Zinnias in tatters
petals all strewn
who done the deed?
what marauding poltroon?
When I glimpsed the bright sneak
I recanted my whine
my old friends have found me!
the garden’s more mine.
Please pardon the slight haze, dear reader. I had to nab this shot through the window.
Atop a barren
dying tree
defying laws
of gravity
pitched and bounced
mid-air wild-riding —
I hope he doesn’t think
he’s hiding.
Mama’s smile is a lovely thing
sweet, with prideful charm.
But heed the steel in Mama’s neck:
If you come closer, I’ll break your arm.
Garden icon
myth and man
ubiquitous
as watering can
the story goes
his whispered word
was carried by wind
his followers heard
is he today
sculpted in stone
because he invented
the first smartphone?
With no disrespect intended to Il Poverello, whose bemused expression watches over the pond
from my neighbor’s yard. I just wish he wouldn’t be so welcoming to the chipmunks.
The redbirds sent their missuses
a most romantic tweet
no, not hugs and kisseses
but
Let’s go out to eat!
Ever find yourself slyly pretendin’
witlessly not comprehendin’
eschewing attention
disavowing pretension
you still can’t seem to blend in?
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?
