The Final Movement of Spring’s Symphony in C Major

The muted roll of a tympani
nudged me from my torpor,
as more of the rhythm section
rapped steadily upon the roof.
The wind sounded like strings
stroked long, given vibrato
by shivering maple leaves.
Lying there, I felt the musical
tension swell, as if waiting
for the conductor to signal
a note of resolution.
The house lights flickered, as if
announcing intermission’s end and
I’d yet to more than sip from
my nap time cocktail. With another
bass drum thrum, louder than before,
this audience of one at
at the window to enjoy
Spring’s orchestral finale
of this year’s residency.

Photo ©Joseph Hesch 2014

The Band Plays On

The heartbeat of Spring
taps on my roof and
the winds turn the trees
into a percussion section.
The band plays on.

As I lie here, I hear
my heart beat in time
with the rain, while
a Springtime cold turns
my breath into woodwinds.
And the band plays on.

Somewhere out in the rain,
a man with no roof,
the opening in the overpass
for a window, hums his anthem.
And his band plays on.

People rush past him
as if driven by wind,
shoulders shrugged,
an audience sensing only
its own music.
The band playing on and on.

Boiling Point

Outside, the ground simmered,
or maybe sizzled,
as pouring rain pocked
the horizon-wide puddles
whenever chains of lightning
strobed one after another.
A surreal scene, yet natural
as gravity that drew
heavy drops earthward
to splash as if the ground
had reached boiling point,
so hot no one ventured
standing in the middle
of this stormy Spring griddle.
As daybreak nudged the
darkness away, prodding
the storm out ahead in
its march to Tuesday,
I cracked open my curtains
and revealed a landscape lush
with greens and obsidian
roadways, and streams chiming
morning prayers like hundreds
of church bells.

The Homeowner and the Crow ~ A Georgic Fable

The Man stood ready, his lawn to spray
In order to kill off or at least chase away
Those bugs and such turning his green grass to hay
“I’d reconsider that, if I was you,” he heard a voice say.

And, looking up, in the maple he spied a crow
Staring down at him and speaking, for a crow, quite low.
“Why should a bird of the air care what I sow?”
The Man said, knowing t’was poison, not seed, he’d throw.

“I see on that bag the sign of the skull and bones,”
Crow squawked down disapprovingly to Homeowner Jones
“And that won’t work on all the bugs in certain zones.”
The Man did pause, wondered what else he could use to end his lawn’s moans.

“What other remedy is there that will rid us of the bugs
Turning our lawns into naught but scratchy yellow rugs?”
He asked crow. “You leave this to me and not those jugs
Of drugs or whatever. Go back inside for more coffee mugs.”

Crow said, and Man for once listened and decided to agree
With crow, not knowing if this junk might even kill friendly bee.
“Okay, Crow, you go ahead. I’ll accede to your plea.
I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, as Crow alit from the tree.

And when he returned, Man found Crow was gone
As well as great patches of what once was his lawn.
From above he heard a cackling black bird laugh on and on,
And he knew he’d been bamboozled from yesterday to dawn.

The moral of our Georgic fable, one you might find on Pinterest,
Is if you’re looking for a natural remedy to bugs big, bigger or biggerest,
Check with a human expert in agricultural entomology, I insist
And never some clever bug or grub-eating bird with a vested interest.

For Day 22 of NaPoWriMo, I once again combined prompts, one calling for a Virgilian Georgic and the other for a poetic fable. Considering I cranked this out in about twenty minutes, I’ll take what I got, though as an agriculturally instructional Georgic poem, as well as providing a moral, old Virgil and Aesop are no doubt spinning like tops in their final rests somewhere above or sub rosa. (Photo copyright 2016 Joseph Hesch.)

Same As They Always Have

Spring Shoreline

On the creeks and rivers,
most of the ice has broken up
and moved idly downstream
like a weekend sailor floating
without care as it appears
the homes along the banks
are the moving ones. Sometimes,
the broken pieces will collect
in the narrows. But the waters
never stop, and will push against
the ice dams and bulge backward
over the banks, flooding the same
as they always have.
The pulsing Saranac or Mohawk,
the Black or Schoharie will
hemorrhage their riparian blood
over farm and field until the dams
break and the waters recede to
their courses. I’d walk the banks
then, observing how upriver
shore flotsam have run aground
and woven baskets of natural hand work.
That’s the rivers’ art, never stopping
to admire or regret what they’ve
crafted for good or ill. They’ll
slap their waves upon the shore
and move on, same as they always have.

Like a Lion

March Winds, by Graham Clilverd FRSA - 1949

March Winds, by Graham Clilverd FRSA – 1949

March’s winds bend back
the trees, only to fling
them away to swing back for more
bullying shoves, while whistles
and cracks fly like birds
from maple to spruce and back.
Aloft, freezing winds plait
cloud strata into ropes
of black and white, then
knot them into gray snarls
to toss across the blue
like cat toys. Below,
I sway like the trees,
my old joints cracking,
while I whistle and ponder if
this will be the March I’ll
finally untangle myself
from the snarling, the knotty
thoughts of you that roar
in chilling leonine echo
across my ever-blue memory.

Just because…

Scraping Toward Vernality

sugar_maple_buds-1516959fec716758a03

The maples stretch for
aging daubs of Winter,
these gray clouds grimly
clinging to want-to-be
Spring sky. Red-bud nails
on their fingertips claw
to snatch what lies
just out of reach,
like an escape tunnel beneath
fickle March to April,
the hope of this dreamer
captured in endless February.
Today, robins delivered
prospects for escape
from this steely season
hidden in their songs
like files within King Cakes.
Sun sinks out there,
later each day, while
shadow maples stretch
across this field
pulling back Winter’s
flimsy blankets, clinging
to a want-to-be Spring…
Just Spring.