April 28.21: Coping

The frizble connects to the whatnot,

the whozzis fits under the thing,

don’t ever mistake the doohickey

for the updated technomajing.

Thus is this whatchamacallit

in aperture, appendage, and bloat

an eloquent manifestation

of gibberish with which I am smote.

It’s the shape of my grandchildren’s planet,

a world they inhabit with ease,

conversing in hieroglyphed newspeak,

fluent in emojieese.

Their view of the world is brand new,

just the way that it really should be;

I grudgingly grant I am miffed

that it gets along fine without me.

 

 

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.

 

 

April 25.21: Coping

One

pierces the twilight

with incorrigible song

defiant

in the face of night.

A ponderous tired sun

pauses

in stately descent

to anoint the singer

with gold.

 

April 22.21: Coping

The hydrangea and the crabapple tree

awoke in frozen state.

“Remind me,” said each to the other,

“what is the real date?”

They shivered and shrugged

and tried to remember

if they slept through the summer

and woke up in December.

 

Thus, below freezing, did yesterday begin. And thus did we shiver through the day. Blossoms on the trees held a hundred times their weight in heavy snow, and thus did pink and white branches lie broken on the ground. We had hail, snow, rain, bright sunshine, perfect calm, roaring winds and thunder in dizzying display, and thus did Nature growl at us to take nothing for granted.

 

Wishing you a good Earth Day, dear reader!

April 19.21: Coping

Is there in this eye

a bit of mockery,

viewing our hard-won landscape,

his charcuterie,

snickering as we

bend our backs,

planting a garden

right over his snacks?

 

 

April 14.21: Coping

I hate the isolation,

the sameness of the days,

the clouds of obfuscation

that politicians raise.

I hate the guns and beatings,

our bloody violent spate,

the toxic finger-pointing —

in sum, I hate the hate.

My scowl has been perfected,

my grumpiness assured,

my energy and spirit

effectively tonsured.

That is why the pansy

is at my closed front door,

hermetically sealed

against the global gore.

Such little flower that nods

congenial purple hope

can compensate for certain

resident misanthrope.

So if there’s a cheery face

as my homey welcome sign,

you know that it’s the pansy’s;

it most surely isn’t mine.

 

 

April 12.21: Coping

Beyond the budded lattice,

creamy cloud,

impermanent

as strawberries.

 

 

Is it my fault, dear reader, that such a cloud makes me think of

strawberry shortcake?

 

April 7.21: Coping

Until the next pandemic

we’ll pack our masks away;

I’ve no idea when,

but it will be some day.

They’ll go into the drawer

inscribed The Fibber McGee,

where souvenirs and remnants

await next century.

When comes that barefaced day

we hug with glad impunity,

when everyone is safe

with ’round-the globe immunity,

I think that I might feel

a twinge of slight regret

and miss that unloved sign

of one-for-all mindset.

I’ll miss the muffled greeting of

“Hey, I like your mask!”

acclaimed by passerby

I didn’t even ask.

And then I must return

to pre-pandemic place

where no one ever hails me

with “Hey, I like your face!”

 

 

 

April 1.21: Coping

It’s Poetry Month!

Awake, Chanticleer!

It’s a Word Party

for one-twelfth of the year!

Such rarified air —

how best celebrate?

Use words like behoof,

whence, vulpinate?

Will I write my to-do list

in tripping dactylic,

wear diaphanous robes

though I look imbecilic?

What shall I read?

Some Dickinson, Frost?

Maybe an epic

like Paradise Lost?

Yes, I’m name-dropping;

it’s only a ruse

for what I tuck in them:

my friend, Mother Goose.

Does rhyme make a poem?

I think not, but then

I don’t know what does —

it’s out of my ken.

I’ve read and I’ve wondered

if anyone knows

why some works are called poems

and not just fine prose.

What makes a poem?

Can I know beyond doubt?

Will Poetry Month

help me figure it out?