poetry

Leave a comment Posted on poetry, prose, snippets, writing

Zoning anomaly

A freight train blows its hard horn (bright horn?) this morning.

I live in the suburbs and I can hear it — me and my cat.

There are tracks running through this town, and from time to time, rail crossings you might encounter unexpectedly, where you have to sit at the red light and wait for the endless line of rail cars.

The standard motor vehicles make just as much noise, anyway. I hear them like static on the receiving end of a phone. Not to mention their smoke.

Then there’s my retired neighbor with his generator that he uses for his pressure washer to clean his yard, where he also has a hot tub, along with a fluorescent blue bug zapper and a flatscreen, as well as a wife who does Zumba.

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Beyond the ordinary

(Setting: near a large horizontal window at a gala)

Both stood and watched the window like a screen.

Birds flew by to Chopin’s salon-friendly Nocturnes.

The woman, holding champagne, smiled and beamed.

Her burgeoning beau was charmed and stood close.

They were having a Hollywood moment!

The birds, like fish in a bowl, circled in groups,

rose like ocean waves then dipped back down

and raced fiercely across the manicured landscape.

The man and woman looked into each other’s eyes,

smiled warmly and returned their gaze to the window.

A jealous suitor sat in the background, transfixed.

For him, Chopin’s piano music had stopped,

for he was attuned to the alarm of the birds.

He was witnessing something beyond ordinary.

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Trees as innocent bystanders

I heard the choppy sound of a low-flying helicopter lingering nearby this morning at 7:30 for many minutes. Finally, I looked out my window, and all I could see was a sky that was admiral blue and a faded moon, full and hovering over the dome-shaped crown of a towering green tree. I peered through the leaves and branches, eagerly searching for a clue, for on the other side was a reality that differed from the one I was experiencing. This was apparent when a dove shot into the sky from behind the tree, gained altitude and vanished.

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Past middle age

I did not know: The Bird Man is a motorcyclist!

Each day in his yard, pouring out fresh water for his feathered visitors, he hobbles to complete this daily task. And now, here he is, in usual T-shirt and sagging, beat-up denim, perched on the seat of a Harley — its engine choking and rumbling on a cool September morning.

It all makes sense, too — his hobble and the Harley and everything else. It all dovetails seamlessly.

Fly, Bird Man, fly,! For the migration season is upon us!

Leave a comment Posted on humor, nonfiction, poetry, satire, writing

In the age of air-hugs

I.
With covid upon us, my weight spikes like virus cases in the U.S., but sometimes I wake up early enough to take walks

With covid, I do switch to the opposite side of the street if I see you coming my way, mask or not

With covid, I sometimes will watch a bus go by as I walk, and I realize that the driver must be as brave as first responders

With covid, many folks risk their lives to make ends meet

Although with covid, our economy sucks

And nothing is really changing to adapt for future, similar challenges, such as another global pandemic

Meanwhile, with covid, even being a consumer can be as sketchy as being in an ER, such as if you make an unnecessary run to the bookstore or go to the salon to get your nails done

Continue reading →
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On cheesecake

You can sit down to cheesecake.

Served on proper plates with a fork, you cut into it for a well-selected piece.

Cheesecake is romance food, and if you eat it solo, these are special moments with yourself.

To eat cheesecake is to dominate and get what you want: it’s pliable yet firm, with no falling apart at the last minute and little cleanup afterward.

Cheesecake is pleasure with precision.

And because you are being so decadent, you are accordingly proper while eating it.

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Sporadic notes on cultural icons

Oscar Wilde was editor of Woman’s World magazine, 1887-89. He also championed conventional attire for men.

John Lennon wore white. Fashion magazines will sometimes run his pic.

During an interview, a tidily dressed David Bowie did a good rendition of Lennon, voice-wise. It was abrupt but went over well.

Allen Ginsberg played finger cymbals and wore black. Ginsberg had a knack for mantra, and children loved him.

Was William Carlos Williams swallowed up by the forest? (The doctor chuckles as he sinks into the white beyond.) Maybe it was a happy death? Continue reading →

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Clouds

As far as I knew, I was lying on the grass, looking at the sky. Come to find out I was staring up at the roof of your mouth and its scattered white clouds. What gave it away were your lips, and how I noticed that they were lips to begin with was when I saw a second sky after you rose for air. I used to think this was my grave, staring up from this distance, like people would come and bury me. And now I realize that your teeth are the trees, towering like delicate aspens and darkened in silhouette, with the sun shining from behind like a new day.