Landscape

How deep the snow,
how tall the trees
among whose tops we trod? 

How many waves
have washed the stones
that lie along the shore?

From sea level
to snow level,
the gulls and ferns and more--

He paints the canvas
where we walk,
a bounteous artist, God.

Clearing

Dragonfly by Rostislav Kralik

buttercup

foxglove

blue sky

blue dragonfly

bright rays break through

gray days

smiles soak up

the tears

April Shower

Photo by Takkk

Unpack your colored chalks;

draw them in an arc across

the gray slate sky, washed clean.

 

Dear Uncle Theo

A Magpie Tale

Keene Township, Ohio

May 25, 1893

Dear Uncle Theo,

     I hope this letter finds you safe and well in the big city.  We all miss you, though none so much as Archippos.  Mother mutters that he must be a faithful hound indeed to whine and howl at the absence of such a master.  She has not forgiven you for taking your journey during the planting season.  "Any able-bodied man . . . " she says when Archippos barks, glancing at Father in the corner.  "I shall never understand my brother."

     I understand, of course.  And the young man you hired to take your place on the farm is quite agreeable.  Abel speaks politely and works hard, and the crops are coming along quite well with his assistance.  Still, you had not been gone a week before Mother turned Abel out of your room and installed a lodger there.  Abel nodded and said, "Yes'm," and took his little bundle out to the hayloft.  John, though, was furious.  You know my brother's temper.  He told Mother that if Abel was to sleep outside, that he would, too.  Mother simply shrugged.  I almost envy the boys out there, with no one shushing them after prayers.  Mother would probably let out John's room, too, if she could find a soul desperate enough to live in his musty garret.  

    I do not trust the lodger, Mr. Schneeman.  He leers at Mother with his coal-black eyes and sniffs his sharp nose before every blessed thing he says.  I think Mother hoped he'd pity us and help out on the farm, but he does no such thing.  He claims to be a traveling salesman, and leaves the homestead with his mysterious painted cart every morning.  He must not travel far, though, for he returns to the supper table promptly every evening.  When we're washing up, Mother grumbles that Mr. Schneeman eats far more than his share, but she won't say a thing to him.  She is afraid to lose his money.

     Archippos is howling again.  I am sure he does miss you, but I think there is more to his distress.  The hens have been acting most peculiarly, and even placid Bossy has been skittish in the milk stall.  I think the pixies have gotten in again.  Mother won't hear anything about it, though.  What shall I do?

     Father shakes his head and says that none of this would ever have happened if Mr. Buchanan had not been reelected.  But that is what he always says, so no one pays him any mind.

     Have you found what you were seeking?  I wish I could join you and see the great Columbian Exposition, but I cannot leave Mother now.  She would likely rent my little room out to someone even more disagreeable than Mr. Schneeman.

Your faithful niece,

Susannah

P.S.:  Who wants to play the Letter Game?

Instructions from the Caterers

A Magpie Tale

illustration by Helen Ward

If you go down in the woods today,
you must wear a party hat.
Be careful as you carry your tray;
you must not trip and fall flat.
Serve from the left,
remove from the right.
Don't lick the plate
'til you're out of sight.
Be gracious as you serve
the Teddy Bears' Picnic.

Cloudburst

A Magpie Tale

photo by TheFoxAndTheRaven

soaked clear to the skin

reveling in warm spring rain

no sense to come in

Drivers' Ed

A Magpie Tale

Laura, Allan and I waited outside the Industrial Arts building after school.  It was a lovely spring day, and we could have been doing so many other things, like homework, or running in circles with the track team.  But on this fateful day, we had our first practical session of Drivers' Ed. 

Fortunately, we were not waiting for our ill-tempered, rat-faced classroom instructor.  He was suspicious of bright kids like us, who finished our homework before our classmates finished their simulator drills, and turned to more recreational activities.  He would never have put up with our plans.

For we were prepared to combat the stress and tedium that were obviously inherent in three hours of student driving.  We had pen and paper ready for composing poetry.  I think we'd brought some snacks, too, and Laura always had a deck of cards ready for a round of Speed.

It turned out that Mr. P., an elementary school teacher who ran driving practice on the side (you could NOT pay me enough to do that), wasn't too keen on our diversions, either.  He thought we should be learning from each other's mistakes, not politely overlooking them, or rhapsodizing on the theme.  But you can't keep a good nerd from taking notes in poetic form.  Here are a few of our Highway Haiku:

Finally we drive
Car has a big yellow sign
Hope we do not crash
                             -T

Allan is nervous

This is his first time to drive

"No more gas, Allan!"

                             -T

Mr. P. is nervous
Safety belts are on, of course
Oh no!  Watch out, please!!!
                             -L

Zoom around the curve

We stay in the parking lot

No one to hit here

                             -T

I am sure he'd find
something or someone to hit
"NO MORE GAS, ALLAN!"
                             -L

Those in the street

gaze with wonder at the car

jerking 'round the lot

                             -L

Buddy Holly sings
on the "oldies" radio
Groovy music, yeah!
                            -T

Mr. P. looks

groovy with those glasses on

as the singer twangs

                             -L

He'll earn his money
Others drive illegally
before it's their turn
                           -T

Without the promise

about a fatter paycheck

he would have stayed home

                           -L

He will never know
just what all these "hi-Qs" say
Prob'ly just as well
                           -T

I am so thirsty

and my bangs are in my eyes

It's too hot in here

                           -L

A tree hits Allan
This is so embarrassing
Trees should never drive
                           -T


Note:  No actual trees were harmed in the writing of these poems.  Well, besides the one that gave its life to become college-ruled notebook paper in those pre-recycling days.  Never mind.

Garlic

A Magpie Tale

dull dry bare brown bulbs

snug genetic packages

buried like the dead

burst forth when it's nearly spring

promising an autumn zing

Junco Tanka

Beaks of bare, blind chicks

Stretch in great red rhombuses,

Still too weak to peep.

 Knowing soon they'll fledge and fly,

Parents faithfully provide.

Mad Marchness

I looked out the window, and what did I see?
Snowflakes falling on a flowering tree.
March is bringing me a brief surprise,
Snowflakes melting right before my eyes.
I can't make a snowball or build a fort.
It lasted no longer than this report.
It was really so, though evidence may hide--
That's my excuse for exercising inside!