April, So Cruel

The rain’s laying
its restorative hands
upon the lands
surrounding my old house.
Our long winter has left
this pillow upon which sets
my only treasure a scratched
and motley patch
of tan, brown and olive.
April’s poetic showers
have only just arrived,
with May a week away.

Poor May, tasked with
completing the work
of two months in its 31 days,
scurrying along April’s
grass shoots, the crocuses
and daffodils, as well as
nursing its own tulips and lilacs.
April’s cold and snowy sloth
has shifted its cruelty
just as an October would
in blowing its leaves
into November’s yard.

This is probably a make-up poem for Day #22 of this month, sliding into the gap caused by my trip to North Carolina. It was supposed to be a “plant” poem, which i guess you could say it is tangentially, but it turned into a mild screed on how this winter has stretched its frozen fingers into a whole lot of the calendar’s Spring. But Nature can’t tell time and that calendar page beginning with A is just more junk for me to rake up this weekend…if it stops raining. Story/poem coming up in a bit for Day #27.

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It Happens Every Spring

The sun came out today like a bear from its winter cave, the air rushing to me fresher than yesterday and the days before that. For a moment or two, I wondered whether the weather had changed or I had. And I asked if you thought I was just another sap running freer in Spring, my coat open and without a hat? Maybe the Sun’s new angle past mere diagonal to the horizon blinded me to reality here at the third point of this seasonal triad?

“But you always get this way in the Spring,” I hear you say. “You get goofy and emotional and see the possibilities in things you want to see, here and there.” I have to admit, as I nod in grudging consent, there’s so much truth in what you’ve always told me, not only today. Then I smile, because, even through it all, deep down I guess you still kinda care.

And I look up to see your face smiling, but it’s in that cloud, up in the tree, in the puddles all around. “There you go again,” I hear, that unspoken tsk in your voice, though there’s no one but me here to make a sound.

Sorry for the delay, folks. I’ve been tied up with things other than writing for the past week. Actually, I was afraid it might be longer than that. Like forever. But I was inspired by a prompt from Julie Duffy at her Story-a-Day blog, which suggested trying to write a flash fiction story in the form of a sonnet. So this is my effort in Shakespearean sonnet form. Did you catch the (non iambic pentameter) abab cdcd ee rhyme scheme to the sentences?

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.