Thanks, Mr. Sandburg:
Sleep comes on little cat feet;
paw prints in the brain.
(Dali from chronicfatiguediagnosis; polar bear from isucceedbook.com; kitty from brenthaydey.com)
Small bird, black and white;
Chickadees invented flit.
Their quick is lovely.
(left from leahtift.com; right from johnmartinphotography.com)
(Note: this is for birthday mates Cidny Bullens and Rob Carreras.–jrs)
Same day, leagues apart,
amphibians no longer;
water, air, and fire.
Spirits free and clear,
summertime romance lit us.
Now we’re sixty-four.
The next twenty years:
Passion will drive us forward,
into the next phase.
(from Earthside Birth Photography)
Cat-sized squirrel runs,
tail floating, waving a flag;
here Kitty, Kitty.
(In tree: clarionledger.com; flying: highdefforum; cat: marthastewart.com)
Wild winter could not.
East, West, North, South wind could not.
One stubborn tough leaf.
(Taken from my deck–jrs)
I’m lying abed,
warm but worried
over an undefined something.
The phone rings:
“Hello?”
“I miss you. Do you miss me?”
“Who is this?”
Nothing.
“Hello? Hello?”
Nothing.
I hang up.
My wife rolls to her side and kisses my shoulder.
“Who was that?”
“I have no idea.”
I tell her the side she missed.
“That’s weird.”
“Yeah.”
I get up and shuffle to the bathroom.
When I get back,
she has arisen and gone into the hall.
I follow across a broad courtyard
and watch her open an ornate wooden door
and go through it.
I get to it, but it is locked.
I’ve never been in this place before,
but I know where I’m going.
I walk to the other side of the large
stone building to another ornate wooden door.
It, too, is locked.
There are people around, but none watching.
I decide to go find John.
I don’t know who John is,
but I know he is the Director.
The courtyard is lit with morning sun,
soft greens and golds,
warm breezes, and sleepy birds.
I walk as if I know where I’m going.
There is a road stretching away.
I see hikers and bicycles and understand
that no cars can use it.
I follow a path that leads around
the courtyard to elegant wood and stone steps.
Across the cunning patio
I see that John’s door is ajar.
I peek inside.
There is a single bed with
the covers recently thrown back.
I hear voices in conversation and
decided to come back later.
As I descend the steps
I am met by a short-haired,
bright red alpaca, with a purple topknot.
She looks like a furry four-legged quail.
Her eyes are lovely, the color of sun tea.
She giggles.
“Hi.”
I stroke her back, enjoying the fuzzy redness.
“Great to see you. Did you call me?”
She giggles again.
“I have an appointment with John.”
I smile and let her go.
The volume of what I don’t know astonishes me.
+
(upper from great-adventures.com; alpaca from old.petethepermie.com; quail from treknature.com)
(Note: I came up with this for a comment on Shutterbug’s blog at 575live.blogspot.ca. I liked it, so I’m putting it here, too.–jrs)
Greeting ritual:
Bub, you are such a good boy!
Happy hug and wag.
(This is my grandpuppy, Toulouse, a Catahoula. He really is a good boy! Oh, and I stole the title “Good Dog, Happy Man,” from Bill Frisell, one of my favorite guitarists.)
My pants feel all wrong;
Backwards and weird upside-down.
I’m in the shower.
I’m not wearing pants,
the feeling must be in me.
Can it be just me?
I put the soap down.
I hate it when this happens.
A long day awaits.
(upper from chacha.com; lower from dailymail.co.uk)
Dear Biped,
I understand you humans like to show off your vacation photos. I won’t get into the details of how we pulled this off, but apparently we’re very charming and photogenic. It seems that humans can’t get enough of pointing those black boxes at us and capturing us at play. I heard that some guy named Worhol said that everybody will get their fifteen minutes of fame and I guess this would be ours. I’m not even sure what a minute is, but you humans sure seem to count a lot of them.
Spring seems to be on its way. The youngsters are feisty and the females are too. I keep eyeing a couple of the younger full-racks. They’ll be after me for sure this year. Let ‘em come. I’m not done yet and they need to learn.
Your house seems closer, somehow. I’m not sure why. It was good seeing you out and about yesterday. One of these days, you ought to come across that fence line and say hello from my side of the meadow. Who knows? Maybe you’ll learn to talk.
Your pal,
Buddy
(Unless you live on the Oregon Coast, you won’t see this kind of thing very often. Thanks to Jim Furnish for putting this up first.)
Music from the heart
embraces Anacortes;
salty wings we are.
(My great good friend Ernie Theriot and me remembering the Gris-Gris Band.)
The audiobook is live!
Narble Furt Lives 