ode for deer

near the quiet town, New Haven,

three deer, to one side,

off the road

in tall grass, pause.

calmly look our way.

preeminent creatures.

standing without movement,
their beauty

took my breath away.

helpers

the birds help with a poem

they are the live souls.

sure plants are living,

but don't hop on my fence,

can't practically dance.

then let me give a salute to plants

that can be seen growing

day by day

and become flowers

bursting into joyful color

or produce fruits or vegetables

that need only salt or oil

to sure taste good,

provide nutrition;

their down side is

they never tweet.

This is my lost poem of 8 May. Diane, thank you. You copied this and sent a compliment. I lost it and thus you brought it back to live again. I am most grateful.

short line

had a poem lined up,
one, yesterday's.
short line.
where did it go?

i know i had one.
for may 8,
no idea where it went.
so, i say good day

to that what i wrote.
where? can't tell.
no idea what happened.
evidently it didn't float.

lost, though i searched around;
carefully, took my time.
seems i trashed a good one
into the sea of delightful rhyme.

warm again

you know, one day it will be warm again.

another thing,  i'll get my stuff in order.

wait, i'd like more coffee...

please.

// you want a refill?//

did i say that? i meant that.

//here comes//

thanks...and there she goes.

so i said, a lot is out of place.

i have to put stuff away,

things should be where they belong.

they don't go automatically...

too bad.

one day cars will drive themselves,

they say. automatically.

can they build me a garage?

the cars, i mean. i wonder.

//... //

she glared at me.

i'm serious.

//drink your coffee...sip it.

oh, by the way, the good news is

one day it will be warm again.//

onions

carefully eyeing  the circumference of the garden.
having given thought to where summer sun
will best caress the lovelies.

kicked ideas in my head, lost track, came back.
decided exactly where they would thrive.
imagined skin reds and purples of the honey's to be
while patiently waiting
this developing warm spring day.
now: when under arrival the beacon of noon sun 

small bulbs, called sets,

are lovingly pushed one at a time

into invitingly soft, fertilized, prepared soil;

to be watered and sunned,

day after warm day,

growing continuously,

sweet, large, savory and wonderful.
yes,of course there is waiting involved,
but time steps forward.
summer will take a hold.
in a hurrah velvety onions will be.

Race for the Roses

The race was this weekend.

Today we drove in the country

to the Mennonite store.

Wanted to ask if Chuck was here

Meri reminded me, "There is no Saint Chuck,

Mark is his name." I didn't see him,

so I asked the girl in the bonnet

working the counter

who she bet on

in the Kentucky Derby.

come on

i don't remember other years with rain so much.

or all this gray instead of blue.

waiting change again; warm up some.

clear skies, come on home.