Oddments

In search of story


4 Comments

Disconnections: July 28.18

It insists:

Stop.

Watch the air

spiked

plumed

spangled

raucous

with tumbling prism

merrily

redundant

bow and rise

and bow again

see-sawing fountainous

hypnotic swing

drink and bath.

Admit

your toes remember

it’s OK

  if you smile.

 

 

Advertisements


4 Comments

Disconnections: July 24.18

Some of us know it

from school days gone by

the rarified glow

of a holycard sky.

Angels and saints

no laggards allowed

canopied ever

by holycard cloud

its edges alive

with a peachy-gold hue

it had to be thus —

plain white wouldn’t do.

It all seemed marshmallowy

pretend, and ideal,

but I see it right now

undeniably real.

 

A word about holycards: they were tokens of acknowledgement given out in Catholic schools ever so long ago. They all depicted role models. Kind of like baseball cards but more flowy. And with lilies. In that time a coveted laurel.

 

 


3 Comments

Disconnections: July 22.18

In newborn gloss

on legs of jelly

a baby inquires

on tender belly

what is this place?

where am I now?

is this my meadow?

I’m all, like, wow

buttercups

reciprocate

and in wonder

concelebrate.

 

 

Meet Pumpkin, offspring of Halloween. Seriously. Many thanks to Debbie and Richard Brown for this photo, taken on their cattle farm, Indian Trail Farms, VA, and kindly shared by S.W. Berg. Debbie was the photographer and is a close friend of Halloween and, one imagines, proud admirer of Pumpkin.


5 Comments

Disconnections: July 17.18

In elephantine pirouette

I dance around my deck

bending, leaning, stretching

twisting leg and neck

camera poised and ready

in effort all agley’d

to capture in mid-flight

a wispy floating seed.

It can’t be seen by others

observers might be flummoxed

wondering what I’m chasing

delusional and lummoxed.

I cannot get a focus

on ary single one

the geranium sighs and whispers

I’ll show you how it’s done:

you stay quite still and quiet

don’t let on you care

and it will come to you

like silvery tickly air.

 

 


6 Comments

Disconnections: July 14.18

Consider the grip.

You want to turn the outside faucet to get water through the hose? Grip. You want to hold the hose? Grip. You want to fill the watering can, pick it up, and tip it into the potted basil? Grip, grip, and grip.

You want to hold a mug of coffee? You want to pour more coffee into that mug? You want to lather soap, floss your teeth, scrape a bowl? Grip, grip, grip, grip, and grip.

How about squeezing the tube of toothpaste or sunscreen or the handle for a spray bottle? Grip to the nth power.

Thumb, fingers, palm, wrist and a ready back-up of arm muscles — with maybe an assist from the shoulder — pitch in.

Or not.

Some would argue that I’ve been losing my grip for a long time. Ha, ha. I’m not saying they’re wrong; I’m saying that’s not the grip I’m talking about. And I’m not saying I’m the only one with such problems — there are many, many people with limited hand movement — but I am the only one writing on this blog, my bully pulpit. And maybe I speak for others with my words.

I used to say “hold it with both hands” to my boys when they were little. Now I say it to me as I lift a glass of iced tea. My hands do not let me forget they are changing.

Yes, there are adaptive gizmos and techniques that help, and I use them. They don’t, however, unchange the change. This morning I turn to the alternative medicine known as writing. This, dear reader, is my grip gripe, and I feel better already.