high noon (archives)

in the middle of our supper,

the night fell with a thud,

splattering gravy everywhere.

smokey licked most of it up,

but the damage was done,

and it stayed dark all night.

then, at breakfast, the day

suddenly broke overhead,

and our eggs and bacon went

flying all over the place.

again, smokey cleaned it up,

but the damage was done,

and the day stayed broken.

for lunch, we went out to

the pasture to eat more of

the mushrooms we’d found

there a few days before.

suddenly, smokey pointed

up at the sun and yelled,

“it’s high noon! hit the dirt!”

but the damage was done,

and we stayed high all day.

similes

well, i ate like a hog

and swelled up like a tick;

now i’m sick as a dog

and as fat as a pig,

but i’m wise as an owl,

so i’ll lie like a rug,

and sleep like a baby–

as snug as a bug

–photo by me

haiku 138

mother earth closes

her eyes as the sun goes down–

soon, she’ll dream of stars

–photo by me

Limerick 50

The pelican bard known as Clyde

Composed a love poem for his bride:

“You’ve got a big mouth,

And a wrinkled throat pouch.”

“Why thank you,” she kindly replied.

–Photo by me

point of view (senryu)

most folks are friendly–

perhaps it’s your point of view

that needs to be changed

–photo by me

what i see

i’m here to visit stephanie,

but let me tell you what i see:

the cats, who’ve come in from the barn,

are huddled balls of mottled yarn,

the dog stares out into the distance,

pondering his own existence,

and skittles, she’s just glad to be

a human being, like you and me

–photo by me

Wordless Wednesday 1/25/23

–Photos by me

Poe Poem

It’s no surprise that in the land of ten thousand lakes, portaging (carrying your canoe from one lake to the next) is a viable means of transportation. In fact, in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, it’s the ONLY way around, as motorized access is not allowed in the pristine wilderness.

You’ll notice that in the photo above, there are no boats, houses, or people anywhere. It is this solitude that Edgar Allan Poe, yes, the Master of Macabre, wrote about in his poem “The Lake”, of which I’ve included an excerpt:

“In spring of youth it was my lot

To haunt of the wide earth a spot

The which I could not love the less

So lovely was the loneliness

Of a wild lake, with rocky bound

And tall pine trees that tower’d around.”

–Photo by me

The Battle for Love

So many young folks get married without actually understanding what true love is, and consequently end up in a stormy marriage, always battling for a love that seems to be forever beyond their reach. This tanka is for them:

the battle you fight

for love can only be won

by surrendering

for love cannot be taken;

it must be given to us

–photo by me

wily winter

winter, it seems,

uses classical schemes

to whitewash the woods

with a fresh coat of rime,

and she’s even coyer

than good ol’ tom sawyer

for she dupes jack frost

into doing it each time

–photos by me