Nature

While You May

~ Iyan Igma

Enjoy the rain while you may
Before arthritis and joints conspire
To pressure you into misery
And set your weary limbs on fire.

Bathe your face in heaven’s dew
And dance amidst the angelic spittle
While you are young and vital yet
And your bones have not turned brittle.

Splash in puddles and play in mud
Ere propriety robs this fun from you,
And you become a boring grownup
That disdains joy and says, “Pooh, pooh.”

Flesh out your childhood with memories
That you may have wide smiles when old
Of dancing through the seasons
When drizzles made the air grow cold.

Primordial Rites

~ Iyan Igma

The torrents have left their mark here,
As mud puddles and ditches show.
The oils slip by past battered grass;
Debris’s amazed how fast it flows.

I walk along admiring floods
Like others seek out Christmas lights,
Enthralled to see creeks overflow
In nature’s primordial rites.

When not splashing, I walk on curbs
As if I could relive childhood
By trying not to fall off now,
Walking whithersoe’er I would.

This past spring the pollen’s gold dust
Dyed the rushing flood waters green,
Restoring natural colours
Back to afflicted living things.

But now ’tis fall and the brown grass
Is littered with wet clumps of snow
Where cotton’s escaped from the trucks,
Littering the roadsides below.

The First Sweet Grass of the Season

~ Iyan Igma

It calls to me with tempting words,
Begging my teeth to masticate
And feel the fibers fill my mouth
As its juice makes me salivate.

And all it does to bid me this
Is sunburn in a field of spring
Invoking a spell of mem’ry
Long dusty of once winnowing

The chaff from this abundant weed
That I was forbidden to chew.
I hesitate somehow restrained,
Knowing what one my age should do.

Perhaps it’s just to prove a point,
But I cross to the field’s red patch,
Pluck a stalk, clean it, and try not
To think of germs or what might hatch.

I want this moment raw and wild,
Like the millions had as a boy.
The first sweet grass of the season
Nonetheless fails to give me joy.

I doubt it’s because its taste’s changed,
Though it’s nothing like in childhood.
For worry hinders enjoying
The simple pleasures a child would.

Though it’s a tart and pulpy mess,
I chew more as a reminder
Of the times when I truly lived.
The taste’s sour; nostalgia’s kinder.

Bluebells on a Hill

~ Iyan Igma

A bunch of bluebells on a hill
Overlooks me where I walk
Listening to the birds and wind
As they chirp, tweet, squawk, and talk.

I fear that they once were daisies,
But I have made them depressed.
They’d curdle, were they buttercups;
Roses would bleed like my chest.

But no matter what breed they were,
They’ve taken part of my pain.
I once thought flowers were petty,
But ’tis I, not them, who’s vain.

‘Neath a Shroud of Gray

~ Iyan Igma

With stealth the orange sight is flitting
Like a drunken angel weary
In short bursts higher on the wind
Gusting ‘neath heav’ns painted eerie,

Was its sign their grim demeanor,
For they brood overcast and grave?
Or is it simply wary of
The chilly way the skies behave?

Would I could accompany you
To where you flee with good reason!
Winter’s dirges sound while flees the
Last butterfly of the season.

Where the Dawn Perspires

~ Iyan Igma

Each night the spiders craft their webs
Slinging silk through the starlit skies.
Gossamer glistens when night ebbs,
And the world wakes to pursue lies.

The arachnids’ fishing nets span
From tree limb to bush leaf through air.
As blindly as only men can,
I walk wrecking what’s wrought with care.

You’d think I’d learn every morning
To watch for their sticky trip wires
That glimmer when light’s adorning
Rays shine on where the dawn perspires.

You’d think they’d learn to build elsewhere,
Since I’ll pass through the path each day.
If they built higher than my hair,
We would peaceably share the way.

They’ll build in vain till they die;
Surely their spoils must justify
What’s gone in the blink of an eye.
We’re alike, this spider and I.

Its web’s a monument to me,
A frail thing which soon passes on,
Hoping to serve out its purpose
Before an instant finds it gone.

Starlet Blossom

~ Iyan Igma

Why weep ye? This flower was made
So that it could be picked and die;
The starlet blossom’s not afraid.
The same shall pass to you and I.

Death meets even its brethren buds
By bugs, pests, or inclement climes,
Like those who’ve cast their petal duds
Early, in season, or betimes—

Just like those that lay on the ground,
A pile of mush and rotten things,
And those withered where stems abound.
Don’t you know we’re all just playthings?

Temperate Emotions

~ Iyan Igma

There’s blithe relief now in the air,
For the sorrow of the drought’s gone.
It’s been so long since the snare
Drum of rain and the woodwinds blown

And the melodic tuba of
Thunder have been heard in these parts.
Aye, spring’s enjoyed not just for love,
Which gladdens and deceives the hearts

Of many a spry lad and lass
And creatures stung by love’s potions,
But moreso for the storms that pass—
The weather guides our emotions.

March 19, 2008

~ Iyan Igma

Azaleas in purples and pinks
And strange reds, grass and clover shag,
Lil’ white and purple forbs, me thinks,
Are enjoying their time to brag.

Dead chlorophyll leaves are bleeding
In the green yard haphazardly;
The fat squirrels themselves are treating,
Since still now occasionally

Stray pecans continue falling
When the wind roars; they eat haply
In between limbs that had nothing
Better to do than fall gaily,

‘Sif they were in love with any
Passing wind. To me ’tis beauty,
And the dogwood blossoms agree.
It’s undisturbed, as it should be.

Ao Meditar

~ Iyan Igma

I lie still and levitating
In a spring field serene and mild.
The gentle breeze is quite sedating;
My head rests on a tuft of cloud.

Tall grasses, wheat, and rye stretch up;
They’ve tickled my fancy for hours.
A spattering of buttercups,
Purple pieces of wildflowers,

Bedraggled dandelion whelps,
And blossomed blackberry brambles
Provide the reverence that helps
My mind focus as it ambles.

No part of my body touches
Another—no pressure or pain.
The warm sun’s eager paintbrushes
Envision my face. A refrain

Of boisterous birds is muted
Like butterfly wings flying by
And the white tails, who are suited
To let meditating men lie.

There is no sound that I can hear,
Nor the witnessing goldenrods
That line the trees on all sides clear
To the horizon and the gods.

I’ve pushed allergens far from thought
So that they cannot afflict me.
I’m cool and tranquil, though I’ve fought,
As the stream tarrying to see

What’s not seen in a century,
A wonder worthy of old Greece,
Such a peculiar oddity—
Me, finally resting in peace.