A recent sit on the porch yielded too many “morning” poems for one day. Herewith…
I sat in morning's glory: Sun on my left shoulder. Squirrels, possessed, scampered below, imitating smaller chipmunks. Finches swooped from roof to feeder, then returned. One belligerent wren whistled insistently. Towhee sang softly, Wren's backup singer. Suddenly bird-laughter through dense pines. Pileated woodpecker taunted from his shadowy safety, hidden. Sun limned dawn's clouds, painted our laurel. I wondered: could daytime meet My morning's grand promises?
We live secret lives hiding behind masks of mutual pleasantries as we walk our dogs, stretch our legs, work quietly in our yards. But these yards keep secrets poorly. They reveal us to our world more clearly than we could ourselves.
Eastward my neighbor's carefully curated lawn, shrubs, flowers give way to substantial but well-contained wildness, trees, vines, anything which chooses to grow there. "He bites off no more than chewable, this one," says his yard. "He values order, beauty, ornamentation. His dogs bark freely—why not? They come when he calls, they serve him. Who needs more?" I cannot see his front yard: perhaps something deeper? I think not; well-maintained in back means more so in front.
Southward lies bare minimum. Years ago, ten or more, she planted irises 'round her mailbox. Nothing else blooms, front or back, which can be seen from street or another's yard. In back lies one small patch of grass, some flowering trees. Hidden deeply in vine-shrouded solitude lurks her tool shed, never visited, never needed. Twice each month she brings in mowers to keep her lawn in check. She limps to deck, to her car. I surmise once someone else lived with her who took more interest.
Northward lies ambition, community, family. Just prior to pandemic's pause, its yard under new management, benches appeared around one fire pit. Party lights dangled between trees, firewood racks popped up along their back fence, which received repairs inside one year. Next they tore off rotten wood, remade their basement, attached two decks amazing for their sturdiness, their beauty. "When Jesus comes back, those decks will still be there," he told me. No lawn appeared in back after previous residents let chained dogs wear it down. Instead, frisbee golf came. Camping gear occupied some space. Everything about it screams "Family! Friends! Comfort!"
Here? Our yard underwent metamorphosis as I allowed 'natural' grass to grow unchecked until I realized its invasive nature. Then, shaggy unkemptness gave way to nothing-but-garden. Its haphazardly located plants reveal how poorly my dreams get realized. Our back yard, torn asunder by summer's torrents, reveals how ill- conceived our landscaper's plans, leaving nothing but soil to wash away...while revealing my trust in what others promise me. Now, unwanted green strangers laugh at me: "Go ahead, pull us up! We have more numbers, more patience than you. We will prevail." And so they shall. My yard says, "Good intentions, poor follow-through. Perhaps some sense of romance."
Green and gold (that’s its name) in our back yard. April 2026.
Every day I’m posting one poem for 100 days…or attempting to. August will tell the tale. So far I’ve navigated a couple of things which could have derailed me, including a broken arm last Tuesday evening. I’m reminded of the supposed Jerry Seinfeld mantra: “Don’t Break The Chain.” Seinfeld claimed it wasn’t his idea, but oddly, the show Seinfeld had an episode about it. The legend is that Seinfeld was at something (it’s been attributed to an open mike night/interview type of thing) and was asked what advice he would give to an aspiring comedian. His supposed answer was, “Every day write one joke. And don’t…break…the…chain!”
BAROMETER HEAD
Tunes atmosphere Hears what no one else can. Predicts rain. Suffers through hurricanes, his head poundingly painful. Displays unnatural giddiness during sunny high pressure domes. Can't leap tall buildings, Can't stop bullets, (but his sinuses sometimes feel as if they've done so). His kryptonite? Nasal sprays which would destroy his power, inure him to those swirly times when colors speak, spoken words seem tangible, when he walks inside his waking dreams.
20/100 I’m writing a poem a day (sometimes two), and now I’m 20% there. It’s causing me to rethink poetry and my approach to it, when and how I’ve written it in the past.
Every major city seems to have a botanical greenhouse where tropical conditions have been created to foster the growth of orchids, bromeliads, and such—or “July” as a resident of the American South might call it. I left just past noon today for a 25-minute sojourn around the neighborhood. When I returned, our weather gauge reported a temperature of 81.1°F and a relative humidity of 88.8% (now registering an even 89.0% 30 minutes later). Lighting was poor: completely overcast, the sun approaching its zenith. That’s okay. My poetry attempts have been poor today, also. This is my second try, the first being filed in the “maybe-it-can-be-saved” bin. This really isn’t poetry, more poetic prose, artfully arranged—unless it’s true what a friend said, that poetry is what I say it is!
Every Southerner learns gradual acceptance of sweat, wears loose garments, overlooks each other's spreading stains. "Only mad dogs" indeed. Why walk now? Surely my Fitbit will multiply steps taken in such weather?
Escaping my climate- controlled cocoon, black-eyed susans cry welcome. They're sprinkled beside rattlesnake master, goldenrod, butterfly weed. Abiding our warmth, humidity humbly, they suggest I follow their lead.
Minutes later brings one patriotically-colored whirligig, neglected, spinning madly with each new breath of hot air, much like my country does these days. Inured to these new great divides, I just see [whirligig; patriotic] as I pass.
One neighbor's mailbox decoration swings madly with each puff of air. Its caretaker keeps it small: Chinese fringe flower usually towers twenty feet.
Where once I wandered scrub woods (leftover nature long subdued), newer years brought townhouses, all units clad in ubiquitous white, (accented with charcoal trim!)
Townhouses get young magnolias, crafted ever-so- perfectly by your local nursery, while everyone else nurtures what such abnormal specimens become.
Headed homeward I give friend Crow midday greetings, reflect upon our tree-bound need for vegetables in front (sunlight dictates placement), admire still-red maple leaves, register my soaked T-shirt: its limit of three-quarters mile, exceeded by my four.
Ghosts, slipping treelike through forests populated by people looking just like they once did. Slowly dissolving, windborne gossamer, 'til people look through them. Haunting not others, but themselves with each mirror-ward glance. Remembering when they treated ghosts similarly, in youthful vibrancy.
I’m just not going to make a poem today. My brain feels so scattered, I think the only thing holding it together is my skull. Heat? Maybe. More likely the increasing difficulty with being older and watching the world change into something we envisioned only not like this. (non sequitur? no.) Life now resembles a city’s marathon, only you’re not in the race anymore, in fact, you’re not even on the sidewalk watching. You’re up in your apartment looking down and saying, “I wonder what they’re doing down there?”
In lieu of posting nothing, I took a walk around the yard.
Lovely, ubiquitous goldenrod. Prime suspect in my investigation into the dermatitis which has cropped up again. July 2026.
One of the few remaining non-natives. Couldn’t bring myself to rip out what amounts to a mailbox decoration. July 2026.
Our purple coneflowers typically droop starting this time of year, but pounding rain a week ago didn’t help. Good thing these guys were tied up beforehand. That’s mountain mint in the background. July 2026.
Our yard now represents a pollinator’s dream. Here an eastern bumblebee (I think) heads off for the next blooming sprig of anise hyssop. July 2026.
One of the strangest plants: rattlesnake master. Is it called that because of the thorned, sword-like leaves? Or the spiky flower-balls? It didn’t flower last year, nor did it come close to growing over six feet tall as it has this year. July 2026.
There you have it. Perhaps my melancholy intro will produce a poem later tonight. Time to get down to the pub.
all the voices in my head 