Clint

What possible lure
could A Fistful of Dollars
hold for a tabby?

mah medicine

"coff coff," says Wyatt,
"I'm sick, give me my med'cine,
I need medicine."

in rainbow hues
wound in skeins and hung from hooks
yarn fills the garage

a healthy nephew
in need of attention, says,
"gimme my med'cine"

snow

thru my window
I watch as "2 to 3 inches"
becomes eight or so

standing in the snow
without a break all day
trees must have cold toes

powdered sugar falls
from the sky, coating the world
like fresh made french toast

out

the open door sings
to me its song of escape
to anywhere else

TGIT

In addition to
a vacuum, nature abhors
newsletter deadlines

The siren call of
the hula hoop lures the cat
from off the sofa

rippling clouds
creep in, behind them cold air
threatening more snow

dirty laundry

one, two, three, four, five
six loads of laundry, at least
two more loads to go


orion dances
to the singing of wild geese
at my mother's house

black and white

Watching black and white
movie on tv, scanning
black and white photos

Archeology:
photos found in a hat box
black and white mem'ries

Black and white cat
captured in monochrome grip
in a grey kitchen

Who were these people?
so young, suspended in time
and in silver gel

Washed of their color
memories stored in a hatbox
lost in a closet

Monday, Monday

Gah. It is so true
that nothing can out-Monday
actual Mondays.

Causticly swollen,
the slow, bloated creek grumbles
like a full stomach

Opening the door
greeted by a barnyard smell
the composter works

Sunday

Spinach, brussel spouts,
and moldy turnips all get
second life as soil

I just want to play
with the penciled-in mustache
of the film's villain

two cups of top soil
sawdust, baking soda and
dead produce from fridge.

Pit-a-pat-patpat,
the rain taps upon the pane
with a sulky splat.

odds and ends

A blurred jumpy ghost—
quick shadow, tawny vixen—
a lazy homeward fox.

Appetite killer,
nightmare maker: mass graves from
earthquake in Haiti

Three weeks of haiku,
a cupla lost syllables,
but I'm still writing.

In clear plastic bags,
thirteen cameras hang loose at
ten dollars a piece.

Bette Davis on
PBS makes me think of
and miss Aunt Sally

Friday

To quote Bugs Bunny,
"I just washed my hair,and can't
do a thing with it."

What gives Verizon?
I pay you to provide me
service, not excuse.

A grey chain of cloud
hangs overhead, bejeweled
with diamond raindrops.

Lost in a corner
my torch and hacksaw beckon:
time to make something.

deer crossing

flick flick flick flick flick
white tails bounce across the road
and into the creek

Wintry mix pinging
against air conditioning
sings a chilly song.

Wednesday

Tiny hands playing
random notes on a keyboard,
an otter duet

A candy coating
of crisp ice on my windscreen
opens the morning.

Opening gambit:
"Are you British? You look it."
That takes me way back.

Unexpectedly,
I'm not driving to Balmer
with Mom tomorrow.

Happy Birthday, Edgar

After sixty years,
no more roses and cognac.
End of the "Toaster?"

apologies to groucho

Outside of the cat,
a book's my best friend. Inside,
it's too dark to read.

...

Finally warm enough
to escape the apartment
and walk in the park.

rainy Sunday

Maybe pneumonia
or maybe not. Either way,
antibiotics.


Outside, grey and rain;
curled up with me on the couch,
a grey cat, inside.

Saturday, mea culpa

AKA Farewell Jillisa


Perhaps redundant,
another mad poet heads
for Ireland now.

And now a departure, in celebration of Jillisa's departure, for mature audiences only:

Off to Ireland for all of the craic
Jillisa may never come back
Oh those glib Irishmen
are so skilled with the pen
and fond of fair maidens in black.

Oh, Kilkenny's a literary town,
where scholars and poets abound.
With their noses in books
is how scholars will fooks
and they might even buy the next round.

the office

as if a hornet,
i am attempting to build
a nest of paper

Thursday

Hedonistically
I consume mussels in cream
and good company.

My nose plays tricks.
I could positively swear
I smell fresh doughnuts.

thirteen

Has it been two weeks
or four? I can't remember
the last time I shaved.

No, seriously.
The Christmas decorations
need to go away.

Seven on Richter,
but on the scale of sadness,
goes to eleven