Easy Pickings

Sometimes things come too easily.

       Easy Pickings

Turtles, quicker than their reputation,
proved elusive in that summer lake,
swiftly sliding from their sun spots
when I rowed closer to capture them
or flash diving deep when I turned
to catch them catching their breath –
leaving only a bubble trail behind.

But in the muddy creek that fed that lake,

they turned half-ostrich, confident they were
hidden when they could no longer see.
I gathered them, still as stones – 1, 2, 3.
By the third one, turtles had lost their charm,
and my mind turned to slippery frogs,
leaping, leaping just beyond my reach.

The Susquehanna: Something Short of a Sonnet

During my childhood, I spent many summer vacations at my grandfather's cottage on this river- the longest non-navigable river in the U.S.

             The Susquehanna: Something Short of a Sonnet.

                                                        

                                                          the Algonkian name, Susquehanna,

                                                          has been interpreted to mean “Long, Winding
                                                          River.”
                                                                    Susquehanna River Basin Commission

The river widens as it seeks the sea

gaining breadth but losing identity,

its Long Winding buried in a bay.

The Chesapeake is cherished, or so

the license plates say, while its birth

waters are forgot. That which cannot

be sailed is seldom romanticized.

That which cannot support commerce

can only be dammed with faint praise:

its poisons are not of its own making

but flow from the crops that feed us all;

its rushing power was ripe for the taking-

its muddy waters now part mirror, part wall.

Pot Luck

        Pot Luck

It’s one of those nights when
neighbors wander the suburban streets
carrying casseroles and salad bowls
and store bought pies – like random
wise men bearing different dishes
and following separate stars:
some bringing their family
favorite, some trying something
new, others unloading the unwanted
in the name of economy.
With luck, such a lottery will
produce a solid meal; without it,
rows on rows of insubstantial
jell-o molds. So much depends upon

what we all bring to the table.

The Parable of the Man Cave

Heard Plato's parable of the cave mentioned somewhere I ended up thinking of the modern idea of a man cave, a place where males can retreat, watch sports, drink, and fantasize. 

            The Parable of the Man Cave

Is this what Plato had in mind:
the darkened den where plasma
shadows play upon widescreen walls,
reflecting someone’s idea of perfect
form from which the recliner cannot
turn away? Did that ancient Greek
ever picture such buoyant breasts,
imagine beer that never slurs
speech or dulls the brain
since it is never consumed on
camera, or conceive of reality
shows that defy our highest definition?

Pas de Deux

Something has always struck me as slightly odd about these supposed love duets of dance, especially the traditional ones in which the partners take turns alone on stage and stop for applause and bows.

             Pas de Deux

The ballerina’s beauty comes first,
her partner content to present,
admire, support – pointing toward her
as if she were a game show prize,
offering her a hand in her arabesque,
spinning her slender waist as she
turns, lifting her with as little
apparent effort as possible

so she seems weightless -  

like grace and form and motion.

Then comes the competition
as each takes the stage alone,
supposedly showing off to impress
their absent lover, but actually
trying to outdo each other
and win the audience’s heart:
he, leaping like he’s on another
smaller planet; she, spinning beyond
dizziness until they force
the crowd to clap and are loved
enough to come together again
for a final swirl and pose
and one too many bows
in the fading light.

Low Hanging Fruit

When I saw a redwinged blackbird the other day,  I couldn't help but think how that red spot brightly declared that bird a target for a hawk.

       Low Hanging Fruit

Camouflage I can comprehend;
blending in with the background –
changing like a chameleon
or staying still and praying like

a mantis are ways I’ve dealt

with the world.

Mock aggression makes some sense, too;
a good offense is the best defense
for hissing cats, puffing fish, and
helpless men.

I even understand playing dead,
like cornered possums, gopher snakes,

and the clinically depressed.

Sometimes no one bothers a corpse.

But I cannot explain the red winged
blackbird, the lightning bug, or the
slow flying moth always found
so near the flame. They seem to shout,
“Here I am. Kill me if you must.”

How do such willing victims ever
survive? Is it the kindness
of strangers, disdain of the easy
mark, or pure chance that lets us

evade every predator except

 the last?

Lemon Tart

This is, in part, about a dessert I had recently that was baked just a little too long.

     Lemon Tart

Yes, I like the creamy filling well enough –
citric sweetness that lives up to its name –
but I love the bottom crust the best,
especially when it’s nearly burnt but
not bitter: singed crunch that clings to the pan
it baked in and takes some digging
to get it all. Without it, the center would
not hold and melt away, like joy that is uncontained.