Saturday, July 8, 2017

The Nest

How many bird nests are built
without an avian thought,
accomplished by only the singular purpose
of nesting?
Are the eggs to come simply
an impulse following
a hormonal dream,
a surprise.
Just that?

Do the birds know their truth,
such as given to them by
the wind
and water
and sun,
as the seasons spawn
the secret imperatives...
and so
is the nest is just as much the bird
as the egg laid
the feather fledged
the song sung?

And then to sometimes lose it all
dropped down
dropped low,
does it render them sad
their hopes cast down too
so tragic,
witnessing the empty shell that empties the heart
as these moments seem to feel?

Is it their loss too
or do they simply do the next thing that comes,
free of such bittersweet moments
free to fly into the morning sun?

Sunday, May 21, 2017

Peace and Love and F___ You!

I believe in peace and love
Earth below and sky above,
But I would like to stray today
And in the most loving way,
Say fuck you!
Heartless thieves and shameless too
As if the earth belonged to you!
So greedy.
You casually seek to sweep aside
The very earth where we abide,
So foolish.
Stealing what's important to me
So gleefully, most cruelly,
Will just not stand.
The list, it seems, grows every day
But I for one am in your way,
And I am not alone.
And though it’s not my normal way
Please listen when you hear me say,
Fuck you!





Monday, April 24, 2017

White-throated Sparrow

I saw you razoring your bill this morning,
Using the budding branch of a maple tree
As your whetstone.

I have some questions:
Ø  Does doing that give your sunflower seed
a maple-y delicious flavor?
Ø  Do you suffer when the weather is cold and wet?
Ø  Do you have a best bird-buddy friend?
Ø  And where do you go at night?
Ø  Are you ever afraid or lonely?
Ø  And most especially,
how does it feel to fly?!
Ø  Is that freedom as delicious
As maple-flavored sunflower seeds?

And thanks for stopping by each morning
And having breakfast with me.



Saturday, April 15, 2017

Just Now

I can only hold onto this moment for just so long.
It is hot, hot!
And sometimes I am blessed it seems,
Or cursed perhaps as well
With how quickly “now”
Is always becoming “then.”
But it is not then and gone, no, there is a wane:
And it is a gift when the hot now is love
‘cause hot will keep me warm then,
Long into the cold shadowy night,
And something I can circle back to,
As it cools
The touchstone after the fire has faded.
But it is not always then and gone, no,
Which is a clear curse when hot is hate,
‘cause hot hate will haunt me,
And taunt me toxic now
And burn me as it cools, then.
It is something that circles back as it simmers
A stain that is never scrubbed clean
A regret that begets regret.
So what to do, what to do?
Since there is no sure way to quench the hateful heat
But only to let it cool in my own entropy
Nor to feed an endless fire of love,
As much as it is my desire…
So I will greet such heats with a small wry smile:
Hello!  And there you are!
I will greet them in this moment
This only one
Like the heat of the sun
So constant and so god-like…
(As only in my life does the sun’s heat seem to come now,
And go then.)
This is know, this I know…
And this moment is hot!


















Saturday, March 25, 2017

Prelude to Spring

A passing shower brings
A prelude to spring.
It dimples and pocks
Creating self-healing divots
Craters and canyons
Painting and sculpting and painting again
The grey liquid canvas.
Watch closely or you might miss it as
The eye jitterbugs from near shore to far
Wanting to register
Each drop as it strikes
A visual cacophony of
Low rollers circling and radiating
Brothers and sisters
Born from above
No two seem  alike
(Though there is
A strong family resemblance).
A sudden burst bring more and more
Radiating circumferences
Shoulder by shoulder
Crossing and blending these
Fluid Venn diagrams,
Now being studied by mallard mathematicians
Paddling across the pond
Wondering if dinner is included with this show?
 Soon, a drier wind sweeps
The grey palette clean
Shape-shifting the water,
With a pause and a stillness,
An ephemeral epilogue
Waiting for the rain to return
Once again.


Saturday, March 11, 2017

Donald Trump's Birdfeeder

I’m going to send Donald Trump a birdfeeder.
You might picture it in the window of this photograph,
Possibly with a Peterson’s Field Guide placed usefully on the Resolute Desk.
I won’t labor the President with any lectures on ornithology
Or science or adaptations and the like,
Since he wouldn’t likely listen to me.
I’ll only ask him to keep the feeder filled
With a nice mix of sunflower seeds and millet.
The chickadees and titmice will be appreciative
I’m sure.
Maybe the President will watch them and marvel
At their enterprising natures,
Their common beauty,
And their valiant struggle for survival?
They will only take a few minutes of his time each day
But they will surely show him things he did not know,
He did not know,
Like steadfastness, diversity, playfulness, and simple joie de vivre.
David Thoreau said,
   "I once had a sparrow alight upon my shoulder for a moment,
   while I was hoeing in a village garden,
   and I felt that I was more distinguished by that circumstance
   that I should have been by     
   any epaulet I could have worn."
Maybe the sparrows will teach The Commander-in-Chief
About peaceful co-existence?
And tolerance?
And modesty?
William Wordsworth is oft quoted,
   "Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher."
All leaders need teachers.