In search of story


Connections: May 5.18

Accusing, narrowed eye,

disapproving glare,

prunish dour expression,

unblinking fiendish stare.

Beneath those rosy feathers

curmudgeon’s heart must beat —

how does such a malcontent

warble song so sweet?









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Connections: April 30.18

Uriah Heep

in skulking hunch

lifts away

from scavenged lunch

umble pie

for every meal

wardrobe stark



his beggar’s ways

devious, wheedling

low sashays

piercing caw

reveals the rub

to wreak revenge

for umble grub.



With thanks and apologies to Charles Dickens.

And more thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.











Connections: March 29.18

I wish I could send you, dear reader, a bit of this morning. We are due for yet another day of rain (have mercy!), but right now the rain is merely a hint, heavy in the air. It is barely day, but there is enough light to make the budding trees crisp against a bland sky. They aren’t moving. The pond is steady glass. The air is early-spring warm and utterly still, as though afraid if it breathed it would cease to be.

I can hear a mourning dove and some kind of chirpy thing, both chanting their Lauds, each in its own way. I can also hear the rainwater draining into the pond, a gurgling antiphonal to the birdsong. There is an occasional car which sounds far away. Mostly I am swathed in quiet. I feel like an intruder, but I stay, also trying not to breathe.

Have you ever wanted to put a moment in your pocket so you could pull it out again when you need it?





Connections: March 11.18

I hold these geese

in low esteem

this has become

my  rabid meme.

And so it is

with disbelief

I ask is this

a goose in grief.

In seeming search

unanswered blat

it seems to wander

aimless, flat.

It’s obvious

my mind is crumbling

imagination stretched

brain all bumbling.

A writer’s mind


sees the world


How else to render


for my deluded


Perhaps his lady

is just egg-sitting

and he is nervous

tense, unwitting.

But whether Dame

or anxious Sire

the ducks are going

to inquire.

I needn’t worry

until I see

my back yard’s become

the nursery.