Crabapple lanterns
winking
rain on tiptoe
sprinkling.
Sour ruby
pendant
unseen
unsung
resplendent.
Monthly Archives: November 2015
Connections: November 27
It isn’t Black Friday
it’s the Friday with suds.
I don’t care about big screens,
xbox or ear buds.
The kitchen is quiet,
no duck jokes or laughter,
just lathering thoughts:
Thanksgiving’s Day After.
Connections: November 26
THANKSGIVING ROUSER
Is there a pumpkin in your pie?
(in your pie)
Is there a lox upon your rye?
(‘pon your rye)
Pierogi, latke, dribbles on my chin,
and Brussels sprouts cannot come in.
(cannot come in)
Is there a gizzard in your pot?
(in your pot)
Giblet gravy hits the spot.
(hits the spot)
Drumstick, wishbone, grease and sticky plate,
that is why today is great.
(today is great)
Memories with nosh and sip,
(nosh and sip)
ghosts in every crumb and drip,
(crumb and drip)
but lift we glass as high as it can be
to what has been and what will be!
(and what will be)
To be sung, more or less, to the tune of “There Is A Tavern In The Town.”
Think Mitch Miller, you who are old enough.
All others, go to Google.
And Happy Thanksgiving!
Connections: November 25
Show me no calendar!
I don’t want to see!
A month from today?
No way! Cannot be!
The stressed madding crowds,
the squeeze and the sleaze,
Burl Ives and The Chipmunks —
I’d rather have fleas!
Connections: November 24
The door that’s always open
the walls that don’t enclose
a line of sight unbroken
leafy fragrance freely flows
yet something guards, a border,
protective but unseen —
I fill my lungs and bless him,
the inventor of the screen.
Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Connections: November 23
Many years ago
we walked a common way
through hallowed halls of high school,
teenage day-to-day.
That was then and this is now;
our ways are long asunder.
But here and there we’ve grabbed an hour
be-robed, betimes, to wonder
where we’ve been and who we are
how life is still aborning,
and we know the richest cuppa
is friendship in the morning.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
And thanks to D.J. Berg for all those early morning summits.
Connections: November 22
Winter is icumen in
lhude sing the flue
bloweth snows
and freezeth nose
sing the flue!
Crimson leaf doth nobly hold
but arresteth not the season;
cometh chapstick, cometh cold,
pulleth I my fleece on.
Connections: November 20
Behold the begonia bloom
jewelry for my screened-in room
lest you think it
an ordinary trinket
you must remember
it’s November.
Connections: November 19
The world last night
was awash in gold
a molten sunset
blindingly toled.
Weightless lava
plating all,
transient karats
on my wall.
Connections: November 18
I asked the wind to still
so I could its portrait make.
It scoffed a tympani trill
beating a leviathan ache.
Rushing, blind, indifferent,
it bayed and, passion-fed,
crushing, unkind, belligerent,
tossed my camera on its head.
Oddments 