Wednesday, October 23, 2013



Late afternoon sun ignites the ornamental grasses in the curtilage.

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. 

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!

And the jays are back! This one was working the oak tree.
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...

            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.

           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
            —henceforth, a day
            without poetry
            will be set upon by drones.
            You’ve been warned.

“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.

            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.

            “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.

                        “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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