Howdy, June. Fare thee well, May. Come again some other day. Or year, rather. And there’s the rub. A year. And another year. And another. Each one racing by. Even if we aren’t having fun. So might as well. April. May. June. They live year round as names for girls. January and July […]Read more "YOU NAME IT!"
A tiny egg. Sign of Spring. Life. Hope springing eternal. Newborn birds. In the nest. Out of the nest. Some in their eggs. Some wailing for worms. Like those at the Odeon Theatre. And some who don’t make it. A tiny broken egg. Bird unformed. Too soon. No hope. No wings. No flight. No feathers. […]Read more "I WANNA GO HOME"
Two. What a strange little word. Born out of “twa” and “zwei” and “duo.” But pronounced as “too.” You…and you too. One more than one. Not that there’s anything wrong with one. The lone wolf. A solitary oak. One roadrunner. The sun. One is the number expressing unity. Forming a whole. Undivided. After […]Read more "TWO “O”s IN SOLO"
Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked. She sells seashells down by the seashore. She sells seashells down by the seashore. She sells seashells down by the seashore. Say it real fast and it comes out: Sheshellssheshellsdownbythesheshore. Gobbledygook. Alas, cheap thrills. With fuel on the rise, […]Read more "WHADDYA GOT TO LOSE?"
M-O-T-H-E-R. From Middle English moder. Old English modor. German mutter. Indo-European mater. Latin mater. Classical Greek meter. And Old Irish mathir. Mother. We owe it all to them. No matter who […]Read more "MOTHER"
While strolling in the pasture one day In the very merry month of May I was taken by surprise By a rattling over yonder And jumped a hundred feet the other way. Yes, tis the season. Earth is on the move. Freezes finished their tour. Warmer days. Cool nights. And some mornings…still. Merry weather for […]Read more "IT’S IN THE STARS"
April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. So wrote T.S. Eliot in “The Waste Land.” Poor fella. He never lived in the Hill Country. No wonder he was depressed. The very title of the poem is the first clue. […]Read more "HEAVENLY HILL COUNTRY"