Four Seasons, 4 Verses

i

This season is our season: daze of days

of no particular observance, neither

joy nor grief, a sea of indiscriminate

sensations born of the habitual insouciance

of wastrels: a widowing of blind fate

in expectation of a daily bread

sliced and buttered, precisely placed

in accordance with our noble station

as sons of the all mighty providence:

what purpose, beyond the ceaseless crease

of an ear given up to the shuffling

of a sea's crescendo sown through the eye

of a snail's humble abode, are we here for?

Should no man be ever so free as we!

ii

The gripe of winter is a thin porridge

upon which to fashion a lyric from:

an old man's complaint of dubious merit,

hardly distinct, or particularly clever,

takes the ache of his disjointed opinions

to the outer edges of a fart's kingdom,

a consumptive tax not even the hapless John

ever conceived of: still, I am of a mind

to make my displeasure known, to let fly

a quiver of invectives against

the cruelty of a season made from ice

and spittle, designed to rack the burdened back

of my withering spine and mind, to shout,

“O' the utter mendacity of Sir Frost!”

iii

With April rides the good fortunes

of skittish young colt's hearts and loins:

when chaos crowds the globe, thought and reason

unglued, fair maids of every make and kind

become the sticky passion, game to be

pursued, wooed, wedded and bedded

before the lilacs first chance to bloom:

and through the season good mother's scheme

while father's fret and moat their daughters up

in castle keeps, with one eye always open

should they hear a pony's canter, snicker

of a wood be stallion coming off the moors:

O' April May and into June the wants

of skittish colts, ride on good fortunes!

iv

Who ever comprehends a summer's end

before the season's good and truly dead?

What mind can't suspend their mind full reason

for nights on end skipping stones across

a loon laden lake, making rhymes from

lightning bolts of blue tinged thunderheads?

When won't a road seem much too short or straight

for never stepping off and shedding suits

for dipping toes into a bubbling stream?

Where will it ever be written time's too

dear to waste on fishing, flying kites or

hiking into oblivion? Why would you

shake the dust from your sandalled feet until

the last second's been wrung from the sun? Why?

Ken e Bujold

© 2022

Reviews

[softlyfall]

I'm in love with this poem. I really really love it.
First of all
"I let fly a quiver of invectives" is right up there with "I fart in your general direction"
But, being serious, there are so many carefully constructed phrases, this is a treasure trove of them. And there is something almost a little sideways about your perspective, as though any grumbling you might do about the weather would be with a smil.

[Ken e Bujold]

Thank you Soft, for the soft falling words of a review. Yes the construction of this took a bit of time, not quite 4 seasons, but long enough. Goal was to capture mood of each season as it plays to my senses, and hopefully others. As for the weather, I am a Canadian, and as such, it is my god given right to b***h about the weather. As we say up here in the north, if you don't like it, wait 10 minutes and it's bound to change. Personally I don't like being chilly, which is far different from being cold. The other oddity, is I could be living anywhere I wanted, and I am married to a Singaporean, where there is no shortage ever of warmth and sun. Sadly, she has had her fill of rays and prefers the changing seasons, so here I sit, about to freeze my a*s off once again through another chilly autumn
Ken

[W. Barrett Munn]

This is quite an amazing piece of writing, Ken. I think it one of your better, certainly top 10 worthy, especially winter.

Winston

[Ken e Bujold]

ah winter where old men's hearts and minds seem always to gather