Gnoshing in the marsh
beneath the summer skies,
smoked fish the blue plate special
to heron’s gulped surprise.
From ashen cloud an eagle’s
gravelly croak is heard:
“Can the presidential seal
be changed to coughing bird?”
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg,
braving the smoke from the west
hovering over Virginia.
Hope is the thing with feathers,
according to the poet;
this wind-coiffed matted stalwart
is adamant to show it.
Waterlogged, bedraggled,
moroser by the hour,
he watches plashy pond,
indomitable and dour.
But persevering, patient,
resolute in attitude,
it isn’t raining rain, he says,
it’s raining fortitude.
I salute unpretty Hope,
my admiration bestirred:
it may be the thing with feathers,
but it’s surely a tough old bird.
With thanks to Emily Dickinson.
And to the purists I make no apologies for “moroser.”
It’s a poem. Ergo, poetic license.
Philosopher bird,
patient, still,
laser focused
by stoic will,
ignoring slime
between his toes
as raindrops trickle
from his nose.
Waiting is
perfected art
for pondside menu
à la carte.
The heron and I
were watching the news,
trying to fathom
debatable views.
He couldn’t find words
but just shrugged instead,
like me, reduced to a
scratch of the head.
The pond mirror
in leaden shinery
tells form
absent finery/
long-leggedy beastie
starkly spindly
twiggy as spring
winter-dwindly.
With thanks to the Bump-In-The-Night prayer.
Full disclosure, dear reader: I changed this post. A few hours after I posted it, different words started to poke around in my head. I didn’t ask for them. They just started bullying me.
Though bold the fashion statement
and avant-garde the fusion
an ascot with a toga
is flagrant pond obtrusion.
The winner of the stare-down
he of skinny leg
awards presumptuous challengers
a well-deserved goose egg.
Oddments 