Away and away,
unhidden,
a blast of song
spring-bidden,
across the pond,
a mile high,
bumping his head
against the sky,
a splotch of black
like India ink,
with baby leaves
nodding in sync,
bellowing heart
afire with life,
bright as his chevron,
half trumpet, half fife.
The hydrangea and the crabapple tree
awoke in frozen state.
“Remind me,” said each to the other,
“what is the real date?”
They shivered and shrugged
and tried to remember
if they slept through the summer
and woke up in December.
Thus, below freezing, did yesterday begin. And thus did we shiver through the day. Blossoms on the trees held a hundred times their weight in heavy snow, and thus did pink and white branches lie broken on the ground. We had hail, snow, rain, bright sunshine, perfect calm, roaring winds and thunder in dizzying display, and thus did Nature growl at us to take nothing for granted.
Wishing you a good Earth Day, dear reader!
I hate the isolation,
the sameness of the days,
the clouds of obfuscation
that politicians raise.
I hate the guns and beatings,
our bloody violent spate,
the toxic finger-pointing —
in sum, I hate the hate.
My scowl has been perfected,
my grumpiness assured,
my energy and spirit
effectively tonsured.
That is why the pansy
is at my closed front door,
hermetically sealed
against the global gore.
Such little flower that nods
congenial purple hope
can compensate for certain
resident misanthrope.
So if there’s a cheery face
as my homey welcome sign,
you know that it’s the pansy’s;
it most surely isn’t mine.
Beyond the budded lattice,
creamy cloud,
impermanent
as strawberries.
Is it my fault, dear reader, that such a cloud makes me think of
strawberry shortcake?
YESTERDAY
The gods of winter rose
against the fragile spring,
roared and raged in angst,
spat ice on everything.
The lilac buds all shivered,
the ducks could barely quack;
spring appeared forsaken,
winter had come back.
But winter gods, those bullies,
with eyes so cold and shifty,
know their days are numbered:
today it will be 50!
Early spring,
winter’s grip,
intense the will
at lilac tip;
just so within
the urge to sprout
though sunless times
and spirit’s drought.
A bird in the hand
is better (it’s said)
than two in the bush,
but I’d say instead
that a bird in the bush
is the very best thing
when you long for a sign
there may one day be spring.
Yes, he is scarfed
and wearing his hat,
but his bright eye belies
any torpor in that.
He’s ready to nest,
and, oh, how he sings!
so sure is his heart
of seeds and of wings.
Spring exhales in hues
so pale
it turns the dawn
to merest veil;
even bones
in shroud aurorean
seem to join
in morning paean.
The day explodes with light
and many a robin aria;
twinkling dew engirds
dandelion luminaria.
Wishing you some form of light,
dear reader,
in this new month.
And so, dear reader, do we come to the end of Poetry Month, which I have endeavored to mark with a poem a day. I have greatly appreciated your company along the way, and I thank you with something for today’s celebration of Poem-In-Your-Pocket Day. I have sent this to you before, but, since it’s one of my favorites, I send it again.
THE MIRACLE OF SPRING
We glibly talk
of nature’s laws
but do things have
a natural cause?
Black earth becoming
yellow crocus
is undiluted
hocus-pocus.
— Piet Hein
I can’t say I’m any closer to a satisfying definition of poetry. It completely eludes me why some things are considered poems. Although I try to work with rhyme, it’s not because I think rhyme makes a poem; it’s something else that makes a poem. That part is mysterious to me.
But besides marking poetry month, I wrote daily as a way of coping. Poetry month might be over, but I still have to cope, so I might continue the mighty effort to post something every day. It’s good for me to try. I hope you are finding ways to cope, too. The anguish of this time is real and deep and we have to find ways to hold on to our humanness.
