In search of story


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.


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,


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.