November 19.20: Coping

All hail the nap!

That mini vacation,

miraculous reset,

arm-chair sedation,

restoring us to

youthful vigor

instead of creeping

mortis rigor.

So, as fugitive from

myself and the news,

I follow example

of the duck group-snooze.

 

 

October 27.20: Coping

We’ve climbed up Darwin’s ladder

of Natural Selection,

the bug and I together,

toward evolutionary perfection,

but I ponder our relative states:

who has the higher trajection,

the one with legs and wings,

or the one stuck in this election?

 

 

October 24.20: Coping

In a stroke of good luck,

my camera in hand,

a great photo op

came upon me unplanned.

“You’re a beauty indeed!”

I gushingly said.

“Oh, pshaw,” she replied,

and of course turned her head.

Such taunting reveals

the ignoble ruse:

you’ve morphed once again,

my intractable muse!

 

 

 

October 21.20: Coping

It’s a cold grey sky,

wintry overhead,

a rowdy autumn wind

has left me just a shred,

so what do I do

without my coat of red?

I hold out all my arms

and wear some birds instead.

 

 

October 18.20: Coping

 

In stillness

the leaves,

in silence

the shadows,

maybe a bug,

burrowing,

crackles,

sighs,

tummy-scratches,

sleeps.

 

 

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg

and to Fort Harrison State Park, Indianapolis.

October 12.20: Coping

A driven, fevered

bee be he,

zigging, zagging

drunkenly;

mead of autumn,

sweet and heady,

makes his skinny legs

unsteady,

wobbily resolved

in year’s decline

to buzz each flower

an Auld Lang Syne.

 

 

October 10.20: Coping

 

If ever a bird harrumphed

and cast a glowering eye,

this fellow of coal feather

is that imprecatory guy,

in body language eloquent,

proclaiming clear disdain

for the species that presumes

to call him a birdbrain.

 

 

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg

and, of course, to the crow.

October 9.20: Coping

She’s got her camera!

She’s out on her deck!

Flap your wing

and stick out your neck!

Shake tail feather

and follow me

in honking

photobombing V!

 

 

October 4.20: Coping

If I breathe,

will I hurt the air,

will I break the moon,

shatter, tear

this moment

frail, silvern,

when crickets whisper

Chopin nocturne?

September 22:20: Coping

It seems to me

there’s an obvious plot

to get my goat

(which is got a lot).

How else explain

these mortal remains,

matted and framed,

among the day’s banes?

A villainous move,

a deliberate ploy,

to irritate, vex,

to taunt and annoy.

There was nothing to do

but take all apart

and grouse at the bug

who thought he was art.