When I pass a still pond of water, especially during the spring when the Frogs are sounding, I think of Basho's poem Old pond frog jump in plop I have not read it in the original Japanese--cannot is more accurate--but have read that in the Japanese the poem is such an onomatopoeic poem that sound … Continue reading Frog Pond Haiku
We venture to catch the stars. She has what it takes to dare— courage, camera and will to challenge winter night. I carry light she doesn’t need, except to set her snare. We march, father squire to his daughter’s knight. Snow is pale under dappled sky and creaks as we walk; our breath wisps away, … Continue reading Star Hunter
“Some say there were unicorns, and there is a song about that. And some say there was alligators the size of Winnebagoes. This was long before Winnebagoes, you understand. Or Cathedrals for that matter. Which’re smaller than the average size boat at the time, apparently. “But I have my doubts about the unicorns. There was … Continue reading Barrel Racing in the Garden of Eden
I begin to see with new eyes— the scales have been scraped away, all the yellow, all the scum— how bright the grass with new eyes— a greener shade of winter yellow— with the scales scoured away. How brilliant Kathy’s eyes their lively green unochered through my new unblistered lens. I begin to see with … Continue reading Cataract Surgery
Arrant noise, gnaty lancer, gory glut, dodgy dancer, swatted not. Another from the archives.
“We’ll take it in the morning,” the Colonel said. He stood in the trench and periscoped over the rampart. Shells exploded out on the wasteland between his revetments and the bastion city. There were prone figures out there, some moving a bit. Some not, some in bloody pools. In the morning we did not take … Continue reading In the Morning We Did Not Take It.
O this ragabash of clowns leading the national parade with their upside trickle downs their ships for shoes and flappy gowns— their huuuuuge fake news charade! O hang this ragabash of clowns and the unfunny mess they’ve made with their treacle nonsense nouns and gibberish through smiles as frowns their constant in and out charade. … Continue reading The Parade Makes a Hard Right into Chaos
“You know, really, pickles aren’t green,” Edna said. She was emptying a jar of koshers into her mouth. Vern, per usual and to remain on the safe side, did not say anything. He kept head down and his brown, work leathered hand dipping the soup spoon into the oatmeal and lifting it into his mouth. … Continue reading Pickles are not Among the Chosen.
The first thing Phill Uperdone noticed that early November morning was that yellow was everywhere. The next thing he noticed is that there was no purple. The studio was a vast wash of yellow ocher and cadmium yellow (deep, medium, and pale); there were lemon, Indian, golden and gamboge yellows, and these were smeared, sprayed, … Continue reading Phil Paints Tighty-Whiteys (Unfortunately)
Orson Dwid had just about had it with the guy wearing the bright pink shirt and scintillating green jeans. Where the hell do they sell that kind of. . . . Orson could not think of an appropriate adjective to describe whatever the guy was wearing. He was going to say ‘shit’ but it was … Continue reading Orson Dwid Meets a Neighbor