my love and I again can cry.

Ay, ay, ay; and weep again on your return.

^

Biography

Ken Weene is a psychologist who took up writing to deal with his own mid-life crisis. He has been published extensively in the U.S.A. both on the web and in print. He has three chap books available. In addition he has written a number of professional papers guaranteed to induce sleep.