Oddments

In search of story


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Disconnections: June 23.18

Gardeners’ dedication

is in leafy order writ;

more subtle is the telling

of their heliotropic wit.

 

 

I do not know the photographer or gardener or painter of the sign, but I love the photo!

Many thanks to S.W. Berg for passing it along.

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Disconnections: June 14.18


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.

 


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Disconnections: June 12.18


Basking in my sunshine

snuggling on my fence

this manic excavator

is pure impertinence

taunting me, Goliath,

feigning innocence

as though his bright-eyed smallness

masked malevolence

but I know his evil habits

— curse his tiny hide! —

he’s only biding time

’til Goliath goes inside.

 

 


8 Comments

Disconnections: June 1.18

I still haven’t figured out how to remedy this problem inserting photos in my posts. I haven’t yet turned to the folks at WordPress because I don’t even know how to ask the questions. I am darkly frustrated by the not-knowing.

Usually when I am frustrated I turn to my beloved outlets of baking or gardening or drawing or playing the piano or — I must admit — housecleaning. Doing is the antidote to stewing. But now I have something called CPPD. It goes nicely with my HHT, don’t you think, dear reader? If I live long enough, I’ll be a whole bowl of alphabet soup.

Many old people have CPPD but without symptoms. I have symptoms. To quote myself, PHOO. CPPD is incurable, its damage irreversible.¬†Mine is deemed “erosive” because of the bone damage. How scary is that? Bone¬†erosion? Now I cannot use my hands as I used to. This is as deep a disconnection as I can imagine. My hands have connected me to freshly baked cookies and fresh herbs and Bach Inventions and sketchbooks and fitted sheets tight on the mattress.

Taken with the osteoarthritis and osteoporosis, the CPPD gives me the image of a swarm of microscopic ants with my skeleton the picnic lunch.

When technology beats me up, when I hear of yet another school shooting or another holiday from truth, I want to grab a shovel or a spatula and DO something. Will the ants leave me anything with which to DO?

 


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Connections: May 11.18

Some ancient mythic language

ebbing, swelling, weightless

like liquid air

many-voiced

chorus of Sophocles

bade me stop.

I turned toward the sound

the fullness of new leaves

spring petals

soft as babies

supple in newness

stroked by wind

sibilant and sure

wanting me to know

something.

Still as the dead

I listened

taut

to pluck a word

but there was none.

 

Connections