I knew a kid
or maybe two
who combed his hair
in such a ‘do,
flat-top or brush
or sometimes crew,
(it was the fifties,
as you probably knew).
But maybe it’s sculpted
more to my eye
like the perfect meringue
on Mom’s lemon pie.
Or could it be
a lamb crown roast?
A woolly anvil?
Chambered ghost?
There’s something grand
about a cloud
that makes us stop
and muse aloud
what can it be?
what dreams inside?
how’d it do that?
can I hitch a ride?
When an autumn sky is at your feet
and the low grasses hum,
and the one of you
is the total sum,
and your bike,
faithful steed,
is all the car
you really need,
do you know
this moment’s rite,
this solitary watch,
to hold it tight?
Thanks yet again to photographer S.W. Berg.
‘Fess up, dear reader!
You know it’s true;
you have the itch,
and I do too.
Impossible
with such a sky,
with cornhusk rustling
to ear and eye,
to deny temptations
that giant loom
to clamber up
and go Vroom-vroom!
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg
for this awesome portrait of autumn.
May this first day of a new season bring blessings!
September stands tall
between spring’s childhood
and winter’s dotage,
a bit round perhaps
with pumpkin paunch,
its brow gold-speckled,
but vital still.
One leaf, two leaves,
abacus of mortality,
drop
in quiet obedience
to the authority of time.
A cicada sings of ennui,
its sleepy notes sticking to
wet morning air
where August lingers.
CAN YOU READ, YOU NEANDERTHAL? IT’S A SCHOOL ZONE! 25 MPH SPEED LIMIT! I DON’T LIKE IT EITHER, YOU STUPID BOZO, BUT THAT’S THE WAY IT IS! GET A BRAIN AND GET OFF MY BUMPER, YOU MORON!!!
My blog subtitle is “Coping.” See how well I’m doing?
I’ve coped by blogging, gardening, cursing rabbits and geese and my muse, baking (and eating), housecleaning (seriously), painting walls, and everything in between.
Maybe it’s more accurate to say I’ve tried to cope.
My younger son says we are dealing with low-level trauma, and I like that way of putting it. This is not an annoyance or a mere bother; this is trauma and it is permeating our lives like ammonia fumes. We are all stressed. We are exhausted from being exhausted.
I can’t speak for everyone, but I can speak for me. I am becoming a name-caller. YOU DASH-DASHED PEA-BRAINED YOKEL WITH THE WET COUGH! WEAR A MASK! YES, YOU, YOU WITLESS CREEP! Even though this is yelled in my head, it’s not something I would have mind-yelled before. This worries me.
It can justly be argued that these people deserve to be yelled at, to be tarred and feathered, that there’s such a thing as too much tolerance, that if we don’t at least mind-yell we’ll implode. Nonetheless, I am not sure that my creeping impulse to commit mayhem is exactly coping.
Some day my subtitle will change. I hope I will too.
In a sigh’s time the sand tells of the living,
imprints
of those who once were.
In the mist,
dreams,
refusing death,
live on.
A constant horizon
commands our sight,
offering nothing but a beyond
to lift our eyes,
or maybe that is everything.
Remembrance Day 2021
9/11
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg
for another poignant image.
Harvest comes soon,
the greens rich and deep,
how touchable, sniffable
the twining leafed keep.
A scruffy-kneed gardener
with nails edged in black
beams notwithstanding
the crick in his back.
It’s ever a miracle —
don’t try to explain
how seeds and a longing
are linked in life’s chain.
With thanks again to my back-yard gardener son,
for both the photo op and the basil!
We were green once,
in salad days,
fixed firm to umbilical vine,
slowly orange,
until, soaked in sun brine,
we plumped to red.
All as written by some sightless scribe
ordaining how life seeds,
or maybe
by some deliberate kindness
in back yard dirt
that soul and body feeds.
Gardeners wonder.
With thanks to Shakespeare
and to my firstborn, Dennis, the backyard gardener.
The humble crumble
butter and flour,
sugar, of course,
for superpower.
Bumply roof
for muffin, cake
takes the edge off
pain and ache.
A sure Rx
for life’s annoyance,
transformative
to smile and buoyance.
There’s crunch
no matter where it’s put,
betwixt the teeth
or underfoot.
The perfect jewel
on nose or chin,
timeless fashion,
lap or skin.
Childhood’s lesson,
ever sweet:
it’s no fun
to be too neat.
Many thanks to Judy for her wonderful vegetable recipe!
May it be a blessing on your September, dear reader!
Oddments 