mitten

 snow in Autumn--
one lost mitten tumbles
across the playground

Spike Milligan

 through out the years
   faerie notes for the children
enveloped in cedar
  Spike Milligan's 78
    a gift from grandma's hope chest



the hat

top

on top of the gym
highest she's ever been --
pulling back the clouds










photo: brianna

little New Year - 少し新しい年

oseshi-ryori



a boy at the food stall
makes the face of a dog --
little new year




{ ` }

Foragers

hungry sparrows --
the bastard child's
relentless gaze

Reconciliation

trying to reconcile my image of a semi-retired slouch
with my OCD has been no Spring picnic










more people seem fixated on a speckled fawn
than concerned with a flight of geese










poets anthropomorphize plants and rocks and things
while I struggle with inanimate objects










my MMPI reveals a predilection for occasional chairs that swivel










more than once I've been called upon to ask myself,
"What would a Monkey do?"









I never understood what they meant by "fat ladies in glasses"
until I'd been under surveillance by the Secret Service











they talk of War and all the while I've fought myself
and I'm one tough son-of-a-bitch

Quick Shot: After The Holiday

Hey, Brother!Good to hear a friendly voice. Yeah, I hear it ...

Shooting off fireworks with the kids for the first time, huh? By the way, I got your numbers - hang on - hmm hmm. Boy, I can just imagine. First thing I think of is their faces lightin' up ... you ever wonder what moments they'll remember? Now there's a thought we keep to ourselves, for want of appearing stoic, or strong, or unconcerned with trifles - the first thought always for our kids, always wondering if we're right or wrong.

I sure as Hell hope you got that camera rollin' now and then. It's aesthetically pleasing - if you're good or just a lucky fella you might even catch that eternal moment, if at all possible - depending on your attention to details as they occur. That other stuff remains unrecorded - some of it deliberately - if only to exercise the mind, maybe. Years later, even, to judge your character or gauge your maturity; a marker set like a guide stone along the roadway to note the advance of time.

And then? The thrill of the Fourth when I was little boy, in all its noise and fury, popped into my pumpkin head.

"I know how to handle fireworks!" The 10 year old me piped up, looking hopefully at my Dad.

"You'll know how to handle them when one blows up in your hand". He looked at me directly, a little sternly, no malice intended but like he knew something I didn't, part of the Pantheon of knowledge only Daddy's had access to - O', would we ever rise to that level? Still, it urged me to take caution, if more for the seeking of approval than anything to do with my personal safety.

I did pretty well actually, even after we returned to River City, the City of Thieves and the most boring town in America. Plenty of trouble for a lad to get into, times being what they were. Each situation to be challenged or just ignored, at the height of your fancy for mischief. Plenty of that to go around, all right. Pre-Urban Renewal, the kids near feral and the people as funky as that Old River that flowed past at the lowest points along the Levee. Yeah, the return was a retreat really, to my "home". My father's, really, while I remained a stranger. I been one since, anywhere I go. I'm about the same age as him now.

You know what happens don't you? That firecracker with the quick wick blows up in your fingers. FUCK! Hurt's worse than frostbite, god damn it, hurts like a motherfucker for a while. So what do you do?

You sure as Hell don't cry. Not in front of anybody at least. Unh unh. Shake off those tears and just keep going like nothing ever happened ... show off the mark it left maybe.

But, what about your Mama's?


a piece of string
to hold it all together -
traces of dreams

community

.



















A ‘flock’ of crows reside in the woods by my new school, or should I say I’m a new student? … they are obviously a family group, with their own distinct inflection of sounds when they call to each other. A bit different from the dialect of the city crows near my apartment, who have a hardened edginess to their communication. Are these city dwellers more stressed? Or is their stridency meant to overcome the noise and confusion of the humans rushing about beneath them? Perhaps they are a ‘murder’, a 'mob', or a 'gang' of crows?

I sometimes look for the Preserve’s crows as I cross the bridge by their wooded ground as I travel to and fro for a course in field biology. Even when I’m not thinking, trying to focus/not focus on my breathing, I can’t help but notice their antics or hear their friendly calls to one another. They happily disregard us, unlike the city crows, who seem to challenge us when Dottie and I take walks through the streets and alleys.

Dottie, Buddha that she is, remains unperturbed – unless, of course, the rabbit is about!

siblings
locked in mock battle!
winter crows




.

garden party

everybody else
holding everybody else's kid -
the garden party