Our Dear Spirea

Spent this morning reading too much the romantics, and then remembered Christine had me take picture of her garden bushes last month.

Our Dear Spirea

From a baby curved tiny bean
  Had our little moppet grown,
‘Till into the hearty soil
  We her rooted feet made sown

She grew an inch a day it seemed
  Her arms widened to great boughs,
She was schooled in Nature’s boarding house,
  But she kept her own ways through

She soon timely showed her promises
  Her chest and fingers made to bud,
And when all her snow white blossoms bloomed
  All the boys turned into wood

As her long white train became a
  Flowing bridal veil of virtue,
Up the skunk dug up her heart,
  Him promising "I won’t hurt you,"

Was then Olde Warlock Time began
  To snip by day her nurturing flowers,
Until her bare bone boughs grew dry
  And she graft to her Saviors powers

Floor Polish and Wax Wings

Usually I don't start mooning about missing summers at the lake until mid July/August.
Still a treasured memory, worth sharing any time of year. 

Floor Polish and Wax Wings

When the wind is from the South along the mountain ridge
  The insects of the lake all blow to the cove,
Where in pockets they gather,
  Not by choice so much as rather
Behind these shore trees, in this eddy of the summers’ air,
  The hand of the wind has pushed them there,
Into a small typhoon here they cyclone around,
  They swirl,
Are they black birds in a kettle?
  No, they are the bugs,
Who around and around spin as captives
  In this twisting cloud

Here is opportunity!
  Though common is the Cedar Waxwing,
He is not often seen by we backyard birders,
  Excepting those whose yards back to the lake or pond,
Green as summers sunlit oak leaves, and
  Sporting a raccoon’s bandit mask, they,
From their perches in the trees
  Sally out to raid the maelstrom,
Where in hovering as a grander slow winged hummingbird
  They snap with their beaks,
You can hear them, snap snap! Upon the wind
  While they trap the July fly and summers’ midge

More than once have I
  Spent such a sundown on this porch,
It is not mine, although I love it,
  With a beer or cocktail in hand,

Then comes Cousin Wendy, done cleaning her kitchen,
  She is not cross, nor angry, nor bitchin’
About something ‘bout the kids
  (Who all are grown now)
Or the next project of destruction
  With it’s plans to remodel the basement,

She just says, "What here?"
  I tilt my head,
   And we watch the birds

Pouched Crow

Lately while writing I've been listening to audio versions of Shakespeare plays. So no mystery if, in doublet, tights and codpiece, it reads as if I'm reciting this at the Ole Vic.

Pouched Crow

Whose flared black wing is this I see,
  In dark repose upon cold ground?
And how came it lie in this cemetery,
  Where now I walk, and which I’ve found?
He slipstreams the grass with his forward aiming head,
  As if at speed with malevolent wings half spread
He proudly mocks to fly upon the grass
  While he flies only on in death,
A crows last jape, the more undignified 
  Preceded by his macabre grin in rictus,
See, his eyes are gone, pocked black and hollow
  And the soul has flown behind the untraversable clouds
That hide the space where black things hallowed flit

Finding a stick I folded a wing
  And rolled him over on one side,
That recumbent on his back may he lie
  In a state keeping with a black bird’s pride,
Yet once done, I saw that instead I had shamed him,
  By revealing his wound, the gaping hole,
That in death he would but could not hide,
  For there I saw by empty ribs and a naked spine
Someone the contents of his chest had cleaned,
  As hollow as a butchers’ capon

Doubtless whose work was this,
  With fear and common sense dismissed
Courageous crows will mob a hawk,
  They’ll gang and follow, they’ll harry and stalk,
With their choral caws the murder sings
  As with a dodge they nip his wings,
Or for the glory of a victorious feather
  With a dive pull at his tail,
Until reckless in the game 
  Comes too close this crow
To where cabled talons fast as lightening blow,
  And by one clip his neck is broke

Never the spend thrift, the hawks keeps a frugal economy,
  Thus he has not so much as killed an enemy as caught an easy meal,
Which, once carried to a choice plucking post
  This accomplished old poulterer will
Break beak in, carve out the heart,
  Then leisurely clean the chest of all fair pickings
Yet hawks detest the taste of crow,
  They are horrid, offal, it’s all well known, 
So he took the carcass on the fly,
  And discarded it from the sky on high,
To where again has fallen our black Icarus,
  Nevermore to take the sky

I rolled him back upon his chest,
  Took a graceful knee, spoke a fowl worded prayer,
Then just walked away, leaving him to the elements,
  Fittingly in this cemetery
   To rest

Seen at a County Fair

Summer time, memories of the county fair...

Seen at a County Fair

I paid my entrance at the gate,
I saw red Oxen pull dead weight,
I met a horse of seven hands high,
I sniffed at six award winning pies,
I saw a sunflower twelve feet tall,
Peered in a tiny house for dolls,
Then bought a Coke at the Hot Snacks stall,
Next took a seat, up front, down low,
For the most unusual pet show,
While waiting, listen to the rumpus
  of a summer Sunday carnival…

Soon a barker and a girl took the stage,
Him: "You brought an unusual pet?"
  (She nodded)
Him: "Are you going to show it to us?"
  (We applauded)
She reached into her oversized bag,
Where came no barking, no cats’ meow,
We heard no parrot that squawked or talked,
With no attempt to coo or soothe
From her oversized bag with a pull she removed
An orange traffic cone, with a black base,
  And a laundry marker smiley face,
Which she set upon the wood lectern,
   As every head at the carnival, near and far, turned

Him: "This is your unusual pet?"
Her: …"Yes,"
Him: "What is it?"
Her eyes said "Duh!", but her mouth said ... "A traffic cone,"  
Him: "You told me he travels, where does he get his travel ideas?"
Her: …"Conde Nast,"
   (pause for laughs)
Him: "What does he plant in Spring?"
Her: … "Coneflowers’"
   (waits for gaffs)
Him: "You say he’s really strong?"
Her: …"He can hold up traffic for hours,"
   (postpones for groans)
Him: "And where’s his favorite summer beach?"
Her: … "Coney Island,’

On my drive home later I met some construction,
Where a line of traffic cones coaxed me ‘round the destruction,
I saw, halfway, there was a missing orange gap,
  Which drove me quietly to a pleasant honking laugh,
For I’d thought I wanted my own pet cone,
  Yet then when I was halfway home
I felt I ought just let them roam,
So I passed on by,
  And left those wanton cones,
    Alone 

The Yankee Fridge

Who doesn't remember that old fridge in the summer cabin?

The Yankee Fridge

For three seasons a year she fluxes ice free,
   Comes the summer she won’t ask for any money,
As I chip me a piece of that cool glacial gift
   Which all summer she gives up in rifts,

Our old Yankee ice box comes with no ice machine,
  It’s the hot humid air when sucked in
That will cool and then flow as a glacier to the shore,
  Which for ‘shore’ in this box, is it’s door

So when it’s time for gin & tonics we shall pour,
  There is no need to run for ice up to the store,
We’ve got ice enough of right here by the score,
   Make a toast, ’Our liquor lasts as long, or more,’

So chip away friend, and you be sure,
  We’ll have fresh ice enough all summer long,
And when Fall leaves blow and toss,
  There’ll be no need to defrost,
By old Yankee ways no thing ever goes wrong

Come to visit New Year’s eve, she’ll give again,
  And we’ll drink a toast, Amen, to Winter quirks,
For on frigid nights she overheats,
  See there’s nothing ‘bout the cold she cannot beat,
 As a Yankee box space heater , she works fine!


  

Fenway

Wasn't until I finished and went to post this poem that I found out there really is a tea called the Louisville Bats.

Fenway

Pealings of the crowd at a Red Sox game
  Lift my eyes up to where angels beam,
While in jeering at Boston’s own home team
  Visiting Yankee fans yell things plain mean

Yet what’s that above there, the left field lights?
  It’s the strangest of birds ever I’ve seen flight,
None I know fly like that, ‘specially out in the night,
  I’m not watchin’ the game, what a curious sight!

So I look through my binoculars
  (which I brought to read the scores)
And there’s just one, peculiar,
  Woulda’ thought there’d a been a few more,

Colored Café’ au lait? What the hell bird is that?
  He’s got leathery wings! He’s a hovering thing!,
It’s the Greater New England Large Common Brown Bat!
  (which despite it’s name are just not seen that often!)

Seems he’s come to catch the Fens’ Spring Moths,
  Which the blazing lights tonight have drawn,
Where they teem in a froth, high as home run hit balls,
  Which the bat picks at ease with his claws,

By a foot to his mouth, our winged outfielder
  Brings each seasons ripe moth to his mouth,
Just like we fans down here, with our ball caps and beer
Do while snackin’ on ol’ Cracker Jack!

 You say these tickets cost money, what am I lookin’ at?
  I keep watching him over the game,
Hey the other fans here also paid to see bats,
  Am I not really like them, the same?

Chipmunky Business

Truth be told, during my acting/theater career, I really once played a chipmunk. The play was 'How to Succeed in Business..." and I was the guy who came out and shouted "Chipmunk Rah! Chipmunk Rah! Gooooo Chipminks!" and then jumped around like a cheerleader spaz. It was a real part!
Which has nothing to do with this;
 

Chipmunky Business

Chattering the Chipmunk is a ventriloquist,
Rudely alarming at the sight
  Of me and Mr. Cat on our porch,
He holds his head still
Moving his mouth but a little,
  He convulses his hips
While his tail twitching tweaks,
One would think it’s his rear.
  And not his head
From which he speaks

Quite a help in the garden
Is our little brown fellow,
  With an elephants mind he never forgets
Where I’ve sown the precious forget-me-nots,
So he shows his concern,
  Every time he returns,
By his digging them up once again

"Get out of my pots, you substandard gopher!"
He turns ‘bout and runs from my scorn,
  In a moment or two then
Zig zags back through the lawn
Bearing in his duffled cheeks an acorn,
  Which wisely one would think
He’d set aside in his lair
Against the hard Winter nights,
  And their cold bitter air,
Yet I wonder if he is that smart a player,
For the following Spring
  Comes a most unplanned thing,
It’s a too inch tall sprouting oak tree