Oddments

In search of story


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September 1.19

The porch, the porch!

What marvel, it!

Wordless greeting:

“Come and sit!”

In rocker, swing,

or wicker chair,

we bask inside

in outside air.

Gossip, cookie,

sip of tea,

a honk, a wave,

reverie —

we pretend to read,

shaded from sun,

but the book falls away

and we fool no one.

Unwalled parlor

mooring the ‘hood,

big bear hug

from painted wood,

any porch is

fine by me,

but melon-bedecked

especially!

 

Many thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.

 

What is it about this image, dear reader, that seems to be a most splendid greeting for Labor Day? Is it the hoorah of the watermelon red? The thick, disciplined hedge? The leafiness of late summer? The invitation to rest? The certainty that somewhere unseen is a sweating glass pitcher of iced tea with Wyler’s lemonade mix (and lots of sugar)?

I pass it along to all of you in hopes that you too can look at it and think of porches and late summers you have known. I wish you a relaxing Labor Day, dear reader, and a good harvest. May all be safe from Dorian.

 

 

 

 


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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.

 


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Musings on wildlife, continued: February 3.18

They announced themselves in Stravinsky-esque blats over my roof. I rushed to the back door, ready to defend my personal homeland.

And there they were, four monuments to stupidity, clearly dumbfounded and trying not to look embarrassed. It’s frozen, you stupid birds! So much for landing with a splash.

They stood still for several minutes, looking around warily. Did anyone see how stupid we are? When they were assured no one was looking, they settled down in concerted effort to melt the ice with the sheer weight of their foie gras. But it didn’t work, so off they waddled to the riches on shore, aka our back yards, desirous of making breakfast of those riches and of leaving their own riches.

And so did they eventually break through the ice and paddle near me with all deliberateness, eyeing the smorgasbord they thought I had prepared for them.

I have begun to take their brassiness personally. The nerve. Trespassing on my quiet and on my grass. The sound of the amateur French horn is such a match for their manners. I am quite sure at this point that they have their cold beady little eyes trained on me and my house, assessing my defenses.

New home: new world — yes, dear reader?

 

 

 

 


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Connections: October 28.17

The hen with the turquoise tail

and watchful ruby eye

busily bustles about

in no way subtle or shy.

Incredulous, unbelieving,

clucking at all she sees

hustling up and down stairs

with never an if-you-please,

she gathers each mote of gossip

slack-jawed, open-beaked,

around and about the condos

astonished and endlessly piqued.

 

 

More thanks to the S.W. Berg photo archives,

and to the D.J. Berg store of whimsy.

 

Connections

 

 


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Connections: January 13.17

SANYO DIGITAL CAMERAI live next door

to three little boys

three times the life

three times the joys

(you thought I was going to say noise, didn’t you?)

perpetual motion

hilarity reigns

six little legs

endless ball games

they never stop

they never yield

come winter or summer

my yard is outfield.

Connections