a flick of yellow
a flick of white
a flicking fellow
flicked at my sight
he flicked, the bird,
he flicked to flight
that flicking flicker
flicked me outright.
Author: ArtesianMind
To Mudro and Beyond
Five of us took two canoes into the BWCA at the beginning of August. Mudro is a vicious entry… mountain goat path portages interrupted by piddly short paddles before having to portage again. After the initial hurdles are conquered, however, it opens up into bigger, beautiful water.
Siblings and spouses we paddled hard and found every site on Four Town to be occupied. Waiting out a downpour while on the portage to Boot, we shoved off again as the sky cleared and finally found a nice site on the north end of Boot. We just spent two nights and paddle out to end our quick trip as planned. It was fun, but felt short, so my conclusion after this and other trips, is that three nights is a minimum for a good, solid BWCA trip.
two-toned beings
emerging from a chilling starkness
two-toned beings shed their darkness.
perched and preening folded wings
they clean themselves and ponder things.
a’pauled by shadow they’ve led and wallowed;
enthralled by shine they’re fed to swallow
basking selves in warming light
these two-toned beings prep for flight;
and they, as pages gently tern
devote their morn to groom and learn.
these paradoxical two-toned ones
are dark behind and white in front.
the coldness of their hours done
is purged by dawn of rising son.
and so the gospel, undeterred
reflects itself to man from bird,
as one cleans wings for flight of nest;
the other seeks his righteousness.
winter soldiers
winter soldiers
red berets
black goatees
and coats of gray
invade the grounds
at break of day
chase the season’s
blues away
taxi cab drivers
taxi cab drivers
in black, yellow, white
flat caps pulled forward
obscuring their sight.
fighting for spaces
to park and to dine
while each flips the bird
at front of the line.
soot-covered urchins
dozens of urchins
all caked in soot
but washed on the bottom
from belly to foot.
dark ashes have covered
their folded silk fans
until they get startled
and open again
revealing the pleats:
clean, elegant white,
as they flee from the scene
and into the night.
sipid drool
Slowly and gradually it begins
with a pace that seems
that it will never reach the end.
A drip
at a time
A drop
to the bucket.
Then collected
and poured-
Poured into the pan
and then-
Slowly and gradually it continues
with a pace that seems
that it will never reach the end.
A degree
at a time
A slow
temperature rise.
It darkens
a bit
It ambers
a whit
It seems
a jot hotter
It tastes
a drip sweeter
but it’s still only water.
It boils and bubbles
and slowly it thickens
but it still isn’t thick
it’s just
a tick sweeter
a bit hotter
a whit darker
but still water
and still a long, long, long way to go.
Slowly and gradually it continues
with a pace that seems
that it will never reach the end.
A degree
at a time
A slow
temperature rise.
Then
suddenly
the boil roils and the bubbles burst
heating quicker than it did at first
getting thicker and thicker with barm emersed
getting darker.
It hisses and foams turning into a dome
of heaping froth and sudsing, seething, mellifluous broth!
Moments ago, it would never be done,
but oh how the palmates are suddenly turning!
It’s a frantic rush to save it and keep it from burning!
Removing the finish and adding some new
as saccharoidal varnish is brewed from the dew.
and hands getting scorched in the skin-searing steam
to scurry in a vicious flurry over a viscous slurry
to scoop up and pour out the musillaginous stream
until finally it all is off
to where it can cool
rapid
to be bottled
and become a
deliciously
liquid
delightfully
viscid
delectably
sipid
drool.
everything feigned
When did the world turn artificial,
where every structure is just a façade?
Our foundations aren’t stone,
but a cultured veneer.
Our marble is printed.
All our buildings are fraud.
When did the world turn artificial,
where plastic composes the treasures we make?
The gold is just paint on
acrylic injections.
Our gemstones are molded.
Our jewelry is fake.
When did the world turn artificial,
where food is from factory not from a field?
Our flavors: impostors
and chemical posers.
Reality poisoned
for profit and yield.
When did the world turn artificial,
where cheap is the cost of convenience gained?
There’s patience for nothing
and speed is the measure.
The quality’s forfeit,
and everything’s feigned.
winter 2017 haiku and micropoetry
Flock of tarnished brass
Waits for a vernal polish
to be bright again.
—
horns heard overhead:
an elegant brass quartet
in white tuxedos.
—
gallery sculptures
polished by the sun and wind
hushed by their whispers
—
unwashed but refreshed,
aching but strengthened,
tired but renewed:
a weekend in the wilderness
—
Loving the white,
embracing the snow;
Dreaming of green,
impatient to grow!
There the owl nests…
Barred Owl Nesting Box
“There the owl nests and lays
and hatches and gathers her young in her shadow;
indeed, there the hawks are gathered,
each one with her mate.” -Isaiah 34:15
It seemed like a nice verse to emblaze onto a nesting box built in hopes of attracting a barred owl; in context, however, Isaiah 34 is prophetically speaking of the destruction of God’s enemies and the animals said to inhabit the desolated ruins.
It is not altogether inappropriate, for in winter when the owl begins nesting, the woods of Minnesota are arguably desolated. And yet, I will decidedly take scripture out of context in this instance and decide that “There the owl nests and lays and hatches and gathers her young in her shadow…” as an inspiring and delightful verse to inscribe on a nesting box. Here’s hoping an owl helps the box live up to its inscription!
ArtesianMind 