“At the end of the day”
you hear people say;
it’s kind of a trend
to invoke the day’s end.
Clichés are so born,
and now I am torn:
how else can I write
of incoming night?
The end of the day
is about shadow play,
puffs pink and white
in slanted late light,
their tippy-toe stretch
to yawn and to catch
that pearly soft ray
at the end of the day.
The little boy favored ducks,
he thought them very nifty;
in motley flock they come each spring
now the little boy is fifty.
With thanks to my gardener son, Dennis,
for the photo op.
For him, a proper yard will always wear a duck.
Beehold the bee
in ecstasy,
beesotten with spring
debauchering.
This little 747 was so full he kept sliding sideways, which did not seem to affect his euphoria. That was one blissfully loop-legged bee.
Saluting Earth Day!
I’m old.
I sag.
I forget.
I miss thinking
that I know what’s going on.
But I have a lilac in my house.
I fear the lies
and the liars,
the bullets,
dependence.
But I have a lilac in my house.
I feel the weight of memories,
of words
spoken and unspoken,
of being human,
of mail from funeral homes.
But I have a lilac in my house.
I know the distance
between my grandchildren and me,
the chasm of time,
each day
wider,
deeper.
But I have a lilac in my house.
I remember other lilacs
clutched with bowed tulips,
wrapped in wet kleenex and foil,
bounced with us on the school bus,
their tattered remnants
proudly presented to Sister
for the May altar.
Imperfect days, to be sure,
but days with a lifetime ahead,
not behind.
Much to treasure,
much to trash
from those days.
Still the lilac blooms in my house.
If I go very close,
and breathe it in,
I change somehow.
So brief that air
yet so forever.
The garden flaunts its mysteries,
making botanists beg
how comes preposterous hybrid,
part jonquil and part egg?
If you know me much at all, dear reader, you will understand the difficulties with which I forbore from writing a second stanza about how the yolk’s on me.
When I tell you, dear reader, the trains were in our back yards, it’s not hyperbole. You can see the railroad track behind me. Those trains were roaring behemoths, shaking the house, kicking up cinders while the open coal cars, toting fuel for homes and industry, dribbled black along the way.
So when I say spring cleaning with reverence and a slight shudder, you have some small idea why. All the curtains came down and went into the washing machine with the wringer on top. The lace curtains, still wet, were mounted carefully on wood frames with a million tiny sharp nails around the edges that held the curtains taut while they dried. OMG. Of course Grandma ironed them anyway before they were tenderly re-hung.
That was the same grandma balanced up on a ladder with a fistful of some goo, wiping the wallpaper in careful strokes, slowly revealing the color under the grit. Repeatedly turning the goo, wiping, wiping, down the ladder, move the ladder, back up, wipe, wipe. OMG.
Rugs rolled up and lugged outside to be thrashed? Check. Hardwood floors, woodwork, windowsills scrubbed? Storm windows taken down, inner windows washed, screens hosed down and installed? Check, check. Dump the dirty water in the alley, fill the bucket again? OMG.
Then dinner to be made with no microwave, no dishwasher, no counter space, and a freezer the size of a shoebox? OMG.
And so was Easter dinner served in pristine newness. Old walls, old curtains renewed. Fumes of Fels Naphtha gave way to the perfume of ham and lemon meringue pie.
How close our metaphorical trains. How timeless the human need for renewal. I wish it for you, dear reader, and for us all in this season of many traditions.
Bold like Ozymandias
declaiming to all nations,
my species speaks in Latin
and names the constellations!
Poecile atricapillus
regarded me with disdain
atop Syringa vulgaris,
twittering this refrain:
Pfui, pfui, pfui!
(the fire was in his eye)
I can balance on a bud —
I’d like to see you try!
In robinspeak: Look at me!
I call from minaret of tree!
Look up! I cannot wait all day
to sing my song and say my say!
Raise your eyes and tilt your head!
You’ve met your feet — look up instead!
The sky is grey and winter lingers;
wrap up tight and mitten your fingers,
or be like me and weather the weathers
by bellowing full your winter feathers.
Rise above! Stretch out your wings!
You humans are such starchy things!
I grant there’s good stuff in the dirt,
but too much looking down can hurt.
Look up and see the endless skies —
your spirit needs the exercise!
What risk to you, oh, you clay-bound,
when both your feet stay on the ground?
Dare to snub the daily strife
and defy the gravity of life!
Yes, dear reader, that’s what the robin said. I heard it myself.
Ah, the splendor of spring!
Gift-wrapped in white!
Nature’s rude joke
after sleep-shortened night.
My coffee tight clutched,
my brain unsteady,
I’ll change my clocks
when I’m good and ready.
Eight years ago, on this date, I published this post, which I find timely still. If by some chance, dear reader, you should have a small drum convenient, I invite you to read this out loud while accompanying yourself with a good beat. (Timbrel and sackbut optional.) You will need to count 2-3-4 in between stanzas to get it right. (An empty Quaker oatmeal box is an acceptable accompaniment. Hard to tune, though.)
March Roundelay
‘Tis wondrous fair
how I swerve and swear
in a seamless arc
as I weave and snark
with a hey and a ho
and a nonny-nonny-no
around the potholes.
I amaze myself
with my grace and stealth
with jaws clenched tight
as I curse their blight
with a hey and a ho
and a nonny-nonny-no
oh, the potholes.
It’s a lurch and a sway
and a moan and a bray
a zag and a zig
an impossible jig
with a hey and a ho
and a nonny-nonny-no
amid the potholes.
A screech and a gasp
a white-knuckled grasp
a brake-slam dance
a murderous glance
with a hey and a ho
and a nonny-nonny-no
it’s dodgems
edging on the potholes.
Of patience bereft
mine axles cleft,
with a bang and a twist
imprecation and a fist
a hey and a ho
and a nonny-nonny-no
I rage in vain
against the potholes.
The snow is black
there’s a wrench in my back
it’s cold and bleak
as I jolt and squeak
with a hey and a ho
and a nonny-nonny-no
and an inch to spare
beside the potholes.
Ah, misery me,
lack-a-day-dee!
It’s a dreary dance
around the potholes.
My car doesn’t fly
and neither do I
so we take our chance
around the potholes
with a hey and a ho
and a nonny-nonny-no
we take our chance
and dance
nonny-no
around the potholes.
With a bow and hey-nonny to Gilbert & Sullivan.
Oddments 