How many poetry books = 1 Nissan Pathfinder exhaust
system.
How many bluebirds? Money is how we thank people for
what makes them special
How we express our love and gratitude.
Weight and moods, up and down, with weather and outcome
of meetings.
I am so sick of humanity, people. Wouldn't I prefer
chickadees?
Then I get home, that is the comfortable tree hole I've been
longing for.
Aaron pitches and plays piano. Zach likes lacrosse and math.
The mound was soft, sand, with a hole big enough for an urn
or to hide a plover
But Aaron pitched carefully anyway, slow strikes and the
opposing team scored.
What would God's work be? Meaningless question. Today's
schedule:
Write fund raising letters, conserve small farms. Local food,
local jobs. Don't transport food coast to coast. Save fuel,
less CO2.
In my opinion the dislocations resulting from climate change
and global warming will be within man's adaptive capacity.
On the other hand.
Also, green industry will open a vast employment market, a
job for every grackle, crow.
The good life, unsustainable, we're poisoning our children
although my children are not so poisoned. They're bald.
Unusually bald. Good looking bald. Future of man bald.
Happy bald.
Bald eagle. Nesting, mating near Karen Sheldon's, a
conservationist, philanthropist, on the river, whose
husband recently died. During romantic dinner on a
second honeymoon in Paris, so I've heard.
That's Jake's spirit come home as an eagle, Karen said. Isn't
that great, I said, and the she-eagle he's nesting with!
--I'm gonna **** that *****.
Compare Captain Carpenter and In a Prominent Bar in
Secaucus One Day. In each case the hero's (heroine's)
body declining
Under life's duress. Anything located in Secaucus, NJ could
not be considered prominent, could it?
In the end, clack clack takes all. Hard to end a poem better
than that. Clack clack the crow's beak, upper and lower
mandibles meeting. From hunger, or it just does. Crows
clack clack to communicate.
Whitman's greatest poem is Out of the Cradle . . . also
involving communicating birds, in what is initially an
embarrassingly emotional display. All that italicized
moaning and yearning. Get away.
Then, clack clack, he turns on you. Death lisping, straight into
your eyes. Suddenly you realize you should have taken
him seriously, been paying attention.
In the meantime, traffic, corn, new exhaust system, ask for
money, save farms, poor people, sun on garden, whole
wide world, wars, stars.
I gave up long ago on a quiet world. Now going deaf. Then it
will be quiet, too quiet.
No more birding by ear. "No more *******." I mean really . . .
I was moved as anyone by Hall's honest poem about Jane
dying and I guess ******* can be music to someone's
melody, stand for living, but not me.
No more birding would have had more meaning. I'd rather
bird than ****. No more *******, no more worry, no more
war.
Which is why I'm gonna **** that ***** is so funny, such a
life-affirming comeback.
At first I worried Karen really believed the eagle is her
husband. Maybe she does,
But that punch line makes her the kind of woman I want to
know.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
