In search of story


July 22.19


My poor beautiful tomato plant,

victim of its own vitality

lies helpless, hapless,

like my old Christmas tree.

Don’t tell me what I should do

or shouldn’t.

Doing isn’t feeling.

I tried but couldn’t,

and that is everything.



If you are a gardener, dear reader, you know that lessons grow in the garden, some of them dismal. Yesterday a rambunctious wind announced the coming of today’s blessed, cooling rain. I tried desperately to right my gorgeous Beefsteak, but my two hands and two feet were not enough. And the thunder growled.  It was with real sadness I had to abandon the rescue. If you are a gardener, you understand the feeling. It isn’t about what to DO.


July 12.19

Wandering a nursery

as every gardener knows

risks a Chapter 11

a lien or a foreclose,

but I chloroformed my conscience

and did it anyway

wearing mental blinders

lest I seriously stray.

Then came the gardener’s gasp,

that lub-dub of the heart

and a whole new Scabiosa

leaped unbidden in my cart.

I’d never seen the like

of this particular

others that I’d grown

were less oracular.

With buds that look like berries,

florescing into pins,

whimsical and winsome

a gardener’s Mickey Finn,

it mesmerized my mettle

jellied my backbone;

it’s not my fault, of course,

that it followed me back home.




Fourth of July, 2019


All the problems we face in the United States today can be traced to an unenlightened immigration policy on the part of the American Indian. 

—- Pat Paulson, presidential candidate, Smothers Brothers Party, neither right wing nor left wing but, as he said, middle of the bird, in the hallowed ’60s.


Happy Birthday, America!

We salute imperfect you!

Blessings on your Ship of State

from your ever motley crew!