A birdhouse hanging from a tree
Has snow piled on its roof.
If there are doubts about the storm,
Well, there’s the real-life proof.
Designed with details to appear
So cottage-like and charming,
Its Wedgewood-colored siding
Both familiar and disarming,
This mini-homestead’s cuteness is
An unexpected treat.
You wouldn’t look for such a thing
On a Manhattan street.
Yet there it is, with bright white door
And next to it, a broom,
Just waiting for a sparrow
To stop by and take up room.
Surrounding it, apartments loom;
Pedestrians make haste.
Still, somehow in this neighborhood,
This dwelling’s been embraced.
Here lies Eleanor McKenzie Wedgewood
Passed as an elderly genteel virgin should
Never meeting her desired mate,
A sadly regrettable fate
It's said, moreover, she did the best she could.
Written June 12, 2022
Worrisome wiggle worms
wishfully wiping Wedgewood windows,
wandering within William’s whiskers.
Wisely wriggling while wistfully waiting
for whoops within William’s whiskers,
wiggle worms wandering winsomely.
How many shades of the title,
aquamarine, azure, cerulean,
naming shades can be vital
some cities that have been
Cambridge, Oxford, Copenhagen,
to name but three
all distinct cannot be mistaken,
steel and teal you must agree,
sapphire, saxe and of course sky
peacock, periwinkle, then there's purse,
loads more, cannot tell a lie,
wedgewood, pewter, I once could converse,
royal, navy, a super pair,
Prussian, still leaves a few,
ultramarine, petrol often crystal clear,
turquoise, periwinkle my favourite hue!
Brevity in Blue' Contest, sponsor Dale Gregory Cozart
07/17/18
February winds pound the siding scattering sand left by the snow plows through the gray angry air. The house seems full of small noises and little else. The cat has taken up his guard post in his rug-covered tree house and purrs in tune with the ping of the hot water pipes. Even the dust has settled.
empty chairs
surround a guestless table:
I stand cup in hand
Scanning the tidy kitchen with its Wedgewood-blue counters and rustic farm-scene border, I note, the cabinets need a good rubdown. Murphy’s Oil in hand I approach the oak with determination, and a soft pink flannel rag. The scent of lemon oil, crisp and clean, wafts past my nose. With great care, I climb a gingerbread chair to reach the highest cabinets over the stove. I balance, praying the seat cushion doesn’t slide out from under my feet. Opening the double doors, I view a stockpile of holiday décor, now unused. There below the paper Easter Eggs, I see them and a tear comes to my eye. Empty now, decades old, of all different sizes, red satin boxes, Valentine Hearts, forgotten.
disturbed dust
floats past my eyes:
the clock bongs once
First Published in haibun Today Fall 2013
The Cedar Stand
The cedars stand, three at hand,
their limbs unwind like twine.
Closely spaced their crowns embrace
thus, framing the divine.
Trunks forlorn have been transformed
two asymmetric sides.
Their roots breach a sandy beach
Gnarled knuckles deeply lie.
When the wind blows boldly bye
a flirting with the scene;
three dance in a wedgewood sky
like dryads in a dream.
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