May 7.22: Coping, but barely

This was me

and this was you,

our wings be-fuzzed,

mysterious, new.

Tipping, toppling,

learning where

we stopped and started,

unaware

of cliffs and quicksand,

Pandora’s box,

we braved the world

of thorns and rocks.

Or so we thought. The really brave

were those close by

who hovered and watched

with wary eye,

letting us learn

from life’s tough classes

even if we fell

on our little

ummm

grasses.

 

Tomorrow is Mothers’ Day here; I am not a fan. I think it’s become a national day of panic. But that does not mean I don’t value mothering. I absolutely do. There are many who mother even if they’ve never given birth, and I salute every one.

Please pardon the quality of the photo, dear reader. You probably, and rightly, guessed that I was hunched down behind Venetian blinds muttering to that baby to HOLD STILL. He didn’t. Mother Goose (so to speak) did not cast a benign eye on me.

 

 

April 30.22: Coping, but barely

Where are the toes

with which we hold

when we reach, teetering,

for the tender goaled?

When life twangs

our bearings like rubber band

and we, poor spitballs,

clawless in foot and hand,

hover on the verge of shot

yet, refusing to be denied,

become the squirrel,

wind and gravity defied,

and clutch that feeble twig,

how do we dare?

Does the soul have claws

that hold us there?

 

 

It seems appropriate, dear reader, to end Poetry Month with a question since I always start it with a question: what is poetry? Still scratching my head on that one.

April 27.22: Coping, but barely

The tortoise and the hare

have nothing on this pair.

The smugger the daunt,

the cheerier the taunt:

“Ya snooze, ya lose, mon frère!”

Yes, dear reader, I heard it myself.

That’s exactly what the little guy said as he churned by.

April 22.22: Coping, but barely

The pensive dog,

drowsed by talk,

took her thoughts

on wooded walk,

contemplative

and solitary,

past springtime’s

ruffled luminary.

The daffodils sighed

as she passed by,

looked after her

with solicitous eye.

 

This, dear reader, is Miss Janey Pickles. I’m told she is named for a literary figure beloved by my daughter-in-law. Some people speak of their grand-dogs; I am not one of those people. Janey Pickles is not my grand-dog even though she belongs to my daughter-in-law and my son. Or they belong to her. Whichever. The amazing thing about Janey Pickles is that sometimes she’s awake.

 

 

April 15.22: Coping, but barely

The art of the photo:

part timing, part luck.

Thus my photo

of a diving duck.

 

 

April 9.22: Coping, but barely

 

“Hello! I must be going!”

a tune too rarely heard,

wafted through the air

from waddling squatty bird.

Crestfallen and bewildered,

the pup, his tail a-droop,

wondered if he’d erred

in mention of “Duck Soup.”

The huffy Madame Mallard,

like all good critic quackers,

made it known that she prefers

the classic “Animal Crackers.”

 

With a salute to Marx Brothers movies:

“Animal Crackers” (1930)

“Duck Soup” (1933)

(What else would a dog and duck talk about?)

March 18.22: Coping, but barely

A tourist stopped in Mallardville,

to see what might be there,

sidled up to locals

in competing savoir faire.

The Monsieurs sized each other up

in manly bivouac

while Madame Mallard plainly

didn’t seem to give a quack.

 

March 13.22: Coping, but barely

A robin skims the frosty grass,

stopping, starting, stopping;

the housefinch goes a-nesting,

pecking, pulling, hopping.

The chickadee, bright eye on me,

zigzags in spritely play;

the sun, at rise and setting,

is chirped along its way.

As winter’s bony grip

reluctantly lets go,

songbirds return a-twitter

in growing crescendo.

Far away in birddom

the elders meet en masse,

solemn, introspective,

with all due gravitas.

Somber-visaged sages,

exchanging thought and word,

they ponder and deliberate

what it means to be a bird.

The enigma of horizon,

the mystery of skies

inform their academia

as they Socratize.

Music quite eludes them

but they don’t think it wrong

that others ponder being

in transiency of song.

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.

And, of course, to the pelicans.

February 19.22: Coping

It’s our mutual motto,

my furry confrère,

the words that we live by:

“it’s here somewhere.”

 

 

February 4.22: Coping

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.