Some recent quotes which have nothing whatsoever to do with politics
Experiments in Dr. Hanlon’s lab have shown that they are color blind. They see a world without color, but their skin changes rapidly to any hue in the rainbow. How is that possible?
Revealed: Secrets of the Camouflage Masters
Sometimes they play the same songs in the same order. Sometimes the same songs in a different order. Sometimes different songs completely. The venue changes and thus the stage configuration, sound, the lighting are new each time.
They can’t escape, these protagonists,
caught between ruby and green,
the dark blue light, all within
the black bars of lead.
Foxes begin now to be very rank, & to smell so high that as one rides along of a morning it is easy to distinguish where they have been the night before.
The Natural History of Selborne
They assault him with paws and tongues, licking him as though his face was made of sugar, clearly impressed to find him at their level.
Now’s the time
The poem has nothing
to say right now. The poem
wishes it were somewhere
I keep my kids’ baby teeth in my change purse.
The Rain in My Purse
A ceremony is symbolic; it celebrates something that has happened. (Birthdays happen, with or without a ceremony.) A ritual is theurgic; it creates a new truth.
Frost and sun transmute to sequinned lace of fine-spun silver the slug trails thrown over the log pile.
Zoom lens: eyes, then feet float up towards the tree-tops. Cool, dreamy clarity of Winter shapes.
We saw what we believe to be Pelagic Cormorant pairs nesting on these sheer cliffs. An interesting sight, their chosen ledge so narrow that the birds stand with their necks kinked and their beaks pointing upward. They too are waiting for storms to pass, for eggs to hatch, holding an idea about the future for which there are no words.
I’ve always liked to think of clouds as aquatic environments suspended in the sky. Yet despite their comfortable white fluffy look, they’re not hospitable places.
The Wild Side
When I’m somewhere else, I experience not just the absence of home, but an absence shaped like home.
Creature of the Shade
seen so many times,
she is north.
She says Not again.
She says I am not
strong, don’t you dare tell me
how strong I am.
After a time of tiny wandering, I begin to grow sad and lonely. Where will I sleep? What can I eat? Exploring a maze of shapes and patterns, amongst mythical animals, seems suddenly not enough. Or perhaps too much.
Smoke and Ash
a pigeon pecks at a pile of puke
a small stone
Sometimes I just want to tell the world to “Shut up.” Noise of the radio, noise of tires on the wet asphalt, the distant whine of all the unhappy people.
If we wait long enough, your plot of snowdrops may meet my patch of lily-of-the-valley, and then our flowers will be neighbors too and we’ll not have to steal glances from one another’s garden any longer.
Somewhere in NJ