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.
Tag Archives: ducks
April 1.23: Coping, but barely
For me it isn’t every day
I get to see a duck ballet;
other ducks flock by the millioms
to watch the duck named Esther Williams.
What’s that, young reader? You never heard of her?
Look her up!
(It sounds political but it’s not.)
I needn’t say that the music was “Swan Lake.” Of course it was.
February 28.23: Coping, but barely
What is the secret to life,
to live it the way it was meant?
Where do I learn survival,
how to feel at peace and content
even in winter’s cold rain,
a calypso of needley sleet
that beats on my head sharp staccato
while ice encrusts my feet?
How do they do it, these ducks,
apparently comfy and warm,
despite the bleak and the biting
of frigid late winter storm?
Could I be as gladly oblivious
to cruelty, bloodshed and dreck
if I wore my own feather bed
and had rubber band for a neck?
Or maybe I’m mistaken,
and they are not placidly sleeping,
but seek pond solitude
for private silent weeping.
And thus, dear reader, ends February. With deadly ice and alien snowfall, with roaring winds and crashing downpours and tornado sirens and mid-day darkness and — of course — more news of suffering and idiocy. I watch the ducks and wonder what they know.
April 27.22: Coping, but barely
The tortoise and the hare
have nothing on this pair.
The smugger the daunt,
the cheerier the taunt:
“Ya snooze, ya lose, mon frère!”
Yes, dear reader, I heard it myself.
That’s exactly what the little guy said as he churned by.
March 18.22: Coping, but barely
A tourist stopped in Mallardville,
to see what might be there,
sidled up to locals
in competing savoir faire.
The Monsieurs sized each other up
in manly bivouac
while Madame Mallard plainly
didn’t seem to give a quack.
January 9.21: Coping
Beneath fur and feather
it’s hard to judge pallor:
which will prevail,
discretion or valor?
In my pursuit of whether Shakespeare should be credited, I encountered a statement about things that annoy Shakespeare scholars.
I must say that Shakespeare scholars are easily annoyed.
December 6.20: Coping
FASTER! it goaded,
SPEED! it said;
I swallowed hard
and shook my head.
I don’t want fast,
I want some slow;
I want more stop
and not more go.
Network, server,
gigabit,
radio wave:
what is it?
Mega, macro,
ultra and such —
improve my life?
Not so much.
I can’t keep up,
my brain is boxed,
must watch some ducks
and get detoxed.
November 19.20: Coping
All hail the nap!
That mini vacation,
miraculous reset,
arm-chair sedation,
restoring us to
youthful vigor
instead of creeping
mortis rigor.
So, as fugitive from
myself and the news,
I follow example
of the duck group-snooze.
July 20.20: Coping
On a still summer evening,
near the trees’ looking glass,
I developed the fidgets
from eyes in the grass.
I share my shade gladly,
I grant it rent-free,
so why this imperious
staring at me?
Magnanimous me,
all live-and-let-live —
could they be thinking the shade
is not mine to give?
June 7.20: Coping
Sunday brunch al fresco
never better was
with family all decked out
in finest feather and fuzz.
Oddments 