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Four Irises tall & gallant, looking though
slighted worn out, a tad bedraggled
they are springtime survivor stragglers
of the Great Spring Weather Battle.

living in an open trench, battle conditions,
wind-whipped by constant strong breezes,
raked by intermittent machine gun rain,
familiar weapons of the “handover” season

loyal guardians of their pinpoint position,
remaining on duty, standing at attention,
dignified amidst the serene, nearly summer, now,
accepting quietude & gratitude of surround soundings

arrow-straight, in dress uniforms of royally purple,
four lead a cohort of unbloomed green fellows,
protecting their charge, an ancient marker of time,
rusted-green bronze sundial, symbol of continuity

these four, boon companions to human and animal,
shall persist long after I cease to dabble in this art,
they greet their admirers in full regalia, every year,
long, long may they live, die and be yet reborn!

here, in place, when we arrived four decades ago, a tiny forever,
changelings heading a processional of the summer season,
greeting all with a simple story of constance of change, of beauty,
leading our Summertime Commencement Exercises

May 26 ~ 27, 2023

At last there's a flag,

flapping next to a café --


like a crackling fire.

If Earth is afraid
I don't want a bomb shelter
I want you with me

I read the sign on the door
OPEN.
OPEN.
OPEN.

I knock and after a pause
I see a girl smelling of roses

She beckons me inside
She offers me shelter

That's when I realise
I have found the answer

BUT each piece, limb parcel, of me,
claiming authorship credit,
the fingers that type,
the left foot upon
which we stand,
the heart, soul,
and the oxygenated blood,
diluted with a *****-like
mysterious soulful ether

all vociferous claim
full credit
regardless for the specific
IDENTIFYING
instigating moment,
specific contribution,
they each encapsulate

and the birthmark,
a Noah’s ark-escapee,
sign left behind, well,
upon my chest, exactly
when my guttural growled,
complete!  for the very first time

Do I care?

Not really.

Can we live without any ***** specific?
Briefly, perhaps, a substitute oft rejected,

the jigsaw of my body, it’s animated spirits,

just a bunch of noisy, plagiarizing auteurs,
egos so big, it’s amazing
we can frame them all in
into a single slop bucket

It's hard to feel like
you're growing up when you're moored
- sheltering at home.

I am patiently
waiting to take the helm of my
life's navigation.

My life, so far, is
prelude - I long to cast off
and exit the slip.