Ottava rima you’re kicking my ass
Usually iambs are not that all that hard
And this rhyme scheme don’t take a lot of brass —
But dang it, I’m just not feeling the bard,
Much less Byronic (or iconic) to boot.
It’s a Monday night for criminy’s sake
And you want me to think about one foot
Or another, or rhyme that’s not too fake?
This is not good. This is bad, very bad indeed.
That’s what happens when you let Byron take the lead.
The birds were solitary today.
The loon called from beyond the ice, a call of arrival and inquiry.
I almost missed it.
The pileated woodpecker hammered the tree right behind me.
I jumped. No missing it.
Further down the way, a rooster alternated calls with the loon.
The lake boomed magnificently, a deep rip all the way across the pond.
Waves of sound echoed while Max and I listened.
In Mary’s woods up from the pond, a single pine warbler sang.
Back home, a lone pair of ducks flew chittering high above, searching for open water.
Why do they look lonely?
Snow scented blossoms
warming buds of memory
in a slow Maine spring.
I’m letting go of old longings
to share coffee in the morning
and dishes at night,
and all the little daily driftings in between.
It’s no good, that desire.
It turns back on me,
a freight of expectation
and judgment — Pandora’s blessings.
carries sadness in its wake.
lets me bob free of all that line,
tethering me to the shore
of dull emotional habit.
Saying goodbye is not a bad thing.
booms as the sun
dwells on the ice-bound pond;
edges tinkling, lulled to brittle
My dog has this in common with new lovers:
his nose for the noisome is splendid
while his sense of context runs away.
He loves what smells wretched
despite the rest of our dismay.
The ancient whale-road
It’s a long road with no turns
And no shanty songs