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.
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.
The eternal question
is writ on her face:
which is more fun,
to catch or to chase?
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.
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.
Atop a barren
dying tree
defying laws
of gravity
pitched and bounced
mid-air wild-riding —
I hope he doesn’t think
he’s hiding.
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.
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.
My zinnia seeds sprouted,
and madly they grew
in red plastic bowl
but what could I do? —
Things went awry
time hurried on
they reached to the sky
and spring was all gone.
By the time they were planted
their roots all a-glob
I had to transplant them
in one big blob.
Lingering
a reluctant sun
releases day
leaf by leaf
pensive
wondering
what night
is like.
Tall and short
each has its duty
to be what it is
in its own beauty.
It must be allowed
despite any druther
we couldn’t know one
without the other.