In Which The Grasshoppers Lie Heavy

There still is something missing as the spring
Morphs into summer. While the days are long
And lovely, and the noisy blackbirds sing,
As do the larks and mourning doves, it's wrong
To call me pleased, who pedals past and through
The grasslands and the marshes, breathing in
The scents of plants and flowers on Deep Blue.
The Greenway still is lonely with no din
Of insects. Barely hatched and tiny, they
Still hide within the earth, can barely crawl
Forth from their refuge; they'd be easy prey
In early instar stages, for 'most all
Those chirping birds. Come out soon, friends, and play,
And jump to herald me along my way.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

A Memorable Fancy

From recent plane trips, I have come to know

Just what our country looks like from on high,

As seen through clouds, so very far below.

Today a grand illusion in the sky

Caused dizziness. I lay back in my swing,

Inhaled my Chinese lilacs, and my gaze

Went upward. Truly 'twas the strangest thing:

Farmlands and fields and rivers through a haze

Of drifting water vapor did appear,

As though my world had been turned inside-out,

As though the antipodes had come so near

I'd reach them if I just let go. About

Me all seemed poised to let me go and float

Off to the skylands, however remote.

In Which I Do Not Enjoy My Day's Drive One Bit

"May 25th, so put your parka on,"
My buddy said as I pulled out of town.
You'd think this was sarcasm; you'd be wrong.
A sheaf of thundersnow was coming down
So thick and bad I could but barely see.
The windshield wipers weren't up to the job
For one, and for another, there must be
A better word for what that sky did. Sob!
The world grows tiny on such trips, down to
The pavement and the mucky, murky air:
No sight of all of country driven through,
Each quarter-mile its own tough challenge. There
Is nothing like Wyoming in the spring.
No really: there is not any such thing.

In Which I Call Myself Out For Committing Grave Errors

I'm old enough to know much better than
To hurry on the days, and weeks, and years.
Though I expect to have a good lifespan,
Surprises do occur, and my career's
Not really what I'd call just starting, so
I chide myself a bit, to find I long
For these two weeks to hurry by; I go
Quite soon to Balticon. But it is wrong
To treat that time as worthless. I have made
Commitments e'en beyond the greatest one:
To make each moment count rather than fade
In idleness. E'en worse, I also shun
This summer, for I've plans laid for the fall
That thrill me more; mayhap the most of all.

In Which It May Not Yet Be Spring

My lilacs bow like Atlas 'neath the weight

Of many inches of wet, sloppy snow.

It's far from Fortean to have, so late,

Such quantity dumped on us, but, you know

I'm really done with this. O Baltimore,

Weird city I shall visit just weeks hence,

Please tell me you shall have sunshine in store

And balmy weather. My wish is intense

To feel true springtime! But I should be glad:

The rototilling didn't go as deep

As shall be needed; moisture won't be bad

For this, our effort. Meanwhile I'll just keep

My snow boots and my shovel handy. Sigh.

Just months ago snow so gladdened my eye...

In Which We Kind Of Already Did Mother's Day But I Can't Let The Actual Day Pass By Without Saying Something

Shift work means that I'm missing Mother's Day.
We celebrated last week: Chinese food
(Which she can't get in Togie) goes some way
Towards pleasing her; no fete should not include
Chop suey when it's for her, this I know!
I felt for her at Lowes and other stores
Where pots of flowers, blooming, out for show
Kept tempting her. Her fav'rite springtime chores
All center on their planting. She and dad
Are good at raising things and taking care
Of what they treasure, even through the bad
Old frosty times like now, but she did spare
These hothouse plants; too soon for them, as she
Well knows and kindly taught to Kris and me!

In Which Muck Is Mucked

We know that April's cruel, but could it crush
Our spirits so by any other means
Than snow that falls and turns, right off, to slush
And stays that way, at least until the freeze
At nightfall comes? The daffodils poke from
The sluggish soil, but soon do wear a coat
Of icy muck; would turn my fingers numb
To try to free them from it, and my throat
Already burns; a springtime cold is mine.
I peer outside while coughing, but I must
Remind myself that soon all will be fine,
And all this moisture will keep down the dust.
And when all of you others say good-bye
To blossoms, in the future mine still lie.

BONUS SONNET: In Which Springtime Proves Painful For Some

When springtime comes, a young male bird can think
Of just one thing, and when he finds her, lo:
There is no challenge from which he will shrink!
As Frank Roche this day proved. He filmed a show
Of fierceness through his windows, which reflect
A cardinal back to himself and pose
A threat to his new courtship. Ere it's wrecked
The bird attacks, delivers many blows
To the offending panes, oblivious
To how it feels, that thud against the glass.
His lady's watching, after all, and thus
He must prevail, lest she give him a pass
And give of her affections to his twin.
A grave predicament, yes, to be in!

In Which No One Surpasses The Weather Gods At April Fool's Day Prankery

For April Fool's, Cheyenne is getting punked.

We're inches deep in fresh new thundersnow.

I've just come in from shov'ling and look dunked

In someone's pool, all soakng wet. I know

It's spring, and so do you, but we forgot

To tell Wyoming's Mother Nature rep

(Although it's just as likely as is not

That Spring is simply playing hard to get;

She always was a tease). My canine friend,

Dear Molly, stands poised scared by the back door.

She loves the snow; indeed 'twould never end

Were she in charge, but just as my own poor

Dear doggie ventures outside for to play

The thunder booms and scares my girl away.

In Which Spring Break Affects Even Your Humble Sonneteer

I do believe that spring may come at last.

The bank clocks says it's seventy degrees

Outside. And water drips and spreads as vast

And dirty banks of snow melt (they'll refreeze

Again; it's only March) become the mud

That marks the season. Spring break in the park

With my friend Bonnie, a stir in my blood

Arose as kites flew overhead. A stark

And vivid contrast to how I have spent

Such afternoons of late, huddled and cold,

A bikeskimo in layers of clothes and bent

Close to the handlebars, windswept yet bold.

Now ease and sunlight mean I have to share

The greenway with more folks, but I don't care!

In Which My Wounded Dignity Is Soothed By The Music Of The Spheres

Spring snow is wet and sloppy, and so slick

Today's word really ought to just be "fall"

(The verb and not the season: quite some trick

To make it through the winter, almost all

Of it, and not once take a digger, but

Do so today, spectacularly, too!).

I don't mind, though; my Exoplanet nut,

Roald has set my mind at much ease through

This music that he found, for list'ning while

One gazes as the sky and contemplates

The worlds that spin out there. I have to smile

Despite this bone-deep chill. A hot bath waits

But not just yet, I'm digging all these tracks,

And it's high time I kick back and relax.

In Which I Teeter Drunkenly From Lilac Intoxication

The DEA might confiscate my yard:

It's one great mass of heady blossoms there.

My tendency to sniff just might retard

My reason and mien. I am aware

That it is best that I not operate

Machinery, or speak in public while

I'm in this deeply interesting state --

As demonstrated over on this file.

I'm not a grammar Nazi, but I am

Quite mindful of those usage niceties,

Agreement, case -- oh yes, I give a damn.

And pay attention to apostrophies.

But lilacs and some other blossoms, too

May make me start to use "whom" 'stead of "who!"

My New House Had A Surprise In Store For Me

The month of April's cruelest, Thomas said
(By Thomas I mean Eliot, T.S.).
While he meant more its goading from the "dead"
The dormant plants and flowers, I'll profess
A crueler face of April is by far
The storms of spring, the snowfall and the wind
That drives it into drifts, buries one's car,
And barricades one's house. Have I so sinned
In gloating o'er the beauties of my home
That I should so be cursed and have to dig
Through waist-deep snow to leave? Oh how the foam
Did fleck my face as I fought 'gainst those big
Waist-deep drifts with a less than perfect tool
A plastic shovel! Yeah, I'm super-cool.

In Which I Ponder April's Limited Backyard Entomology

Boisea trivittata is the sole

Bug visitor I've seen around my home

Thus far who's made appearance. I control

My disappointment, thus far, as the loam

Is mostly frozen yet; still under frost

Is all my lawn and garden. And these bugs

Are still a nice diversion for no cost

(No cable needed, and no need for drugs).

Box Elder bugs are what you prob'ly know

Them as; they're black with rims of red

Like piping on their jackets. They've no show

Or flashiness about them, nor much dread.

They're harmless to the struggling daffodils

Whose bed they share. They're simple, with no frills.

In Which I Enjoy My Easily Amused Birdie Brain

American Tree Sparrows like to hang

Around the cheap tube feeder just outside

My window, and they, too, like to harangue

Me when the feeder's empty, though they hide

When I come out to fill it. Once a day

At least, I find they've eaten all, or spilled

The seed I've  poured inside it. I obey

Their shrill demands, because I'm really thrilled

To watch them so cavort where I can see

Them at their birdie doings all day long.

I know the show they put on's not for me

Expressly, but I ask you, what is wrong

With staring out my window, oh, for hours?

When spring comes then I'll also watch the flow'rs.

Curses! It's Pledge Drive Time

I have a tote and vest and hat; all prove

That I'm a sucker for that time each fall

When all the voices that I'm hearing move

From giving news and info, to a call

For listeners to pony up and pay. 

There are two stations that get my support,

Since both of them get tuned in through my day.

I do rely on them; what they report

Is often inspiration for my rhymes,

And how I start and end my waking hours.

I pay my way, but still suffer, these times,

A guilt that it is quite beyond my powers

To assuage. Oh damn you, spring pledge drive!

Of course I want your stations to survive!

Vernal Equinox, Hmm? Maybe Somewhere Else

Oh, and to think that only yesterday
I sat right here, seed catalogs in hand,
A-choosing plants as though it were near May
And time to sow a garden on my land!
Today the horizontal slow flies by
To mock my dreams and hopes and make me stash
Those catalogs. But I refuse to cry
Or throw those pretty booklets in the trash.
At some point soon this crap has got to end.
I don't believe in Fimbulvetr (or
In much besides, at this point, O my friend);
But know that I have been a damn fool for
The Ides of March, or something. I must wait
Until the real spring comes, as always, late.

This Spring At My New House Will Be Especially Interesting

At my new house, we have made up a game,
Regarding all the flora of my yard,
Consisting of attempting just to name
The shrubs and plants that come 'neath our regard.
Spring won't be here for a short while to come
To tell us if we're right or if we're wrong.
A few of them defy us, and then some
Are myst'ries such that we're not sure the strong
Swift pulse of life still surges through them, or
If they are dead and need removed. Perhaps
Some lilacs, maybe currants are in store.
I hope that one's a crabapple. There are gaps
'Tween what I hope and what I'll have at last,
But that's my fun for now, and it's a blast.