Potpourri
Days like blossoms
Some, green buds
Reluctant to push away
The wooden bed frame
On which they rest
Others in full bloom
Spring open, pinks
With fuchsia lines
Fragrant perfume
Whipping in the wind
Then there are these
Trodden on the ground
Fallen petals browning
Color wilting, wishing
For your presence.
Capturing the Moment
Waves pushing calmly, evenly
against the shore
inching in
through rolling froth
the night's mystery remains
semi-concealed in a morning mist
dawn creeping over conifer crowns
the sand still wet, still
cool to the touch
He shuffles us together
at water's edge
our addiction to the digital
reentering,
the natural lost
in our obsessive desire
to capture the moment
But what will the picture remember?
Our faces, a cloudy sky
and a vast emptiness
of what lay behind us
creased specks on the ocean's surface
It will not remember
the sharp shelled warmth
of the water's depth
nor the tremulous movement
of the sand
as though some giant were passing
leaving no footprint
in the packed dexterity
of the beach
It will not remember
the forest hiding
with its tiger lilies always sprouting
towards the sea
or the golden pheasant
we saw strutting up
this scenic road
That photo will hold
in our faces, perhaps,
the joy of this moment
the relaxation of vacation well spent
the bonding we hoped for and gained
But again I wonder,
why are we so eager
to capture
what we already have?
City Bird Sounds
Hens cluck their morning tune
the sun is up and they are out
peeling garlic in the corridor
cackling indifference at slumber
Pigeons peck their coo-coo
between the grit of cobblestone
their waddle strut of obesity
amid neon, brick and grey skies
on the grocery aisle, humming
wave of cool, cellophane squish
tender pink, fresh date stamped
thumped gently on meshed metal
skillet singing for her supper
the sizzle of oil cheering that
first touch, as the bird lands
the only bird sounds I know