Oddments

In search of story


4 Comments

Disconnections: November 18.18

 

Monument

to lasting function

or rouged and blowzy

extreme unction?

Wizened perhaps

in carburetor

atrophied

in accelerator

rusted, dented,

sedentary

yet with vital

commentary

to give me hope

there’s still some good

within my own

antique popped hood.

 

 

I do not know the creator so I cannot give credit,

but I can tell you this is part of a stop-the-car! display in Fortville, IN.

Is it public art or capital joke? In the eye of the beholder, yes?

 


5 Comments

Disconnections: November 3.18

 

My front yard may be small

but in gold it’s very big

ruddy, blushing yellows

on every branch and twig.

I raised my trusty camera

to capture golden riot

but was dissuaded from my focus

by the egotist too nigh it.

I had to zoom behind

to my neighbor’s tree instead

because nothing photobombs

like the high and mighty red.

 


8 Comments

Disconnections: September 27.18

 A window with a view

coveted prize

a break in routine

rest for our eyes

a tree with some posies

quiets day’s din

but sometimes can startle

by looking back in.

We’ve looked back and forth

Crabapple and I

exchanging world views

in the year that’s gone by.

It’s given the kitchen

a leafy embrace

and made my new house

a cozier place.

Lichened old faithful

steadfast and seasoned

shading me from

a world all unreasoned.

There’ve been times in my life

I’ve known a kind tree

that seemed like kin

and companion to me.

Perhaps you, dear reader,

understand what I mean

and also have had

a friend that is green.

 

When I moved in here, almost a year ago, I knew that two trees would have to come down. This crabapple is one of them. Now the arrangements are made, and I can’t help the sadness. It’s been so pretty, wrapping around my little bay window. This place is still not home to me, and the crabapple has seemed to know that. I will miss it.

 

 


5 Comments

Disconnections: September 20.18

“The Attack of the Killer Tomatoes”

I mistakenly thought was fiction

and I planted this year’s pear tomato

with blithely naïve predilection.

Egad, it grew like Jack’s beanstalk

like some overpowering addiction

forcing the zinnias and chives

to bent and yellowed eviction.

Even the pots on the deck

are muttering gruff malediction —

who knew one little tomato

could become such rabid affliction?