Away and away,
unhidden,
a blast of song
spring-bidden,
across the pond,
a mile high,
bumping his head
against the sky,
a splotch of black
like India ink,
with baby leaves
nodding in sync,
bellowing heart
afire with life,
bright as his chevron,
half trumpet, half fife.
The world’s a big place,
it can tucker you out
when you’re trying to figure
what it’s about.
That doesn’t change much
as we age through the years,
those grass blades of life
still up to our ears.
We still need a wing
for safe featherbed,
but sometimes we rest
on a memory instead.
I’m not a big fan of Mothers’ Day, dear reader. However, I am a fan of mothering because mothering gets us started in life.
There are many who are not biological mothers but are mothers nonetheless. I salute every one, and I wish a happy day to all who mother.
On a more (typical) curmudgeonly note: you know, dear reader, I hate these geese; I do not thrill to see another generation. It is only with pained reluctance I am forced to say this snoozing fuzzball is maybe a little bit cute.
Drip
littlest sound
tentative on the roof
then all around
bee-like
in droning surround
until finally
with morning near-drowned
coda
in the downspout
bits of shower
tap
earth bound.
Kirk had it wrong;
that Final Frontier
isn’t some star —
it’s much more near.
It’s when you decide
you’re going to paint
and are sharply reminded
that young you ain’t.
This job designed
by Beelzebub
requires my head
between toilet and tub.
I used to could bend —
that’s historical fact —
but now I can’t seem
to be so compact.
My hips both object,
my knees ping and crack,
that creaking sound
is my lower back.
This be my swan song,
I won’t try this again;
I’ll adjust my horizons
to more accommodable yen.
I’ll hope to complete
and finish it nicely,
then I’ll turn in my brush
and hang out at Mos Eisley.
May the 4th be with you, dear reader!
And, yes, I’ve mixed Star Wars with Star Trek. Maybe poetic license is the REAL final frontier. I should have thrown in a Captain Video secret decoder ring.
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.
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.
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!
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?
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.
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?
