There once was a housefinch named Louie
who fretted crabapples were hooey:
“They pucker my beak
and strain my physique!”
And he flew away chirping “p-tooey!”
Once again, dear reader, the urge to add Burma Shave.
There once was a housefinch named Louie
who fretted crabapples were hooey:
“They pucker my beak
and strain my physique!”
And he flew away chirping “p-tooey!”
Once again, dear reader, the urge to add Burma Shave.
An ordinary window,
an ordinary day,
an ordinary glimpse,
then mental tour jeté.
A camera must be had!
Indecorous dash ensued,
then, breathless, stealthy, sly,
I engaged in conduct crude.
In blushless want of manners,
intrusive imposition,
brutally dismissive
of my need to get permission,
I zoomed in on his person,
with brain and camera focus
on this feathered fisherman
and his wintry bare-branched locus.
He appeared a bit put out
at what the flower said,
which made his handsome feathers
stand up atop his head.
I wish I could have heard
but this is all I got;
I could sneak clandestine photo,
but eavesdrop I could not.
And thus the common day,
as if by magic word,
was instantly transformed
by a Merlin of a bird.
It was because of Walt Kelly’s brilliant Pogo illustrations that I knew this was a kingfisher. It was the Internet that told me it was a Belted Kingfisher. Why it isn’t a Collared Kingfisher I do not know. The Internet also told me that it is common in central Indiana. I think not. This little guy was a first for me.
I stood in the middle of my living room, far back from the window. This fine specimen was on a tree across the pond. All hail the power of the zoom!
With enigmatic aspect
of jarring puce-y pinks,
they gaze into unseens,
each vacant penguin sphinx.
Contemplative and placid,
in ignoble habitat,
I seem to hear their mantra:
My kingdom for a hat!
One may quibble about puce and maintain reasonably that puce is in the eye of the beholder; however, puce is also a reference to the Puce Stamps in Walt Kelly’s Pogo. Our intrepid photographer, Bill, named the color.
Many years ago, in the times of antiquity known as The Fifties, Bill and his wife Donna were high school debate partners, and one of their warmest debates was Pogo (Bill) vs Peanuts (Donna). Rowrbazzle! vs Good Grief! I should know: I was there.
Ergo, puce penguins.
I have written before about ancient friendships, and no doubt I will again. They rule!
With thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
and apologies to Shakespeare.
A hole in one! The noble beast
wants no one else to clutch it,
but the ball’s all sog,
there’s no way, dog,
that I would even touch it!
This is Andie, the newest addition to the Lucky Dog Society. She has not yet figured out that I do not do dog slobber, and she thinks I actually WANT that ball. Not a chance.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The art of the photo:
part timing, part luck.
Thus my photo
of a diving duck.
“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?)