Is there something in this hard cold
that mirrors the moment
in dishwater hues
and spreads it at our feet
so we see it
fall on it
are bruised by it?
And if we fall through
surprised
will the icy muck pull us down?
And so, dear reader, not having had enough of death in the last few years,
we must have war.
It’s our mutual motto,
my furry confrère,
the words that we live by:
“it’s here somewhere.”
Late winter’s aspect,
dispirited, bland,
and the song of the pothole
is heard through the land.
Hungry holes
salivating
for tasty hubcap,
serenading
with siren song
that calls to tire,
come-hither croon
sweetly dire.
Like magnets do they
pull cars in,
dine on axles
with demonic grin.
Their song grows louder
the wider they,
the better to swallow
a whole Chevrolet.
Fanged predator,
your tentacles reach me;
I sing back in words
my mom didn’t teach me.
Dear reader, it is my opinion (I have many) that there is more than one kind of pothole in life. I seem to be dealing with a blog pothole. For the last couple days, whenever I try to write a comment in one blog, I suddenly find myself in a different blog. Blam! Just like that! So far as I can tell, I’m doing nothing but typing my comment in Dan’s blog, and suddenly I’m in Susan’s. I’m typing a comment in Susan’s blog and suddenly I’m in Dan’s. And so on.
It’s the case of the hopping blogs. Whether this is a WordPress pothole or my computer’s or my brain’s, I know not. Meanwhile, I will be gone from comment sections but not because I don’t have something to say!
This bossy bird
with sword-like cry
stabbed my head
though pleased my eye.
My shovel rang out
through the snow;
he seemed to think me
slothful though.
He barked his mind
in notes of steel
that I had
insufficient zeal.
Bossy bird!
Why don’t you fly
somewhere that wants you
not nearby?
But then an echo
sliced the air —
his ladylove?
OK! Go there!
She and he,
buzz-saw duet,
each one playing
hard to get.
But still I heard
him like drill master
prodding me
to shovel faster.
Though lovely in his
lofty venue,
blue jay pie
was on my menu.
February first,
a winter storm is lurking;
ice and snow and sleet —
is their inner clock not working?
What ever are they thinking,
popped up so green and straight?
Could it possibly be spring
they prognosticate?
Dear reader, if you live in this country, you know that winter is about to smite us again; snow and ice are roaring at us and the last couple days have seen people dashing about, not in the best of moods, trying to prepare. Yesterday it was 50. I took advantage of the anomaly and walked around the house. It was like taking that big breath before diving underwater again: one bit of fresh air before the next hunkering down.
I about fell over when I spotted these shoots. They must have sprouted in January! There was a strange sound: me, laughing out loud. I think I might even have talked to them: “Are you nuts?” (Gardeners are weird.)
We are about to get walloped, according to the weatherpeople. I prefer the forecast of the daffodils.
Oddments 