There once was a wombat named Dora
Found foraging in grassy flora.
Her scat, it came out square;
The bush rat said, "Not fair—
Can't you hide that very odd aura!”
The onset of Spring
my blossom eye
alert and foraging,
tastes the signs of budding
sweetness, a lick of the
lips, a fruity smile,
limbs a-trill with feathered
mating – lots of melodic
crooning...harmonizing pairs
choosing Vs of real-estate,
all is right with the season!
Evening settles along San Antonio’s River Walk
where the river has carried centuries~
Payaya canoes gliding through reeds,
Franciscan friars mapping water to mission,
stone masons shaping banks
that would one day cradle a city.
The water moves with its old patience,
green and unhurried,
bearing the memory of every hand
that once depended on its flow.
Cypress roots clutch the earth
the way they did long before
the first chapel bells rang.
Bridges replace where footpaths once wound.
Boats slip past,
their lights shimmering like stories
recalling river foraging,
and irrigation lifelines
I feel how the river gathers every era~
Indigenous footsteps,
mission bells, and
modern dusk~
The place seems almost sacred,
not through grandeur,
but through the
quiet and faithful way
it keeps passing moments
in the curve of its water.
BLACK CAT
A ghost, though invisible, is still like an object
In your sight your fingers can knock on, echoing; but here
Within the thick black fur, your best gaze
Will be soaked up and totally vanish:
Like a foraging vagrant with neither love nor a roof
She sleeps wherever she can, afraid of people and hard to catch
Protesting when caught but gets taken home and feels
Baffled and nervous despite the lack of harm.
She seems to hide all day, sneaking out when nature calls
Not used to having a loving home, like an audience
She can look over her people mysteriously, and uncertain,
And curl up to sleep, staying hidden until hungry.
When awake, she turns her face to yours.
And with a shock, you see yourself, inside the
golden amber of her eyes still, like a snowflake.
Then one strike and the home is gone and she ends up
In a cage with similar cats.
we siphon the sky
with mouths closed
except for feeding
every element of the construct
is breakable
if I just had room to manoeuvre
but once the ground disappears
the steps outside become just a shape
I imagine every which way to fall
most endings lead to discomfort
I could start simple
invert the crank
take the food from your lips
scatter it for foraging
see if stars grow
in between the stones
all my simple starts
lead to complexity I can't control
but I can't sit here
just turning the wheel
"VIII ..."
I wrote a poem
on my way home,
the fragile halo broke into sharp pieces
of foolsgold, like shattered mirror glass
I scattered as breadcrumbs,
to feed the murder of crows;
I wrote a poem
on my way home,
my wings broken in a bent passage, clipped,
by the gaslight, reading too much into everything,
the feathers fell into the path of strange foraging creatures,
in their labyrinths, and within their tears like ocean pools, I scried
the essence of each one, found and lost,
their charms enchanted me, to no end,
in this removed place of the unexplored obscure;
from their laments, I wrote a poem.
I saw my jaded windows reflect amber fires,
lit high like funeral pyres, and from their reigning ash I built
new alters to warm the frozen void I felt within;
on my heart their tap dancing fingers like light progressed
the lessons forgotten - and amidst them all, a silent echo did imprint:
Love.
Eternal.
Strength.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
blue jay lands, perches,
tilt, rotate its head, scans round,
foraging; flies off.
hops upon wet grass,
finds wriggling earthworm, it pulls~
alert behavior
Swept-up, an impulse
Followed I, last night, a foraging moonbeam --
Having entering my studio from a west facing
Window, looking out onto a frigid lake, hoarding light
And sparse warmth – winter was approaching
No sooner entered, now in hasty retreat
I thought, with all that extra glass
One mere gleam, such wasted inside opportunity!
------------------------------------------------------------
The moon, seeming full though often
Falsely round, as those inflated bellies of hungered children
Bloated with empty water to dissuade the pangs --
------------------------------------------------------------------
Crescent, I would argue, a far more sensitive display --
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The moon may rule our night
The sun may rule our day
My heart yet remains its own, to pass
Or follow thoughtfully every ambient
Ray --
Time to have a workout walk
at the local shopping mall ... not.
Better, instead, a walk down a peaceful, country lane
w/ foraging song birds gleaming, the rabbits
frolicking in the grass ...
the springtime sun slowly rising ...
warm on the face ...
My heart is not so secret,
An imminent confession,
Like fireworks blasting out
In the night sky,
It's escapades are clear, vivid,
And known about the galaxy.
No love-hiding here.
Seeds of affection flower and bloom
With the blink of an eye,
A touch on the shoulder,
Three seconds of eye contact...
And the whirlpool of love
Sublimates and swirls
Like tiny little notes
Fluttering through the in-between air
Of two souls desperate to dance,
Or at least slow groove with the other.
The heart's secret garden morphs into
Outward unabashed foraging
Since all secretly long for the light of human connection.
I'll secret you later so hug me now
With eyes if not with arms.
My heart garden,
Disarming the loveless.
I walk barefoot on the wet sand.
From afar I see the red sun setting.
Gulls still foraging for small fish.
Their cries harsh against the mist.
Where have my dear love gone?
Hidden in some obscure misty town.
She would not wish to be seen.
My life is like the waves that flow
Only to return from the darkening shore.
Once we were in deep love.
We held warm hand in a spring day.
We laughed and hugged and kissed.
Oh, how foolish I was that fatal day.
I sent her no red roses on her birthday.
Now I simply wile my evenings
Lurching unsteadily along the beach.
I am still bare foot on the wet sand.
Just one pair of foot prints left behind.
Follow the flow of the Tees
Meet the folk whose sweat
and tears shaped the land,
brought in the bounty,
shifted the steel to build
Better places.
Follow the flow of the Tees.
Meet the people who fish
in peace. Look for a seal or two.
See them bobbing, watching you
watching them. Observe them catching the
rays of the sun on the sand.
Follow the flow of the Tees
Day dream on the swirls and foam,
a moving picture on top of the murky depths.
Who would care to venture down?
Not me. I enjoy watching the wildlife
busy foraging for food as I pass by,
following the flow of the Tees.
Branscombe blossom
fair and light
coats the grass with pink and white,
mossy branch and apple breeze
stirs the limbs of dancing trees
orange tips and foraging bees,
no sweeter does the blackbird sing
than in an orchard filled with spring
Reciting, of the alphabet, not a waste.
I may get an A plus for trying.
I whistled for it, foraging
through its branches. Collaborating
with the Alpha and Omega, searching
for gold - that Atlantis-noun.
Lilac-gold or lavender gold…
“Forget about it,” railed the brain.
“…w, x, y, z,” I sighed.
Up…up…the driveway, uttering
with hysteria, viscera unclenched;
mysterious and victorious release.
“Speak up,” says the brain.
I release my whisper
into the wind, out the window,
“Wisteria…Wisteria…”
My eyes enjoy the vista,
the Spring feast.
land
inland, cultivable
leasing, foraging, entailing
terrestrial, terra firma, oceanic, offshore
boating, ferrying, sailing
acquatic, nautical
sea
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