The header up above
is fragment of this tree.
Photographer, you might surmise,
is puny awestruck me.
I stood in back-bowed wonder
beneath a world bedecked;
I think I have a clue
why I am so stiff-necked.
With thanks to S.W. Berg, the photographer of the photographer.
This tower rose in Ireland
as refuge from the Viking;
I ponder it as something
profoundly to my liking.
It’s possible this holds
the peace that calms, revives:
this could be the place
I might escape Burl Ives.
Ah, yes, dear reader, it’s that time again: time for the onslaught of Christmas mall music, aka noise.
Bing Crosby? Check. The Chipmunks? Check. Tylenol? Check, check.
Special thanks to photographer Art Lindeman.
The curtain falls
change ever trustable
autumn bows out
in finale combustible.
May your road be open, dear reader, and wend through splendid color.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
With special giving of thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
Here, it says,
is the road —
there, the town.
Steward of the way
sure and lown.
In placid stony
hieroglyph,
with iron pipe
as cold serif,
not so neon
as GPS,
but cartographical
nonetheless.
Pre-dating pavement
and prim white fence,
cobwebby vines
for recompense.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
When winter comes
even the drips stop
to heed
the inward time
iced
blackened by early night
when kitchen lights glow gold
and we face ourselves
reflected in dark windows.
Monument
to lasting function
or rouged and blowzy
extreme unction?
Wizened perhaps
in carburetor
atrophied
in accelerator
rusted, dented,
sedentary
yet with vital
commentary
to give me hope
there’s still some good
within my own
antique popped hood.
I do not know the creator so I cannot give credit,
but I can tell you this is part of a stop-the-car! display in Fortville, IN.
Is it public art or capital joke? In the eye of the beholder, yes?
Aplomb is where you find it
in any habitat
some kitchens wear an onion
like a Hedda Hopper hat.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg photo archives.
Even a little plastic tree
deserves a kinder place to be
away from marbled symmetry
squared into sterility.
Stark it stands dejectedly
illustrating pointedly
how we are compelled to see
the world anthropomorphically.
More thanks to the observant eye of photographer S.W. Berg.
Winter sketch
ice lines
hard and bright
crystal’d maple
catching
freezing
lamplight.
And so it starts, dear reader: winter comes on crackling ice feet, and it’s here this morning.
Oddments 