How many women
did it take to clean Trump’s clock?
Only one. It took no time.
~
Though it has been cleaned,
it has not been sanitized
and remains highly toxic.
How many women
did it take to clean Trump’s clock?
Only one. It took no time.
~
Though it has been cleaned,
it has not been sanitized
and remains highly toxic.
Early autumn fog
casts about pastoral lands
a delicate sfumato
~
And it left many
drivers flummoxed as they tried
to stay on the road.
Is counting wobbles
the same as counting steps or
do I need another app?
~
It’s no app you need
to address your wobbled step-
A new cane.. or knee.. or hip.
Rush not the seasons.
Relax, relish, and reflect
on this life’s revolutions.
~
Such good advice might
land on deaf ears, but it is
still well worth giving.
Knox will chase the ball,
but he refuses to fetch.
He thinks that’s our job.
~
On the other hand,
he has made it his mission,
to chip up all fallen logs.
As our years go by
the pace of events quickens
until the world is a blur.
~
My grandkids say it’s
not the world that is a blur,
but it’s us old folks who are.
Early morning mist,
both inside and out – hazy
start to a new day.
~
Haze can clarify
our view of reality;
concealing expectations.
Sounds of industry
duel with pastoral noises
forming the country gestalt.
~
Sometimes “both, and” can
leave us with the worst of both
and leave us discontented.
September has brought
sunny and cool days, giving
us a needed break.
~
Glorious it is
this alchemical melding-
warming sun and cooling breeze.
Things get messier
every time we start to clean,
or, at least, that’s how it seems.
~
It seems we manage
not to see the state of things
til we’re ready to begin..
Isn’t it wild
that Peter Piper could pick
peppers pickled on the vine?
~
That’s as wild as
Donald Duck’s delusions of
Democratic defections.
Remember last week,
smiling in warm regard
for the temperate reprieve.
~
The only thing we
count on is change as changing
temperatures show us so well.
Thank you, butterfly,
for the dash of color you
brought to this overcast day.
~
Some serve a purpose
beyond productivity:
providing aesthetic joy.
Every fallen leaf
seems to harbor basins full
of estuary systems
~
All around us lie
worlds in miniature waiting
to be discovered.
They believe if they
ban books and constantly tell
lies, victory will be theirs.
~
The tighter they close
their fists on power’s reins,
all the more will fight the bit.
Convolutions writhe
in gordian-like wonder
on the surface of the burl.
~
Convolutions writhe
within as they struggle to
justify their wrongs.
Glad we made good use
of those unusually cool
days while we had a chance.
~
Yes. The heat’s return
evaporates the river
with my will to play therein.
Vaguely verdant hues
really don’t belong up there
in those storm clouds overhead.
~
Sometimes things get turned
upside down and that’s also
true of the weather.
Even with the best
effort, we sometimes fail. What
we do next is what matters.
~
Perfection, the goal,
is always out of reach;
Progress is our only gauge.
Cicadas herald
August’s seasonal return
to expected temperature.
~
Cicadas herald
and we lament, wishing cool
temperatures would hurry back.
How moving it was
to see that young man display
his loving pride in his dad.
~
That love is expressed
in a different way, I’m sure,
when not under the spot light.
Waist high grass succumbs,
to the high speed whirring blades
of my ancient green John Deere.
~
Just an example
that we ancient ones are still
quite able to fill the bill.
Let’s make the best of
these cool sunny days, August’s
unexpected gift.
~
Most unlike August,
providing us with such joy.
Let us take this boon and run!
Alone in the dark,
with our blackest secret thoughts,
do we like what we behold?
~
In night’s dark quiet
our story telling mind tells
us tales awful and sublime.
Be sure to look up
and see the super blue moon
grace the sky tonight.
~
For meditation,
Selinekazóntas sure beats
Omphaloskepsis hands down.
The absence of words
appears to be no limit
to art appreciation.
~
In wordless wonder
we stand and gaze, allowing
art to take us where it will.
Sun darts in and out
with a timing known only
to its sunny self.
~
Obscuring clouds glow,
shining in the radiance
of the beacon they obscure.
Time will cure all wounds,
even planetary scabs,
only when the knife’s removed.
~
Time alone won’t cure
our planetary wounds. First
we must acknowledge they’re there.
They don’t try to hog
the sky. Those joyous white clouds
scatter hugs instead.
~
Proving the adage;
“Fluffier is cuddlier”,
as I have long suspected.
Though the grass grows tall
under brutal August sun,
the heat saps my will to mow.
~
In seventeen days,
you’ll have to come up with new
excuses. The muse might help.