In search of story


Connections: May 8.18

I don’t know how to play it

wouldn’t know where to begin

and yet it beams out a gravity

much like a rolling pin

or terracotta flowerpot

pruners, or a hoe

piano or organ keyboard,

a scraper for bread dough,

a pad of lined blank paper

a pen, an artist brush

they make my fingers eager

they give me a head rush

with primal primitive instinct

my fingers stretch, reach out

but it’s really my very self

the pull is all about.

Certain things there are

that, silent, speak to me

make my fingers restless

to do, to make, to be.


More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.






Connections: May 6.18

My trowel went limp

my heart flip-flopped

I couldn’t move

was stone-cold stopped.

My gardener’s breath

was stuck mid-throat

at dazzling shock

in shady cote.

If breath-taking beauty

can be perfected

it’s when it happens




Yes, dear reader, another amazement in Someone Else’s Garden! First the lemon-butter narcissus, and now these snowy petals with the blackberry stain. I’ve never even seen a tree peony before, and now I actually have one! (And I didn’t know how much I have food on my mind.)





Connections: May 2.18

What’s in a hat?

Besides a head, I mean.

Is there stature, haute couture,

or is it mere windscreen?

An identity enhancer

or a scrim to hide behind?

Does it flop or hold up pertly?

Insouciant? Bold? Refined?

Is it cloche or lightly bouncing

on the wearer’s comely pate

or, cockeyed, sit athwart,

like sliding dinner plate?

Is it manly or so dainty,

beribboned or hound’s-tooth?

Does it, placid, enwreathe age

or bob atop some youth?

Ed Norton knew it well:

there’s ipseity in a hat

gracing the cranium royal

or proletariat.



More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.








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Connections: April 30.18

Uriah Heep

in skulking hunch

lifts away

from scavenged lunch

umble pie

for every meal

wardrobe stark



his beggar’s ways

devious, wheedling

low sashays

piercing caw

reveals the rub

to wreak revenge

for umble grub.



With thanks and apologies to Charles Dickens.

And more thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.