For Cee’s FOTD
For Cee’s FOTD
The Language of Birds
The bird swoops
from the neighbor’s roof,
low over the pool
like a crop-dusting plane over prairie wheat.
and when I again look up,
it has already sailed over my bedroom dome,
up to the hills that march above our fraccionamiento,
still green from the rainy season,
holding yellow flowers in bunches
like a hopeful suitor.
It is movement only
and a flash of brown,
not white like the albino owl
that swooped in a similar downward curve
over the pool and up again
that night our old friend died
alone in a hotel room in London.
This is the language of birds.
My two-woodpecker alarm clock,
every morning stirring me
from my solitary bed
to engage with the day.
The whir of hummingbirds
outside the window
in front of my desk cave,
drawing my attention away
from the worrisome puzzle of the next word.
standing at attention on one leg,
balancing on the dense hyacinths
that blanket the lake,
one eye intent on shadows
beneath water no human eye sees.
That sudden flash,
a filled beak
and that puzzle of digestion––
how to get a horizontal fish down a vertical gullet.
All the music of my life
sometimes distills down to the chorus
of thrush and cardinal,
wren and grackle,
of the egret.
By some synchronicity,
conducted into a natural choir
that is beautiful in its spontaneity.
What orchestra has that fine precision
and that moving harmony?
Every art a mere imitation
of what the world provides us every day
that we present ourselves to experience it.
For Cee’s Flower of the Day prompt.
It’s daybreak when the rude alarm
is shut off by your questing arm.
As you roll over, the blanket’s pull
is your daily ritual.
As you leave the room, I do not stir.
I hear the blender’s angry whirr.
I hear you shower, brush and groom,
but stay wrapped in our bed’s warm womb.
I feel your presence. I hear you cough.
A rapid hug and you are off.
And in these hours away from me,
I suspect infidelity.
All day long I wait and wait
in an agitated state
for the creaking of the gate
that says you’ll soon alleviate
my loneliness this whole day through
that I’ve spent pining over you.
I leave the house, then come inside
to find the presents that you hide
to keep me entertained while you
do whatever you must do
to keep a roof over our head—
to provide shelter, food and bed.
Finally, a slamming door,
your footsteps on the hallway floor.
You bend down for our first caress.
and I’m suspicious, I confess.
I smell your collar, arms and cuff
until I’ve gathered facts enough.
I find no odor, no stray hair.
No other dog has tarried there!
Click on flowers to enlarge.
For Cee’s FOTD prompt
Curioser and curioser.
Thomas Bowers, identified as the former Deutsche Bank executive who signed off on loans to tRump at a time when no US bank would take the risk on the six-time bankruptcy filing scam artist, died last week at the age of 55.
Bowers was found dead, of an apparent suicide, ten days ago in California.
This is the second case of a potential witness in a position to offer damning information on tRump, found hanging. Pedophile sex trafficker Jeffrey Epstein was the first.
A similar tactic can be found in Putin’s playbook, although in that case, witnesses are typically thrown out of windows and are considered to be victims of the “Russian flew.”
I am reminded that we have never received answers to the following—
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The Other Shoe
Because it’s winter. Because you’re you—
an annoying pebble in my shoe.
My darkest dream, my shuddered sigh.
A tear unfallen from my eye.
You call my action radical.
I call your action terminal.
No more the tiny cringing wren,
no more the clucking, docile hen.
This time, your insult vilely hurled,
my reflex impulses unfurled,
my anger at the optimum,
I call you ingrate lazy bum.
I kick you out into the cold
in an action brave and bold.
I lock the door and pull the blind.
Not cruel, but suddenly I’m kind
to myself, so long obscured
by all injustice I’ve endured.
On my bed, once shared with you,
I sit and drop the other shoe.
Better alone with what will come
than with a selfish doltish bum.
I square my shoulders, fall to sleep.
No Lord my soul will have to keep.
Click on any photo to increase the size of all.
My mother always put up the tree the weekend after Thanksgiving, but since my Thanksgiving plans were cancelled due to the illness of the hosts, I decided to spend a leisurely day tweaking the tree today. When I talked on the phone to my nieces today, they asked me to send photos so I decided this was the easiest way to do so. Happy Thanksgiving! Happy Pre-Xmas!!!
That crepey neck.
I’m going to look like my Grandmother.
But I refuse to wear blue tennis shoes like her,
and when my jewelry starts turning black,
I’ll stop wearing it.
I won’t use straight pins for buttons
or rat my hair and roll it in a bun.
I won’t save Cracker Jack prizes in canning jars
or give all my money to the Seventh day Adventists.
I will not save food in my purse to take home from family dinners,
and I won’t let so many cats sleep in the henhouse.