Bragi's Bagatelles - 1. April 1st to April 17th

April 1

 

 

Some say that April is a jezebel

in all affections fickle made

and even to those friends who know her well

intemperate in mood displayed,

but shyly she may show

a smile to friend and beau,

infrequently although.

 

 

She enters on the nimbus, unafraid

of storm and mighty winds that blow

across the calendar from March that flayed

the shore, the mountain, and plateau;

but through the weary pine

she may a face benign

allow herself to shine.

 

 

It’s true that April wanders to and fro

from frowning face to visage fine

and sunny warmth to unexpected snow

while sometimes both she may combine;

so she may weave a spell

upon the hill and dell

to make the maples swell.

 

 

When April ages, she shows not a line

approaching daily to her knell

when all caprice must certainly decline

and passing rages calmly quell;

for she is greened, not greyed,

in every bloom and blade

the surge of life obeyed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 2

 

 

There’s me

who teaches math,

venerating vectors,

delighting in derivatives,

and e,

but then

there’s my subtle, subjective self

which today loves Chopin

and on Tuesday

craves jazz.

 

 

 

 

April 3

 

 

The first mouse

was born blind, innocent,

and neither had either parent sinned;

he failed to wash, as instructed, in sacred pools,

but instead developed a habit

of pursuing random

farm spouses.

 

 

The second

was afflicted later

by macular degeneration,

on which he blamed his impoverished upbringing;

he was increasingly dependent

on following sounds in

the kitchen.

 

 

Number three

stood for holy orders,

yet retained abiding attraction

to others like himself, despite the priests’ teaching;

they said his eyes dimmed prematurely,

because of habitual

self-pleasure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 4

 

 

You’d think I’d know a thing or maybe two,

for I am not an innocent,

and in some quiet moment I will think

of many things magnificent,

like graceful silver pitcher polished bright,

or Mom’s blue china Dresden plates

residing in the cabinet beside

the crystal, which it antedates.

 

 

Yet when I ponder deeper, I reflect

that these things aren’t my chief delight,

for things like these inevitably pass

and fail to keep me up at night;

instead, the things the satisfy me best

are greater though they seem so small –

a smile, a hug, or laughter in the sun,

and things that are not things at all.

 

 

 

 

April 5

 

 

From time to time a stone like me will speak

though ears of other creatures cannot tune

themselves to hear our converse picayune

which may sound much like rustle, crunch or creak.

Still, modest metamorphs have views to seek

on matters sedimental or the moon,

or fashion dressed in fossil or in rune,

and happenings political this week.

However trivial our thoughts may sound,

on rare occasion humankind should heed

what’s said by us who lie upon the ground,

for when we shout, tectonic plates are freed;

injustice and contempt may come unwound

as when Love rode past on his humble steed.

 

 

 

 

April 6

 

 

Fire ascends

as quick as a crackle;

minuscule explosions of matter

flare and come untethered from mundane existence,

flee up the flue to newfound freedom,

where, depressed by cold air,

it descends.

 

 

What is burned

required lifetimes to grow,

thousands of sunsets glowed gold to red

while winter changed to summer and back overhead

and countless leaves withered and lay, dead

before it was cut low

and returned.

 

 

Now the heart

is consumed by a flame

which eats up in heat every caution

built up over decades like dry, dense growth rings

marking the years of drought and famine

to be ignited by

affection.

 

 

 

 

April 7

 

 

The hearth is cold and cheerless,

no ashes in the grate

nor embers burning fearless

of snowfall coming late;

the copper kettle’s sullen,

it sings no cheerful tune

of gatherings lucullan

beneath the harvest moon.

The feast for friend and neighbor

awaits a crackling blaze

built by the woodsman’s labor

in autumn’s frosty days;

thus kindling we must gather

if ever we might mend

the harm which careless blather

has brought us to this end;

a fire to warm the kitchen,

makes food for us to share

including those who pitch in

and fill each vacant chair

with ears and hearts which listen

to sentiment and thought,

so when we all have risen

we love the way we ought.

 

 

 

 

April 8

 

 

By the departure gate

streams a constant flow

of those who come and go

enough to populate a good-sized town

complete with high school cap and gown

and those who come home late;

 

 

I watch them who step slow

with grey heads tilted down

while young ones playing clown

who have no patience in their hearts to wait

or circumvent a balding pate,

in mind still lithe, although.

 

 

And I must look around

that somewhere in the spate

which moves without abate,

in hopes to see a face who I will know

that takes a moment to bestow

a smile in which to drown.

 

 

 

 

April 9

 

 

Behind the chimney, and to the left

silver light cascades over the roof

and transforms its worn, mossy shingles

into dapple riffles that may dance

like the waters of the creek below

that yearn for light unfettered by hills

with which to laugh and perhaps forget

the dark, cold ages beneath the earth

where birdsong never percolated

nor star could steer by its guiding hand

with only songs of silent stones

to promise a life above the earth

and love discovered in the storm.

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 10

 

 

I could not read by starlight

or write a tender sonnet if I wished;

Orion might as well have fished

as labored in the dark of night.

 

 

My pen would miss the margin

and wander like a planet on the page:

should I the shadowed foolscap gauge,

my words would look like Mandarin.

 

 

It’s best to put my notes down

that I might watch the Milky Way appear

and greet the constellations dear

as they the darkened mountains crown.

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 11

 

 

Cable knit sweaters stretched over broad shoulders,

lingering scents of a savory supper,

rock maple logs crackling fierce in the woodstove,

single malt whiskey poured neat to two fingers,

books waiting, stacked, by the green velvet wing-back;

snow falling fitfully into night’s curtain

carries the news of rising northwesterly

gales to inspire the trees to psalmody,

tunes to lament losses winter inflicted;

only enhances a sense of harmony

shared by survivors of yet one more season;

such are my comforts and treasured diversions

soon to be folded and packed for next fall.

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 12

 

 

I found it yesterday,

a tattered fragment of lined paper

torn hastily from a notebook

and folded into quarters,

containing contact information

for a boyhood friend

who moved in opposite directions to me

and I thought lost.

I unfolded the yellowed, rough-edged note

and read the plain letters in blue ink

which gave me old information,

but no news,

plain text,

but no message.

I’m left to wonder now if I should

act on that faded intention

and call the number that must be wrong by now

if only to say “I’m sorry”

to some unlucky stranger,

or to discard this last chance at reconnection

as hopeless.

 

 

 

 

April 13

 

 

 

 

One bright planet shines

above the western skyline,

pursuing the sun.

~

Two purple croci,

survivors of the snowstorm,

invite early bees.

~

Three redwing blackbirds

call from twisted wild grapevines

to claim the brown marsh.

~

Four long-tailed ducks bob

On the pond’s whitecapped surface

Watching for eagles.

~

Five snowdrops cluster

Beside the rhododendron

Sheltered from the storms.

~

Six deer stand transfixed

beneath Orion’s raised hand

prepared for escape.

 

 

~

Seven sleek seagulls

circle around the late sun

in search of supper.

 

 

 

 

April 14

 

 

Will you walk

down to the bay with me

in hopes of viewing a manatee,

or a crocodile with its inscrutable smile

at something the pelican proposed

while the egret dozed

and we gawk?

 

 

All in vain

we set out on our way

under skies both blustery and grey

as the west wind backs around to blow from downtown

so that all we can possibly see

are white caps on the sea

in the rain.

 

 

 

 

April 15

 

 

Today your birthday would have been,

your sixty ninth, or maybe

seventy one, I’m not too sure,

for I’ve lost count since that day

when I arrived to say goodbye

and you stopped getting older.

Together those you loved again

sit down around the table

since travelling around the globe

so we new tales can retail,

remarking on a few grey hairs

which were not there the last time.

It seems to fit the day

that we should bake Mother’s cake,

with chocolate icing we all loved,

though each recalls a different

method we might use to make it;

and as voices rise, I miss

your indulgent laughter which could

settle our pointless disputes;

for you would know how many eggs

and how much butter was used

to make that traditional treat

in celebration of you.

 

 

 

 

April 16

 

 

I’ve climbed hills,

some of them beautiful,

with long views from great granite outcrops

and weathered spruces bent toward dawn by the west wind;

my legs now struggle to ascend them

but at their summits, I’ll

catch my breath.

 

 

Some mountains

are worth the day to climb

and not just for vistas at the top,

but also for a glimpse into worlds once possible

and still accessible for others,

pinnacles to defend

and die on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 17

 

 

God in his wisdom made the fly
And then forgot to tell us why. – Ogden Nash

 

 

 

 

If in God’s image I am made

then tricks on painters old were played,

for I’m no studly patriarch,

but quite pear shaped, as I have weighed.

 

 

I’ve thought that my genetic mark

ought not to have been on the Ark,

yet there it was, stored snug and dry,

beside the sloth and meadowlark.

 

 

In Eden, one might simplify,

was beauty wrought to charm the eye,

though such does not describe my form

and so beholders wonder why.

 

 

Was I divine, and not the norm,

or are my fellows in the swarm

more like what He prepared and clayed

beneath a gaze divine and warm?