Oddments

In search of story


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May 4.19

The word of the year is GLUB

the world is a sloshing bathtub

I rant and complain

shake my trowel at the rain

but I can’t stop this merciless drub.

I’m tired of endless grey

I want it to go away

I miss sun and moon

I’m becoming a loon

I want to go out and play.

I’m tired of work half-begun

for want of a sky with a sun

it’s a dastardly plot:

spring comes to naught

and summer attacks like the Hun.

I would find it exceedingly rude

if you told me to adjust attitude

it isn’t my bad

Nature’s the cad

gardeners will grant my bad mood.

 

May the 4th

be with you, dear reader,

soggy though it may be.

 


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Connections: November 19.17

Like wingbeat

a million splashes

each the size of one cricket note

but together rising, falling

in hypnotic patter

tell the time

of in-between

neither fall nor winter

but cradling interlude

to hold the year

one minute.

 

 

Dear reader, ever since I started using this new computer, I’ve noticed that the photos in my blogs come and go. Sometimes they’re there, and sometimes they’re not. Please bear with me. I have no idea why the photos sometimes don’t appear. This one is supposed to have a photo in it, but it doesn’t at the moment. Perhaps sometime before the end of time I will figure out what’s going on. Or isn’t going on, as the case may be.

 


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Connections: July 14.17

It’s an earthen air

sagging over the dawn

musty

sweating on the lawn

popping with toadstools

and yesterday’s rain sits still

gathering the scent of soil

and a nameless farmer’s till

ghosts of crops past

rain-wafted now

old farms unburied

by summer storm plow

smells of wet summer

airy thick soup

fragrant toothsome

morning droop.

 

Connections