Saturday, April 18, 2015

Yesterday's Verse

Be late
Early is for the worms
Late is better than never
After all
To try to write
Each and every
Day

is

a

S
T
R
E
T
C
H
 .

Thursday, April 16, 2015

Wild Turkey

you
are
so
much
more
than
the
wobbly
tracing
of a small hand
crayoned with an autumn rainbow
of brown, yellow, black, and white:
in the feathers of true life
you are iridescent
copper and bronze
shimmers shifting
under the setting sun
 much               taller
                          than a             child's                         
hand               and
  stoically             stubborn
    taking            your own
grand                 time
      crossing            ever so     
  slowly             slowly
 this sun           spattered
back                                   road

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Returning Home

lurching and lumbering
laden with tote bags and clumsily scuffing rocks

oblivious to the graceless
one delicate nuthatch tips and sips from the spring


Tuesday, April 14, 2015

late walk

last silent blush of sunset
an unexpected sight
crisp loud leaves burst and crackle
echo rabbit's flight

Monday, April 13, 2015

Why Writing Without a Dog Is Much Harder

. . . fewer interminable trips outdoors
where the air has actual oxygen in it . . .

no startling cackles from the avian inhabitants
of this chilly, leafless, gray habitat . . .

a low expectation of anything mysterious rising, dripping
from the dark, still water thawed from winter ice . . .

no 'la-de-dah' ambient wind chimes twinkling enchantment
to generate meditative, self-important inner thoughts . . .

no falling dusk
rising moon
mid of night
dawn of day
just
halogenic
fluorescent
battery-powered
LED
available 24/7
mind-numbing light
glaring from
the computer screen’s
blank page --
its cursor
blinking
maddeningly
patient
in blind |
               |
               |
               |
expectation.

Sunday, April 12, 2015

Not Only Us

Winter weary
water-slick
the beaver
has come ashore
seeking spring.
He huddles at the water's edge
settling for some dry reeds remaining
but even from this meager meal
he pauses . . .
rises up
paws mid air . . .
sniffs
yes . . .
and just stands there
motionless . . .
spring is here at last.

Saturday, April 11, 2015

Not Everyone's Harbinger of Spring

The skunk cabbage has sprouted
in the low, wet woods --
a small hamlet has formed there.
Curious, carnivorous heads
peer through moss trimmed windows,
squint at the afternoon sun,
size up the forecast
for winged things flitting past
to fathom
whether unfurling fully
is yet worthwhile.