Broke

Sitting quietly in the den,

sipping my morning coffee,

deciding between poetry and

the L.A. Times crossword.

Suddenly a loud thump,

from the kitchen,

all too familiar.

It can only mean one thing:

a broken window or

a broken neck.

A quick dash and glance,

no shattered glass.

A slanted peek at the patio,

no broken bird.

No birds at all at the feeder.

Well, one, a cooper’s hawk,

a big one, smiling that smile

through its eyes.

Missed that one, it seems to say.

Next time.

Oh, and thanks for the feeders.

I’m always hungry.

Suffering (a Quinzaine)

two riffs on the same thought, the prompt being "suffering" and the form is Quinzaine : 7-5-3, statement-question-question, unrhymed.

Koan I

No doubt, life is suffering..

How does one respond?

Truth or dare?

Koan II

No doubt, life is a challenge.

How does one respond?

Play or hide? 

Seekers

Searching for a new home
will gain one many new friends.
The realtors beget the lenders,
who send the inspectors,
and they refer the fix-it guys.
Let’s not forget the movers,
the neighborhood handymen,
the HOA, PTA, Neighborhood Watch.
The Mormons and SDA’s
always seem to find us.
Here’s an idea – how about we
have them deliver the mail,
they knock on every door, anyhow.
Oops, gotta go,
Molly Maid just arrived.

A Sevenling Poem

The sevenling has some interesting rules (some a little more abstract than others), but the basics involve writing a seven line poem comprised of two tercets and a final one-line stanza that kind of holds everything together, a punch line of sorts, or a narrative juxtaposition...Here's mine, today:

Feeding Time

There are four

bird feeders in our yard,

two seed, two humming.

There are many

types of customers for our largesse,

small, medium and large.

There is one very observant hawk.

Emily

A long time married,
seemingly forever,
or at least, like swans,
mated for life,
they still argued, bickered,
even fought.
To her, the fight was
always about him.
To him, it was
always about money.
It wasn’t that they
loved each other less,
simply that they
found things not to like.
At such moments,
and the reason they
stayed married forever,
a particular type of
etiquette prevailed.
They could yell, talk back,
accuse even, but one rule
always carried the day:
no matter what,
no matter when,
no matter where,
it was okay to act crazy,
so long as both of them
were not
temporarily insane
at the same time.

From an old conversation with Will

It really was
a beautiful ring,
and it cost just
a little less
than I loved her,
and then they
added the tax.

Hold That...

Hold That Pose

for me, if you would,

it would be great if you could,

though I’m not as quick as I should

be, I just hoped you’d understood

that there’s a reason for it all,

why you can’t answer nature’s call,

just keep your focus on the wall,

the one leading to the hall,

that place with vase and one thin rose,

giving pleasure to the nose,

one way the muse in me still grows,

if you would simply hold that pose.

Tentative

At a certain age,

it all becomes provisional,

the big things,

the small stuff,

everything contingent on

the time remaining,

a simple fact of life.

It is also true that,

no matter the years,

the many or the few,

we’re all just passing through,

temporarily positioned between

two eternities.

So what is one to do?

Perhaps boldly experiment with

one’s uncertain future,

not fretting about

tentative schedules,

tentative arrival times,

tentative deals,

tentative release dates,

or tentative rulings.

Maybe it is best to

not stew about outcomes,

not worry about unfixed uncertainties.

Better to be as feisty as

the 80-year old man,

a bearded hero who

buys a new hammock

and two saplings.

He doesn’t concern himself with

future change for today’s dollar.

Light & Dark

It has been a good day,
nothing too grand, nor magical,
simply a few hours of quiet enjoyment,
some idle conversation with friends,
cheered on by the crisp sunlight of early spring,
hands shielding eyes against the glare,
smelling the ocean in the thin clouds,
down here, close to the border with Mexico.

How hopeful the sounds of passersby,
baseball season upon them,
the dark days of busted brackets behind,
still a rosy outlook for the local heroes,
not yet time for clever analysis,
of what went wrong this time.
There’ll be time later for the reality of defeats,
their shadows eclipsing today’s bright sun.

The gloomy mornings of winter are gone now,
but summer still sleeps,
not quite ready for her big entrance.
This is spring, and she’s still young,
so, satisfied, we capture
bits of today’s breezy brilliance,
enlivened by the simple pleasure of it all,
grateful for this good day.

Arrival

After a somewhat lengthy journey,
spanning his entire life, actually,
listening only to the sound of his feet,
he arrived at wisdom.
The next morning,
he arrived at it again