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!
Brown birds,
brown leaves,
crackles, crumbles,
webs in eaves.
The glossy crow
in polished black
perpetual
melancholiac.
Pallid sky,
sunlight void,
droops a greyness
ichthyoid.
Pond of slate,
grass turned rubble,
wind that moans
of toil and trouble.
The year grows weary,
needs to sleep,
gardens snuggle
in winter’s keep.
Beshawled and flanneled,
I watch the earth
beshawl itself
with color dearth.
With apologies to Shakespeare.
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.
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.
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 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?)
A tourist stopped in Mallardville,
to see what might be there,
sidled up to locals
in competing savoir faire.
The Monsieurs sized each other up
in manly bivouac
while Madame Mallard plainly
didn’t seem to give a quack.
A robin skims the frosty grass,
stopping, starting, stopping;
the housefinch goes a-nesting,
pecking, pulling, hopping.
The chickadee, bright eye on me,
zigzags in spritely play;
the sun, at rise and setting,
is chirped along its way.
As winter’s bony grip
reluctantly lets go,
songbirds return a-twitter
in growing crescendo.
Far away in birddom
the elders meet en masse,
solemn, introspective,
with all due gravitas.
Somber-visaged sages,
exchanging thought and word,
they ponder and deliberate
what it means to be a bird.
The enigma of horizon,
the mystery of skies
inform their academia
as they Socratize.
Music quite eludes them
but they don’t think it wrong
that others ponder being
in transiency of song.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
And, of course, to the pelicans.