Yellow Trees 2012

On Sunday evening I received an email from Word Press saying that my Insha’Allah post would be on Freshly Pressed. I wasn’t even sure what that meant but when I looked it up I was surprised and grateful. More than 1,000 visitors came to the blog over the next two days and hundreds of them ‘liked’ the post or left messages of sympathy for the family I had written about. I know these kind thoughts were felt by my friends and I thank all of you for your compassion. 

I visited the site of each person who ‘liked’ the post and spent hours reading about their many diverse and interesting journeys. There were men and women from India, Malaysia, Africa, England, Norway, Canada, Pakistan and more; they were young teenagers to old grandfathers. Some decided to follow the blog.

To all of the newcomers, I hope you enjoy future postings. They won’t all be serious or sad and they won’t be regularly scheduled. I write to examine the twists and turns of my mind, to capture a moment, to tell a story but most of all I write because I must. I hope that my ponderings find a resonance with you.

Today I have a poem for you that was inspired by our beautiful autumn weather which yesterday reminded me of the kindness of an old grandmother. The next post will be a funny one that will finally explain why women cry when they are angry.



Steady, solid, centered,

This November day glows

Like a fat bellied Buddha

While green, yellow and orange trees

Are etched against the smile

Of the Mona L isa sky.

In the golden afternoon

The old dog on the porch

Trembles and dreams

Of chasing rabbits in the woods

And drinking from rocky streams

That run clear and sweet.

Her cheeks rouged with red berries,

Her lips plump as melons,

November rests as pumpkins ripen

On frost-tinged vines encircling scarecrow legs

That stand alone in brown fields

Under a chill silver moon.

Wearing the dignity of a old grandmother

Who hugs children and feeds her cat

From a clean green bowl,

November walks slowly and leans heavily,

Her cane tapping out the measure of each day

While Basho’s crow sounds a cry of joy

Wrung from the great bell of age.

Reverberations tremble through the air

To create the seed that will sleep

Until the womb of time opens

At solstice when the fire

That dances in the furnace of the sun

Ignites the fire in my soul.


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