The Humble Rhymster in corrected format

This Sunday Salon Assignment  was started by Kelley. She sent her stanza to Lauren. Lauren sent just hers to Mary, and so to Steve and ending with Richard.

 

- Humble Rhymster  

 

Unreasonable, I think as I check the thermometer which hovers around 8 degrees.

The pewter sky is flat, void of joy

endless, like February itself.

I poke at the embers in the fireplace,

As rusty orange as the feathers of the Towhee on the feeder outside my window

She snacks on suet and sunflower seeds, not a bit bothered by the cold

 

So come now, fair towhee, all downy a soul,

Is yesterdays' endeavor our curious tomorrow's? 


Fancy us a single note further to penetrate the trill.

As we hang weathered from our sills

In the flick of your golden hour

 

Still it snows, yet you remain in brown and black

puffer jacket standing on one leg – wax on wax off. 

I sit inside with tea or shall I dress in blacks and browns,

stand one-legged in your tracks, whisper in your feathered

ear the song of spring's streams of ants and mounds

of mouth-watering moths.

 

I watch on my Bird-TV my unfolding telenovela

orange and black towhee today's favorite character

going through your daily machinations

your hunger, desire and curiosity become one

as you break the fourth wall of this production

 

And Towhee do you turn and see yourself in glass?

See trills and hear the orange and brown and black?

Or do you see another of your feather mock your moves?

Perhaps you see into the pane and through the murky cave

into the muddy souls of lumbering giants all looking out

at you and pecking fumbled words of wonder.

 

 

A pandemic sized hole in the universe

no eating out – no tip income

no hugs – just zoom

same shirt – different day

don't forget to brush your hair

 

and be aware the perfect storm outside

soaking up the fabric of society

precipitating charity and sacrifice

clotting into sham conspiracy

 

existential crises galore – we are exposed frogs

with no webbed toes  we bellow, shiver,

croak the same old songs  and yet, and still

sunsets drop in yellows and pinks

 

the gaudy pinks to appease  another long sought spring

winding past the bundled forsythia

we shake out our limbs

having slipped the mornings' black pill below our tongues

 

soil softens beneath melting snow

worms squiggle in their moist home

wary of vibration, not of plague

birdsong belies human troubles

Flickers persevere, confidant of abundance

 

 



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