Tribal

(About being a child. The smell of fall triggers a waterfall of emotion.
  Freedom is lost to structure and the renewed experience of being chosen or rejected in the new/old social setting we call school)

Darkness falls earlier these days
Without fail
The melancholy wells up

Like thermal mud-pots
Boiling over
With pent up anticipation

Soon there will be a choosing
A renewing 
Confirmation of what I already know

The abyss in my stomach returns
As I reach out
Clumsily grasping for tree limbs

Eyes closed, over the cliff I go
Encircled by perfection
Conscious of every rejection

Life cycles ended in harvest
A new year
But we’re told it’s not yet new year

If I open my eyes
Will I hit bottom?

Oils on canvas – 16″x20″
The sixties was a time when a child would grow up outside. Mothers would tell their children “go outside and play”. We would….oh we would. We were almost feral….until it was time for dinner.
Going “back to school” robbed us of that freedom, and brought the testing of our worldly social skills to the fore. Some of us were very good at it. Some of us simply blended into the lead-painted siding.
Fall for me has always been painted with these experiences, even after all these years.

7 Comments

  1. Thoroughly enjoyed the Fall poem Marc. I share the exact feelings about that moment when the school bell rings, screaming loudly in my ear: It’s the end of all your sweet summer freedom, and the beginning of confinement and the silent squeezing of your heart! So say goodbye to the beach, the shaded veranda and all your summer dresses.

    Liked by 1 person

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