simple pleasures

storm

storm

It’s pretty well-worn imagery,
but the storms really do roll here.

Seemingly from two directions at once,
the scooping wind is a solid presence.

The trees do a stadium wave up and down the street.

The sky darkens, slowly, from the northwest.
Local dogs
have fled indoors,
birdflight is comically controlled
chaos.

The cloud lightning is a tease,
pulsing but seldom forking,
thunder sounding but never cracking.
Always, somehow, behind the trees
and never overhead.

Too soon, only remnants,
complaining and ragged
in the distance

and it’s a little lonesome
in this dripping, scented quiet,
just one lone dog somewhere,
remembering.

Hot Sweet Nirvana (for Ian)

The only thing that makes me rise
Is the pull of a cuppa hot joe.
I’m pretty much a shambling schmoe
‘Til its molecules unshutter my eyes.

I know it should be clear blue skies,
or the hectoring of a morning crow,
or my lover’s touch so sweet and slow,
or the cat’s plaintive, spoilish cries.

But: what if nature abhorred caffeine?
And suddenly: no more java.
What then of this shallow, de rigueur routine?

Could I make do with a bean that is fava?
I feel that would force the golden mean
fallacy; so no sacred bean, no nirvana.

Spring Storm

The air is gravid with possibility today.
Clouds chase the humidity to ground, their grey
sending the neighborhood cats
home early.

Dogwoods light the woods from within,
paperwhite,
though not rare, somehow
barely there.

Cardinals arrow through the gathering branches,
against a brief punch-out of blue.

Tiny goblets of rain toast this day,
the sound and fury it will make,
indicating
everything.

image

One Single Sense

I would miss taste, it’s true,
but by then I will have had my fill
of delicacies, and will eat plain stew.

The touch of a lover, the thrill,
that would be hard to kiss goodbye.
But at least I will not feel winter’s chill.

Scents, however, are the means whereby
memory’s pathways collide and collude.
NB: write poems of remembrance, should that sense die.

Now sight: think of all the beauty you’ve viewed
and assemble a mental scrapbook of sorts.
Not ideal, but a comfort in your solitude.

Ah! but hearing. Mostly, music exhorts
me to insist: I cannot live without that gift,
which all other senses merely support.

IMG_1194

The Bachelor Mockingbird

I am not sure what the ladies don’t see in him.

Do their ears hear a dissonance, or a lacuna in his melodic line
that my human hearing does not register?

He smiths his song day and night,
and weehours morning as well,
driven, sleep-deprived.

(Is his prospective mate a night-owl, too, dawdling at dawn
with her feathers or just chatting with friends?)

His inexhaustible joy and longing
has infected the neighborhood
with a kind of pleasant unease.

When he falls silent
Should we be happy?
Perhaps his top-40 has drawn a mate!

Then he begins anew,
and we smile sadly
yet
pleased to have our work and play accompanied
by his hopeful soundtrack.

Courtesy Cornell Ornithology Lab

Mockingbird Display, photo and birdsong courtesy Cornell Ornithology Lab