Changes

Something was been eating Girlface's garden. Or somethings. Or maybe just a very hungry and tenuous solo beastie but it has been causing a great deal of heartache to the girl, who has spent many many hours preparing, germinating, planting and all the etc.s that go along with a garden. I was called upon for a solution. I chose a final solution. The old picket fence, with its accompanying screens along the bottom had to go. In its place a new, steel, 2"x2" squares, not ascetically pleasing but ultimately practical.
If I can figure out this stupid picture thing, then this is a picture several weeks ago of the garden as it was being prepared. Otherwise the picture is above somewhere.
Same thing of picture of me showing how dirty I got from the oil on the steel fencing. It was nasty stuff. Picture is either her or above. (Stupid Blogger, looks like it's above...)

So, after putting the new fence up and burying the fence edges, it looks as if the plants are finally safe. Girlface had such an outpouring of generous contributions of new broccoli, brussel sprouts, cauliflower and other plants to replace the ones that were eaten she's had to take out two oregano beds to make room for it all.

The new fence should be better protection but the old picket fence was pleasing in its way. Just a little change.

Heard You had Snow

The photo: the backyard, April 2007
The poem: 80's vintage. Girlface saw it and said she liked it. It fits today.




Heard You Had Snow

Heard you had snow.

Oh.

Should I sing you a song?

Serenade.

Hi,

how ya’ doing.

Long pause.

Such a long pause

and with life so

simply

complicated

and New York’s so…

far away.

We’re in different worlds

it seems.

I heard you had snow.

SP

Hot Flashes on the Fourth of July

Tonight was another show at the barn. Someone should have told me. It went smoothly, no blue lights coming to bring complaints. The picture is of the back of the barn. I like to hang bikes from the trees.

And a poem from the past.

Hot Flashes on the

Fourth of July

Whirly gigs of sparks and colors swirl

on the surface of the zodiac in Gasworks

Park, staining the dark bronze; remnants

of children’s delights. The hillside

overlooking the bay is surveyed and stalked

to the inch, a patchwork of flesh, picnic

blankets, spent beer cans and burnt paper

from an arsenal of popping toys. The crowds

strain upward, crane, count the minutes,

elbow into position, re-evaluate the area.

It starts. Fire in the sky. The dark

screen of night brightly colored

with searing light, shades of victorious

war. Liberty passes through the crowds

in the figure of a fire-haired woman. She

leaves on a motorbike, unnoticed.

SP

First published in Maxtix 1980

Negotiations

Just another photo of Maine, the way Summer Should Be.

On the writing side a little parental piece for one of my beloved children.

Negotiations

Inasmuch as you are not a monk,
your vow of silence
seems to be less effective
in terms of resolving our problems
than it might.

While I weigh your 15 years
of rich experience
against my 48 years
of meager existence,
I still believe
that talking
could be of some help.

SP 2005