Oddments

In search of story


5 Comments

October 3.20: Coping

Like old sepia photo

inviting eye to linger

does sepia of wood

invite admiring finger.

Eminently touchable

in smooth and rounded form,

from chocolate to butterscotch

toasted, glazed, warm.

Like mystery in the photo

the mystery in the wood

makes us stop and ponder

exactly as we should.

 

 

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg

and to Traders Point Creamery, Zionsville, IN.

 

 


8 Comments

September 29.20: Coping

Long, long ago,

when I was very young,

there was a folksy ballad

plaintively sung.

“One meatball!”

was the soulful refrain,

and now it recurs,

stuck in my brain.

One rudbeckia

is all that I got,

a full-throated solo

in one flowerpot,

brass grand finale

in luminous ONE

as my garden is close to

officially done.

There’s hint of embrace

in this radiant burst,

a hug for the elders

that all blossomed first,

a farewell to the summer,

and hail to the fall,

singular reminiscence

of one sorry meatball.

 

 

I didn’t ask for this old song to pop into my head,

but my head often does things without my permission.

Besides, for those (few) of you who know this old song,

one ear worm deserves another, yes?


6 Comments

September 25.20: Coping

Layered, airy —

what can I do?

I’m forced to think

of pâte à choux.

You say I am

dessert-obsessed?

I say my world view

is the best.

To meet the world

with proper confection

is the only way

I’ll survive this election.

With more thanks to photographer S.W. Berg,

and to Ritchey Woods, Fishers, IN.

Well, dear reader, I think it has happened: a new editing in WordPress.

The spacing in this is not what it’s supposed to be,

and I’ve tried everything I know to fix it.


8 Comments

September 22:20: Coping

It seems to me

there’s an obvious plot

to get my goat

(which is got a lot).

How else explain

these mortal remains,

matted and framed,

among the day’s banes?

A villainous move,

a deliberate ploy,

to irritate, vex,

to taunt and annoy.

There was nothing to do

but take all apart

and grouse at the bug

who thought he was art.

 

 


5 Comments

September 4.20: Coping

The world is too much with us,

so let us find some sticks,

and build us walls more sturdy

than paltry stone and bricks.

We’ll build a fort so mighty

that it will long endure,

then we can crawl inside

and all the mean abjure.

We’ll hug our knees and revel

in a world of let’s-pretend,

and make believe our hide-out

is where the rainbows end.

We’ll think of things so perfect

the world will be reborn,

and, while we’re at it, capture

and tame a unicorn.

 

With thanks to William Wordsworth,

to photographer S.W. Berg,

and to Ritchey Woods, Fishers, IN.


12 Comments

August 12.20: Coping

Morning came

too quietly,

neither chirp nor trill,

but only cicada’s

serrated drone.

A very timid cricket

tuned his small pipe.

There I stood,

knee-deep in July,

prickly and unsure,

so restless was the quiet.

Now the dark of August nights

and no firefly winks.

The Green Heron blats

like fallow French horn

once or twice a day,

and maple leaves,

scorched,

bleed at their edges.

Do I imagine

the urgency?

Time is out of sorts,

as am I.