The committee convenes
in officiousness large,
each of them sure
someone else is in charge.
Tag Archives: geese
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.
October 9.20: Coping
She’s got her camera!
She’s out on her deck!
Flap your wing
and stick out your neck!
Shake tail feather
and follow me
in honking
photobombing V!
March 30.20: Coping
I stew in a pot of my juices
with only some mallards and gooses
to hear my complaint.
A pleasure I ain’t —
this, they say, they deduces.
February 29.20
This is why geese honk:
the ducks just sally on through,
in essence saluting the geese
with a “don’t-give-a-good-howdy-do.”
January 23.20
Aloneness
blade of a surgical wind
slices
the world
into shuddering parts.
Even the pond writhes
under one
solitary
goose
whose absurd solo honk
falls into the cold water
and drowns there.
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.)
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: March 5.18
The winner of the stare-down
he of skinny leg
awards presumptuous challengers
a well-deserved goose egg.
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?
