A cold sun in the sky
twins itself on ice;
the amaryllis roisters:
it too can ignite twice.
Monthly Archives: January 2019
January 29.19
How many of me
I could see —
a me throng to pay heed to!
Alas, each me
no guarantee
of seeing what I need to.
Thanks again to photographer S.W. Berg.
January 27.19
Omelette art,
edible wonder,
delicate froth
both over and under,
but firm enough yet
to spill and hold,
hinting what’s hidden,
coy and bold.
Savory, sweet
edible plate —
I salute the egg
in endless iterate.
If you have an omelette today, dear reader,
especially one with such Papageno colors,
be sure to serve it with a birthday candle
and hum a few bars of “The Magic Flute.”
Happy birthday, Mozart!
With more thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
And a tip of the chef’s hat to omelette chef Art Lindeman.
Yes, this is Art’s omelette art.
January 26.19
Hey, cold robin!
It’s winter! Did you know?
You think “early bird” means
worming in the snow?
I get that winter’s
the first sign of spring
but you’re pushing
that red-breasted harbinger thing.
January 24.19
Night lingers
in cobalt shadow
while stars dawdle
on winter’s bones.
January 19.19
Too old and crisped
to fight the wind
whose sport it is
to dizzy me,
I pretend
a diamond rink
in chassé with
Terpsichore.
January 16.19
Excuse me, Eminence.
I really must ask:
do you think you’re hiding
because of the mask?
Incognito
with that wing?
Camouflage
is not your thing!
You’re subtle
as an advertisement,
the scarlet feather
of self-aggrandizement.
With apologies to Nathaniel Hawthorne.
January 14.19
You don’t need a fireplace
to have a crackling blaze
there are other fires
that warm our winter days.
Dear reader,
I don’t know if I had too much coffee this morning or not enough. Somehow I published a post that wasn’t supposed to be a post. In horror I deleted it. If you were kind enough to visit earlier, you would have encountered a really weird post or a complete blank. Either one would explain me.
Maureen
January 12.19
Breakfast is served
if you’re not too picky
if you don’t think slimy
pondweed is icky
if you’ll brave the snow
and duckgooseflesh
you’ll savor an entrée
delectably fresh.
(Well, at least I didn’t make any cold duck jokes.)
Oddments 