May morning mist, Smithfield Valley,
highlights blue, yellow pansy
blooming as bees hover softly
with air of light comedy
while brindled cows munch quietly,
clouds hovering hillside lightly
with dew-water droplets wooly
nesting in damp hair cozily,
sunlight spearing on pond that spills
our Creator’s cup of good will
on frogs, heron, and whippoorwill
amid chorus of insect trill.
At such moments like this Spring day
pleasure halts my tongue: naught to say.
How pleasant, refreshing to see
our tinpot dictator ranting
at justice, common sense. Silly
Europeans were expecting
polite, rational behavior,
but Don displayed ability
to lie, appear superior
with a sneer in society
while insulting a warrior
at the D-Day cemetery
for having displayed great valor
fighting for his beloved country,
jailed many Mafioso dons,
and wisely helmed the FBI,
then provided measured response
to blatant, lawless perfidy.
We wait for the fourth of July
in the hope of patriotism,
yet we are quite likely to fly
into the maws of despotism
while the Don celebrates himself
as the greatest politician
since Nero on stage played himself
crucifying a dumb Christian.
His compassion remains unmatched
in the annals of history
and his crass insults are beloved
by those who know no history.
Like the god Nero, Don is praised
as a great public orator;
the populace loves he was raised
as a famous branding realtor.
Don is the high school bullshitter;
exaggeration is his theme—
when it works, he’s a big hitter,
when it doesn’t, the joke’s quite lame.
(Americans think a realtor
to be a form of royalty
because their opaque behavior
appears as magic fantasy.)
Media manipulation
as the engine of governance
produces an awkward question:
can one rule through nasty vengeance?
As Christian Prez Jimmy Carter
points out: we have oligarchy,
unlimited scandal, huckster
mentality, gross bribery.
The damp joylessness of first Spring is here
with drooping snowdrops and constant showers
riddling muddy puddles in languages
that can only be translated by ear.
Gray geese bicker about territory,
show off with bluster courting their ladies,
while midges gather armies for attacks
and daffodil stems thrust furiously.
Mold begins to creep up doors and latches
while rust attempts to paint the outdoor grill.
Disorientation disturbs my will.
I worry about welts from diseased ticks.
Despite these awkward considerations,
I’m learning to love light, birdsong chirpings.
To pierce the opaque world of corrupt lies
one needs Private Spectacles of Resonance
which bestows vision to see through dim cant
clothed in comic Harlequin arraignment.
Cruelty surrounds us like a carapace
of crustacean curses curled on lips.
All laws, customs, cultural perceptions
grow sizzling fat over the course of years
like slug wax in the portal of one’s ears
when we wake in blue dawn of the dew’s tears.
We proceed to draw history awkward
with far too much bloated baggage downward.
Those wistful tears burn away in sunlight
when our daylong working project goes right!
So many things that I once learned as a child
are either obsolete or downright wrong:
that mushrooms, celery have no nutrition,
that coffee and chocolate are quite bad.
Jupiter now has seventy-nine moons?
Who knew men and women are preparing
their own demise through over-population?
Or that religion could be so corrupt?
That science-denial would be a fad?
That knotweed would rule your backyard garden?
Can’t we just elect a big bullfrog king
to solve our problems with his magic ring?
Is this really me making a snowball?
Or is it some routine childhood relic?
Showing my three-year old how to-do-it:
compacting snow, scrunching it into ice,
so that one can...
That man’s a silly fellow in the sky
who only comes to me when he’s drunk.
He can never answer the question why,
or honestly tell just what he’s thunk;...
Cold moon riding high, bright over small hill,
snow crunching underfoot , an owl hooting
like a bearer of benevolent will
amid frozen shadows, tree twigs groping
like frozen fingers...
When a superior flutist performs,
I feel the upper regions of my brain
to be refreshed like standing in stunned awe
before rolling white-thunder’s majestic roar
of a secluded, pristine...
Just as each snowflake is original,
different, unique, so each Christmas day
should be likewise: in gifts, spirit, and thought,
even if favorite hymns, songs, repeat.
It is slight difference...
Today I’m renovating my study,
solarizing my words and diction,
solarizing my philosophic outlook,
solarizing my mood and behavior.
I am a sunnier person
and the proof of it...
Viola, soul of the string orchestra,
less bright in tone than that star violin
who hogs both spotlight and show-off solos,
yet like the piano, it is useful
for composing:...
Blasted flowers stand withered in bright sunlight
while others like chrysanthemums prosper.
Lingering phlox might attract hummingbirds
while late moths and butterflies flutter in air
performing snap-ballet of leaps and...
