March 5.19

Of all the rites of spring

as sure as tulip spear

the forty days of Lent

anchored budding year.

Forsaking sweets (so saintly!)

with purpled liturgies

we plodded ash-benighted

with callouses on knees.

Fish and macaroni

— with a ho, for purgatory! —

we loved and gobbled up

in pleasure gustatory,

and through the season’s sackcloth

on temptation’s slippery brink

cinnamony hot cross buns,

penitential wink.

I laugh at memories ancient

and admonishments infernal

but I don’t laugh at the lesson

that spring can be internal.

 

 Whatever your traditions, dear reader,

may Shrove Tuesday bring you spring!

 

With more thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.

Connections: September 20.16

I acted on gardeners’ faith

when I sowed my babies in spring

autumn light reveals

(huzzah!)

I knew what I was doing.

I confess lobelia blue

died out

(alas, alack!)

but overall I’m happy

to pat myself on the back.

Connections

Connections: March 21

The procrastination tree

 with particular economy

in early spring forlornament

sports old Christmas ornament

unapologetically.

Connections

Connections: March 20

When spring comes

and hats bloom on trees

and distant blue-grey bark

summons sinuous breeze

when the fluid air

drips

with shower and chirpsichore

can we pick a hat

and join in the terpsichore?

Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.

And happy first day of spring, dear reader!

Connections

Connections: January 26

No headstone this

but promissory note

payment due

 in purpleblue

coin of spring

today’s frozen assets

tomorrow’s garden bling.

Connections

Two things

First the summons
to prove my worthy age —
carded! — to buy
rubber cement.

Ludicrous is good.
We need respite
from sanity
lest we be
weighted
with a surfeit of sense.

Second, key in ignition,
I stopped,
disbelieving my stowaway:
ladybug! blessed spring billboard!
It stretched
winged itself
and was gone
as though never there.

Bestowed by happenstance
a lighter heart.

The wimp who would be writer

I’ve been immersed
in the worst

kind of writing.

The kind
that mazes mind.

Forced to dredge,
lean over the edge.
No net,
no ledge
but cowardice,
my oft-times savior.

I waiver.

It is too big,
I am too small.
Words are too short,
life is too tall.

Why try?
I cry.

Coward!
taunts the muse.
Yes!
the writer dies
a thousand deaths,
singing revision blues.

Re-, re-, re-

re-write,
re-think,
re-visit,
re-ink,

re-member.

Again,
my pen,
again.

Look to spring,
the muse sings.
If crocus can arise
from dark place
so can you.

It snows,
stupid muse!
No crocus I
anyway.
Just coward
writer,
barely mettled,
words in pieces,
thoughts unsettled.

But
— a stirring underground —
wanting courage,
perhaps stubbornness
will do.

Protest

I searched for poems of spring.
Ponce de Leon seeks fountain of youth.
Alchemy? Holy grail?
Title for Brooklyn Bridge?
Easier.

Pogo says the first sign of spring is winter.
But must winter enter in?
Mortality? Reality?
So heavy the tread of winter,
so light the touch of spring, that
the one inflicts on the other?

I want a verdant, blue poem.
Sunny, light as transparent green bug
en pointe on kitchen window,
barely there,
fragile-winged,
but declaring her being to me.

Transient,
delicate as the glimmering bug,
but as worthy,
spring for its own sake,
sung
whooped
concelebrated.

No trespassing, poets,
with somber sound,
tempering delight with caution.
Leave such pedagogy to pedants.
I want no morals,
no lessons,
only the heady frilly breath of
this newborn air.