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| Late afternoon sun ignites the ornamental grasses in the curtilage. |
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| It's being one of those special falls. Here in Ootischenia the first frost was late this year, so we ate tomatoes well into October. Ted has been busy splitting wood that will help keep us warm. |
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| See that window on the right? See that black compositor just left of the fence? Two nights ago at 1:30 in the morning I heard some sort of noise outside. At first I thought someone was on the deck, but when I turned out the light and looked outside the moony brightness revealed a bear trying to figure out how to get into the bin! |
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| And the jays are back! This one was working the oak tree. |
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| In the 'hard to believe' department, Kyran just turned 10! |
Back to posting postcards. From here on in I either stopped using epigraphs or used non-Griffin poet ones. As you'll see, I got into a box of Onion cards. They're fun. That one about the puppy—talk about prophetic! (Something should teach those guys about responsibility). And the Darth Vader one? It went to Kyran, who's very into Star Wars these days. Over and out. I'm behind in my ModPo video viewing and I have a little essay due at the end of the week. And books to make. And some text blocks to proof. And, and, and...
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Summer’s end, and
it starts
to feel robotic, the rush
to put away fruit,
the search for sweaters
abandoned months ago—
was it really only weeks
since last we felt
this Northern cold? No matter,
we go on, stop to gaze
at chickadees that comb
the sunflower for errant seeds,
pick ripe tomatoes, warm
to the touch, give thanks we
made it to another fall,
another winding down. Robotic.
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Poetry Union
Local 23
announces a work-to-rule
—from here on in
puppies will be required
at all Senate meetings
in order to teach
those guys and girls a think or two
about picking up their own
shit.
—henceforth, a day
without poetry
will be set upon by drones.
You’ve been warned.
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“Never mind me
I’m
just writing
a
poem at eight-fifty-seven”
Raul
Sanchez
I would be, if it was 8:57
I could be, but it’s not
so I write at 3:45
and wonder why it matters,
this track-keeping,
this jotting down of moments
the way Frida tracked her life
with a brush, her canvases
tiny, but oh, the hugeness
of the world she expressed,
but never mind me,
I’m just writing.
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School days,
school days,
dear old golden leaves
on the trees starting
to come down,
hit the ground running
you’re chasing down
another year—oh dear,
they go so fast and
someday you will believe it,
someday you’ll say it, too.
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“like
a bee’s contentment in the garden,
crumpled
energy a jumble of generosity,
and
pollen insurance
redeems
wastrel ways.”
Susan
Andrews Grace
Too many firsts to contemplate.
Jam, sweet jam on a peach for tea.
Once I stared in fascinated wonder
at butterfly wings, opaque and
wondrous, pinned and under glass.
I carry spiders out of doors
to save them from a casual foot,
a black-hole drain. I bring the cat
in.
This pseudo-peace is getting old—
will someone start a war,
any war, anywhere?
These tiny words won’t keep you
warm at night. Bees will,
if you dream them right. They will.
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“I am
not a reason not
to operate.”
Stuart Ross
Bargain
basement clear out
of the soul
dancer,
pole
dancer, ask a question
bafflegab
the answer
take a
chance— er, what
is that
you’re doing
time’s
a-wasting
round we go
again
bring a
lantern
break a
promise
you’ll do
fine.
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