Calliope's Carousel - 2. April 10th - April 18th

10. Awake at Night

I listen

to the rain on the roof

murmur soft words of reassurance

while the brook outside my window sings lullaby

to smooth-skinned adolescent beech trees

which toss and turn mutely

in their sleep.

11. Openings in the Woods

Through the decayed leaves,

tiny purple spring beauties

open to the sun.

Wood chips lie scattered

about the long-broken ash,

beneath birds at work.

Huge tangled grape vines

hang draped over a poplar,

urging it to bed.

Speckled spears rise

in the shady woods to call

the trout lilies out.

A new-fallen beech

lies stretched on the forest floor

still trying to bud.

12. What’s for Dinner

My cupboard’s full of virtues long expired

and graces past their printed sell-by dates

when things gone rancid ought to be retired

to landfills where the rubbish congregates.

With vices fresh the fridge still overflows;

green envy and indulgence share a drawer,

above do lust and anger juxtapose

while rage and vanity sit on the door.

But on the rack there hangs a shining trove

of nuances, each in its clear glass jar

which alter leftovers upon the stove

no matter what their former flavors are.

I beg you not to judge me when we dine

for I will serve you savories divine.

13. Three Attempted Senryu

During the weekend

rain poured down from livid skies,

but Monday dawned clear.

My computer screen

is full of bright images

I cannot handle.

The moon blocked the sun;

my neighbor set off fireworks,

ignoring the wonder.

14. Spring Runoff

The rivers with ten thousand voices shout

and celebrate the pouring rain

in tumbling, chocolate-colored tossing heads

which yearn to tread upon the plain

and cry defiance to chill winter’s rule,

that monarch striving all in vain.

From every hill the waters hurry down

with riotous recruits to meet,

In ever-growing numbers they parade

and to the valley they compete

to be the first to reach the flowing mass

assuring icy frost’s retreat.

Before them, every barrier is breached

and every bar is swept away

through rising rampions, last year’s littered leaves

and saplings dressed in April grey,

no fallen log, no boulder can withstand

the raucous newborn streams at play.

Yet by the spreading meadows are they calmed

enough to wander with a sigh

as they climb out beyond constraining banks

and rest awhile, till by-and-by

return they to the acquiescent ground

until next spring shall call them nigh.

15. Four Aphorisms

There is no requirement

(to state it with lucidity),

that cognitive attirement

be costumed in stupidity.

It’s established as a fact,

the world revolves, as Foucault knew,

yet, if our findings are exact,

it doesn’t ever circle you.

If assertion you’d anoint

without the need to be a bore,

use brevity to make your point,

by talking less and saying more.

Happiness is not for sale

upon the supermarket shelf,

but if contentment will prevail

it’s something that you make yourself.

16. April in Alliteration

Kingfishers

calculate calories

counted in catching crustaceans that

congregate, quietly crouching contentedly,

cool in the quickening current, yet

camouflaged, conning the

kingfishers.

Peepers pipe

plangently, piercingly

publishing prurient protocols,

possibly promising pleasure and pillow talk,

pressing promiscuous partnership,

pleading to profligate

passersby.

17. First Thing in the Morning

In the low spot

where the green lawn turns to marsh grass

and tall cattails turn fuzzy and brown in the summer heat,

I heard the white-throated sparrow sing

for the first time this spring,

tuning his song early

before dawn could color the sky

enough to distinguish forest from fog;

yet that simple, plaintive tune

pierced the shadows

and silenced the waking blackbirds

to turn a grey world green

with promises of love and companionship

in a simple home

where the reeds rise.

18. Crush

See me waiting, restively by the window,

anxious, checking time on my wind-up wristwatch,

pacing, wearing holes in the shiny lino,

dancing a hopscotch;

while I wonder when you might walk by, strolling,

all unconscious that you could cause such turmoil,

carefree, clueless: can you hear my bells tolling

or feel my gut roil?

Would I, could I, possibly crack the portal,

step outside and maybe catch your attention?

Just one glance transforms me to an immortal,

in my invention.