Today, I’m combining two things: our 2nd Tuesday of the month image prompt, plus today’s tanka.
Since we posted this at Wonderland, I’ve been wondering and wondering what’s been… bothering me about this image, which this month comes from Flickr user Claus Rebler of Korneuburg, Austria. I’ve finally figured it out: there’s a distinct lack of… life.
We’ve got golden hay – basically dead grass. We’ve got a beautifully rendered sky. We’ve got not one bird, not one insect. The perfection of the image is eerily sterile and a bit worrying, when taken from that perspective. And yes – I have watched one too many farming horror movies, I guess. (Actually I don’t care for horror movies at all, having been forced by Mean Boys to watch a part of Children of the Corn when I was five. [Parents: when visiting the homes of friends with children of their own, be sure your child knows that it’s perfectly acceptable to walk away from said children and come and sit by you if said children are absolute wastes of carbon.] Ugh.)
I have a teensy postage stamp of a back garden, and I have dropping by the resident phoebe, goldfinches, starlings, doves, the odd kestrel, uncounted wrens, robins, and massive, shining black crows. How does this whole field not have one crow? (I’d like to give this field my crow, because my crow will not leave the shiny bits of glass in my tiny fountain alone. Each morning I wake to them scattered on the ground. Each morning, I put them back. The crow has likely decided that this is a game…)
What is a farm without bugs and birds? What is growth without …life? How is a story without antagonists?
riddle of the prairie
under sterile skies
Rapunzel’s straw, in bobbins
already spun gold
a sanitized fairytale
happily ever after
month of sundays
leave in their wake detritus –
sweat, a little blood
(tears we leave for the Mondays)
routine: launder, rinse, repeat
Have you ever said just the right thing, and watched someone you love light up? The Biblical Psalms say that the right word is like golden apples in a silver bowl. (Being an imaginative child, I always assumed this was real metal… but I suspect not everyone in Ye Olde Times was running around with the golden apples of myth… and unless they’re stainless steel, silver bowls tend to be a mite pricey, not to mention annoying to clean.) When I said just the right thing to someone who needed to hear it today, I felt like I had been given gold for real. It’s lovely.
“an apple a day”
a saying to keep healthy
imagine the gift
of sending golden apples
showering like silver coin
yard work drudgery
transforms: cradled in leaf’s hold
a tiny green guest
behold the blessings of spring
who knew the hedge held magic?
FYI, what I thought was a toad is a juvenile Sierran tree frog, and it is all things adorable.
Today we’re having lunch with friends who are going to Iona Abbey this summer. My memory of that place remains close enough to touch – how I want to order up another sun-splashed summer day and return… but you just cannot order sun in Scotland. It’s a gift – you take it when you get it, and celebrate it.
this Hebrides isle
with white-sand beaches offers
jaded pilgrims peace
within her mists Iona
wraps kings and princes in sleep
Nephew 1 was a very solemn baby who stared a lot, and who could hardly be coaxed into a smile. Unlike his little brother, he’s tended to be a bit of a loner, so we were excited to hear he’d joined an after school team.
It’s an Airsoft team. Air. Soft. This harmless sounding team sport started in the ’70’s in Japan, tailor-made for fans of guns in a country that doesn’t have them. Airsoft moved from Japan to the UK – another non-gun country – and was meant to be about safely team-building, skills and sharpshooting. Nothing to do with real violence. Americans got hold of it in the 80’s, and… yeah. Nephew 1 was invited to play by a classmate whose father takes them both to run through the woods, scoping out other fathers and sons and shooting, keeping score, counting out loud the time you’re “dead.”
It’s “only a game.”
afterward, we sat, silent
“it doesn’t matter
him learning to hold a gun,
if what he’s holding
in his skin is the target,”
my husband said, his gaze pained.
The other day, I made the mistake of wandering over to lean against an outdoor table to talk to a friend… and leapt back, as I discovered the entire underside of the table, and much of the top was a wriggling mass of… oak caterpillars. (aka Western tussock moth caterpillars).
I retreated to the safety of a table beneath a maple. However, these guys were paragliding down from the oak on skeins of silk, to go where the wind took them. As I sat and read under my tree, I brushed them off of my shoes… my socks… the cuffs of my cardigan, my purse, my book, my collarbone, the back of my neck…
…and then we decided maybe it was time to go home, as there was Entirely Too Much Nature outside.
a dun-colored moth –
fully unremarkable –
(that insect intermission)
transforms even the spineless
(If you look at the picture carefully, you will count EIGHT at the moment I snapped this, under the maple. Please consider that a.] these were LITTLE ones, and b.] I was as far away as I could get from said oak tree and still be within hailing distance of my friends, and c.] I took this picture AFTER I’d flicked them away from my feet. For the sixtieth time. It was definitely time to just leave the outdoors to the those who live there.)
Sunday afternoon was out of doors for a picnic with friends-of-friends, one of whom is originally from Minnesota. It was a big number birthday celebration for our friend, thus the out of town folks absolutely reveling in a snow-free world for a long weekend. One of few California natives in the bunch, I was vastly outnumbered, and amused by it. It was ironic how Minnesotans didn’t sound anything like people out of movies (unless they were imitating movies. Which they did do, as one does).
Inasmuch as I probably don’t sound like a Californian out of the movies (unless I do? Hmmmm), this was probably okay.
What a mess of assumptions and stereotypes movies have given us.
patchwork crops, cradled by coasts
dubbed “flyover states”
connecting Midwest marvels
just as Heartland as hot dish.
Dear Midwest, do you all have fireflies? What’s it like to have a lake house? Corn fields just up the road? Snow AND tornadoes? State fairs with cheese curds and butter carving? While just now is not the best time to go exploring some of these curiosities (HELLO, SNOW), I like the sample of the Midwest that I have tasted. Granted, last Sunday it was more beer and brats than hot dish, but it was the classic flavor of friendship just the same.
So, we had Nephews this weekend. It’s like having mice, but a lot louder.
Nephew 1 turns eleven this month… and already he runs cross-country and wears a size 10.5 running shoe.
TEN. AND. A. HALF.
Y’know what? I’m just going to concentrate on the memory of little fat feet instead of being gobsmacked that he wears a half size lower than Tech Boy. (Also: I apologize in advance for the Dad Joke, but once heard, these things cannot be UNheard, amirite? Of course I am.)
Elf at Eleven
that gummy grin gleamed
face drool-bright and triumphant
as he found his feet –
his feet, like Saint Bernard’s paws
give him great understanding.
(Those adorable ears are why he’s been Elf his whole life. These nicknames just write themselves.)
“We serve the world by finding out what feeds us, and, having been fed, then share our gifts with others.”
– James Hollis
noiseless and patient
the orb mistress toils and spins.
my own strands streaming
one tangled thread to the next,
weave a net which captures stars