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TO HELL WITH RESALE

Eleven Eleven Ninety Nine,

the day this comfortable house became mine.

It matches, first glance, all others round the block

Same roof, same shutters, same initial plant stock.

I should be ashamed, as a child of sixties fame.

They ARE all made of ticky tacky, and they all DO look the same.

Tho’ they’ve  changed o’er these years as we’ve lived, loved, and lost.

I’ve added, for instance, more  flowers than most.

More daisies, more lilies, more iris, more roses.

Bright poppies reseeded for great June poses.

Even my tree, my poor suffering ash

grows against odds ’round its cruel looking gash

where we cut out the blight caused by dastardly bugs.

The pesticide worked, ‘long with frequent tree hugs.

Yes, the yard, front and back, is chaotic, small splendor,

Like the kind you would get putting all in a blender.

Not the neat, fine order of my neighbors’ straight bricks,

rather,  here a plot, there a pot, grape ivy ’round sticks.

A prickly, old rose from the ancient prairie (I did not plant it)

crowds the bargain lilac near the Hansa quite hairy (I do like it).

I planted six strawberries, back in two thousand two,

which now reach a couple hundred growing where they want to.

Inside my small castle, things are not much finer

by the standards of any highly paid designer.

I know hardwood floors are the dream of most.

I chose commercial carpet; black and tan,  the color of toast.

It’s dark like a floor, and comfy, and soft,

and though a bit tailored, would look great in a loft.

My walls? well they’re sad, with colors galore.

I paint was high as I can reach, then I am loath to do more.

It makes me tired, my arm hurt, that’s all I will say

It’ll all get done some fine day.

My furniture suits me…my long, green leather couch,

my Eastlake setee, where my Grands like to slouch.

The turntable ready to give the Allmans a spin.

The trolls, and the books, and the crucifix – thin.

From the cross hangs a dearskin medicine bag,

hand beaded for me,  a gift from an dear hag.

(Forgive me, dear Margaret Forster, wherever you are,

it’s just that hag rhymed.  YOU are truly a star).

I shall continue this analysis at a later date.

There’s work to be done that simply cannot wait.

Time to head to the front “office,” with its red IKEA chair

and the bed with the red quilt.  Emil Catt is always there.

Adieu.

 

 

 

 

 

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GOODNESS GRACIOUS

Great ball of fire

climbing to the East

with miles of enflamed

striated clouds embracing it.

 

FLEDGLINGS

What privileged robins live in my back yard…

racing through the sprinkler, barely giving me any notice…

but WHO, may I ask, tipped over the big blue pot under the umbrella?

Hmm?

Emil Catt, was it you?

SATURDAY, EARLY

This morning,

early,

before the traffic…

before even the neighborhood dogs were out snuffling in their yards,

I hit the open space…

all the birds were in diversionary action mode…

robins, running ahead of me, away from their nests…

red finches flitting from tall grass to tall grass…

no coyotes, though, too late in the morning for them, I imagine. The sun had been up at least half an hour.

The grass in the gulch is not yet high enough to mow;

the willows promise to be full and greedy all summer long…

cattails just greening up…

and Emil Catt has begun a new habit of slurping his morning drink of water from the day lilies, coming back into the house soaking wet, and leaving paw prints on the new wood floor in the kitchen…

and now it’s 8:15

so the day’s work must begin

the luxury of a slow morning

packed up until tomorrow…

6/3/17

CHILLY

The sun was such a tease

hanging just below the horizon

like it might decide to not come up this morning.

Regardless of that decision,  the trail brightened the longer I walked,

my hands pulled into my sleeves,

my shoes crunching on iced gravel

following coyote tracks that veered off towards back yards

where Charlotte, Sue’s sweet cockapoo, and four chickens live.

They forecast snow today.  Without clouds?

Prepare for cold and damp.  With these rapidly bluing skies?

That blasted woodpecker annoyingly yaks from atop next door’s tallest willow.

Fat robins pull and pick apart fat worms.

My favorite mourning dove stares me down above the empty feeder,

and North Korea held its largest missile test yet last night.

4/26/17

EXPLOOOOSION

Each morning this week,

with or without clouds to obscure it,

a huge, burning, orange sun rose in minutes, seconds, nano-seconds;

quickly enough to make you burst into applause on the trail in the open space

much to the startlement of the chickens three houses up from the corner.

UP THE STREET

Happy the tree with a swing in it!

A wide arching rope with a disc at the end.

The type at which a young kid takes a flying leap,

grabs with one hand, the other flung out like a wing.

The sort that invites loud shrieks and giggles,

pirate yells, or “bombs away,  or a general “AUUUUGGHHH!”

The grass beneath it no longer exists.

The roots of the tree laid bare.

Mom’s good wicker chair from the front porch

is leaning against the trunk, ready to help the smallest flying monkey,

after grabbing the swing and climbing into the seat,

swing back and forth,  head thrown back, eyes closed,

both hands ’round the rope in a death grip.

Even after Mom hollers, “Time to come in!”

the swing swings free in glee.

It waits this morning for not just the sun,

but the son and the daughter and neighbors,

to finish their breakfast, and brush their teeth,

then really start the day flying.

NEWS ANGST

 

April 2, 2017  upon watching Martha Radditz on a Sunday morning show

Oh, dear Martha Radditz, you always look so pained. The world weighs ever so heavily on you; your angst is surely not feigned.
 
But darling, darling lady, you have brought this on yourself. Somewhere along your path of choice, from Zanzibar to Quelph,
 
you’ve studied, worried, fretted, wailed from every single rooftop, until your voice, and loud concerns have led us to shout, “Stop!”
 
Stop your constant warnings! Your unfounded great concern that the rest of the world is unable to listen, unable to discern
 
just what we need to worry ’bout, just what we need to think. You’re making yourself quite ill, my dear, predicting all will sink.
 
Find some good antacid, sip a little soda. Get some rest, put up your feet. Read a little Yoda.
 
Ask your massage therapist to smooth your furrowed brow, un-hunch your thin, stooped shoulders. Find a comfy hammock upon a tropical bough.
 
Put all away, Dearheart. Take a long vacation. Please leave it to someone else to report upon our nation.
 
We shall be fine. We shall survive. The USA is strong. All will be well, my anxious gal, not every pol is wrong.
 
Not every story needs your twist, nor does your stomach need it. Chill out, Miss Martha, chill out, retire. Let someone other anxious, talking head tell us how to heed it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AHHH

oh, what of the clouds building over Mt. Evans…

here at the light on County Line at Quebec

the sky is clear

the sun is etching new lines ’round my eyes

and for this thirty seconds

nothing in the world is off kilter

***

…oh, quit your honking!

rJo  2/4/17

DEAD

This is the truth I have come to know:

people are not dead until they are dead,

and maybe not then.

You cannot talk over them, pretend they are not there.

You cannot plan without them, assume they don’t care.

They are here!  They are here, and fully aware.

So quiet the panic as best as you can,

sit down, shut up, take hold of their hand.

Just at this moment it is not about you.

Cry if you must, wail and weep,

but sit there, and listen, and live in the moment,

while they are here living with you.