Thinnings

I dedicate this poem to all you greenthumb gardeners out there, whom-ever you are.
Usually come May, it breaks my heart.

Thinnings

Two dozen seeds I poked in line,
  Now each has sprouted up in time,
They’ve rose above their earthly beds,
  They’ve shook the seed husks from their heads,
Each bears it’s palms toward the Sun,
  From morn until the day is done,
Relaxed, they stand at ease the night,
  Returning East for the dawn’s new light,

Of course they’re close set in the soil,
  (Sometimes none rise for all my toil),
Yet this Springs’ sun has brought all up
  As tightly packed as buttercups, 
Now, here’s the choice that I dread fear,
  To pick between my children dear,
By hand to thin some fast alive,
  That with more space may others thrive,
So, loath am I as a garden Lord,
  Pulling Adam and Eve out while adored…?
No! I’ll transplant them to somewhere new,
  (I’m told agnostic gardeners do!)

Mews

When I couldn’t think of a title, I asked my cat Max what he thought to name it.
Hence the title;

Mews

Young Bun-Rab tastes green grass today,
  Far enough out to be seen,
She’s chewed a yard wide swath of lawn,
  Down to a putting green
                                           (about her nest)

She’s never heard of strokes or par,
  Nor membered in golf clubs,
While well she heeds unquestioningly
  The warning turtle dove
                                            (noisy things)

The Goshawk’s not so secretive,
  His presence comes with coos,
He waits upon a verging branch
  Spying silently the mews,
                                   (fresh Spring blades)

He knows of birdies, eagles too,
  Mean things that hide in shrubs,
He’s also shy of men with guns,
  Members of The Hill Hunt Club,
                                 (but they’re not about)

Then there’s that patch Young Rabbit’s in,
  He knows what must be done,
A leaping from his perch he dives,
  As bouncing Bun-Rab holes in one

The Downy

I’m spending more time on the porch these warmer days.

The Downy

The rapping of the Downy’s work
  Upon an oaken limb,
Would concuss any lesser bird,
  But causes no harm to him

By playing on each arbored arm,
  He’ll ken what each’s within,
The hollow branches resonate,
  The hard make little din

From healthy arms he’ll fly away,
  In rotted, may carve a nest,
Yet I know he’s out for grubs today,
  So for him not good wood’s best

　

1995

A memory of a visit to Manhattan, which interestingly is a really good place for bird watching.

1995

Standing before the Walter Kerr,
  On the sunny side of West 48^th,
I’m holding a single ticket for
  Love! Valor, Compassion!
Nathan Lane has left and been replaced
  by Mario Cantone, 

No matter,

Crossways Times Square a cerulean tower,
As would a sundial, shadows the hour,
  Or the half hour, as I am early for the show

And mesmerized by it’s high sky blue,
With time I had and naught to do,
  My eyes rise far above these crowded streets,

My ears are captured, pulled in dreams,
By all this city’s rude machines
  As I soar on high while standing on the walk,

To there where high above all sound
At a shining height forty floors above the ground
  Perches a falcon, not alone, he’s communing with the sun,

Who alighting from his plucking post,
Circles the tower but three times at most,
  As would an artist climb the old loft’s spiral stairs,

With a pitch he angles in a stoop,
Streaks through the blue over a high rise co-op,
  To light his feathered talons on the World Wide tower,

Just two minutes it did it take him,
To pass on our dark crawling mayhem,
  And that was all he cared about rush hour

Bhutta

This morning I heard Christine sing a few bars of a song I recognized as Pete Seegers ‘Get Up and Go,’ which I then found in my music collection and played for her. Twenty minutes later I was putting butter on an English muffin, and Max meowed up a storm.
Funny how inspiration is such a playful muse.
I’ve given him half & half and sometimes cheese, but the line has to be drawn somewhere.


Bhutta

Once he's had his first taste
  You can never go back,
The effect that it has
  Is much more worse than crack
And it’s name is one never we
  Ever should mutter
Because that’s what it’s like
  When the cat’s gets some butter

Anytime you’re not looking
  And when-ev’s he’s able
He will sneak ‘cross the floor
  Then he’ll climb on the table
To lick that salt and the cream,
  If you know what I mean,
Because that’s what it’s like
  When the cat’s hooked on butter

Now your kit will get fat
  And your cat won’t be fit,
It’s very unhealthy,
  There is no end to it,
But if he doesn’t get it
  He’ll meow up a fit,
Because that’s what it’s like
  When cat’s chronic for butter