Oddments

In search of story


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May 12.19

I think they look huffy,

a bit high and mighty,

as though family life

is always this tidy.

I think it’s a ruse,

this complacent look,

a portrait for gloating

on their family Facebook.

Such serene air

is hardly the way

most parents spend

a usual day.

So here’s to reality,

mess by the ton:

a whole lot of work,

a whole lot of fun!

 

A happy day to all who mother!

(And, yes, some days the work:fun ratio is not stellar.)

 

 


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Connections: March 11.18

I hold these geese

in low esteem

this has become

my  rabid meme.

And so it is

with disbelief

I ask is this

a goose in grief.

In seeming search

unanswered blat

it seems to wander

aimless, flat.

It’s obvious

my mind is crumbling

imagination stretched

brain all bumbling.

A writer’s mind

obliterated

sees the world

hallucinated.

How else to render

explanation

for my deluded

ratiocination?

Perhaps his lady

is just egg-sitting

and he is nervous

tense, unwitting.

But whether Dame

or anxious Sire

the ducks are going

to inquire.

I needn’t worry

until I see

my back yard’s become

the nursery.

Connections

 


4 Comments

Musings on wildlife, continued: February 3.18

They announced themselves in Stravinsky-esque blats over my roof. I rushed to the back door, ready to defend my personal homeland.

And there they were, four monuments to stupidity, clearly dumbfounded and trying not to look embarrassed. It’s frozen, you stupid birds! So much for landing with a splash.

They stood still for several minutes, looking around warily. Did anyone see how stupid we are? When they were assured no one was looking, they settled down in concerted effort to melt the ice with the sheer weight of their foie gras. But it didn’t work, so off they waddled to the riches on shore, aka our back yards, desirous of making breakfast of those riches and of leaving their own riches.

And so did they eventually break through the ice and paddle near me with all deliberateness, eyeing the smorgasbord they thought I had prepared for them.

I have begun to take their brassiness personally. The nerve. Trespassing on my quiet and on my grass. The sound of the amateur French horn is such a match for their manners. I am quite sure at this point that they have their cold beady little eyes trained on me and my house, assessing my defenses.

New home: new world — yes, dear reader?