Oddments

In search of story


7 Comments

Connections: May 8.18

I don’t know how to play it

wouldn’t know where to begin

and yet it beams out a gravity

much like a rolling pin

or terracotta flowerpot

pruners, or a hoe

piano or organ keyboard,

a scraper for bread dough,

a pad of lined blank paper

a pen, an artist brush

they make my fingers eager

they give me a head rush

with primal primitive instinct

my fingers stretch, reach out

but it’s really my very self

the pull is all about.

Certain things there are

that, silent, speak to me

make my fingers restless

to do, to make, to be.

 

More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.

Connections

 

 

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Connections: April 21.18

Away to the left

in a swatch of bright blue

patisserie aura

is hidden from view.

It’s easy to miss

if you don’t know it’s there,

but once it’s discovered

it’s a rapturous lair.

In its own mythic nook

removed, set apart,

it revels in oven-birthed

edible art.

And thus did these words

bring tears to my eyne

when I read the decree

on the world’s saddest sign.

 

 

Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.

And thanks to Rene’s Bakery, in the Broad Ripple area of Indianapolis, for its incredibly wonderful offerings.

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6 Comments

Connections: April 11.18

 

Mom said, “Don’t mix patterns,”

and I think I can see why;

these every-which-way lines

make my eyeballs go awry.

Yet pattern clash intrigues,

attests to solemn truth:

maternal admonitions

go the way of the phone booth.

 

 

More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.

Connections


2 Comments

Connections: April 8.18

Understated

concentrated

richness-sated.

Simple guise

bewitching eyes

a depth belies.

Seduction incredible

memory indelible

the poem edible.

 

And so, dear reader, in honor of Poetry Month, it behooves us to eat more desserts.

And to use more words like “behooves.”

Many thanks to the poetic soul of S.W. Berg and his Photo Archives.

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2 Comments

Connections: February 8.18

Memo to brain:

heed this sign

a walk becomes plod

hunched and bovine.

It behooves you to skip

stop dragging your feet

tap mental toes

to some irregular beat.

Indulge in some jigs

whirlies and prances

a writer fares ill

if her brain never dances.

(And maybe that is true for all of us.)

 

Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.

Connections