Autumn in the Garden
—Photo by Michael Strosahl
—Poetry by Michael E. “Maik" Strosahl, Jefferson City, MO
BUTTERFLIES HAVE BLUE EYES
When mine left their
cocoons and diapers behind,
moving quickly into
princess dresses and fairy dust,
I learned that butterflies
have blue eyes and loose-tooth smiles,
with wings that flutter dry
in the summer sun,
then launch them
giggling across the yard.
I realized that
too soon they will grow up,
discovering the world
does not end at the garden post,
that life continues for them
beyond the rhubarb,
wind pumping under their wings
as the years flutter by,
and little girls will shortly
bid farewell to the
dandelions and violets
of our backyard,
leaving me behind
to live in the memory
of their magical flight.
When mine left their
cocoons and diapers behind,
moving quickly into
princess dresses and fairy dust,
I learned that butterflies
have blue eyes and loose-tooth smiles,
with wings that flutter dry
in the summer sun,
then launch them
giggling across the yard.
I realized that
too soon they will grow up,
discovering the world
does not end at the garden post,
that life continues for them
beyond the rhubarb,
wind pumping under their wings
as the years flutter by,
and little girls will shortly
bid farewell to the
dandelions and violets
of our backyard,
leaving me behind
to live in the memory
of their magical flight.
November Blues
—Photo by Michael Strosahl
THE WAY OF THE POEM
“The paper,” she whispered,
“Is just a vessel,”
as she placed a chawan before me,
her hands withdrawing,
disappearing a moment
into the silken sleeves of her kimono.
“The poet is just a humble servant.”
She taps the chashaku twice on the rim,
matcha tumbling from the crook of her scoop,
letting it rest in the bottom of my cup.
“The poem is not in the words.”
She dips a bamboo ladle
into the steam rising from the kama,
pulling it back full,
pouring it into my bowl,
bringing life to the powdered tea.
“The reader breathes each syllable,
feels each pen-stroke upon their soul.”
With a final twist of her whisk
stirring the green slurry,
she is now sure
the matcha and water are one.
With graceful motion,
measured by ritual,
both hands raise her new poem,
turning it twice to meet my eyes.
“Please, drink.”
“The paper,” she whispered,
“Is just a vessel,”
as she placed a chawan before me,
her hands withdrawing,
disappearing a moment
into the silken sleeves of her kimono.
“The poet is just a humble servant.”
She taps the chashaku twice on the rim,
matcha tumbling from the crook of her scoop,
letting it rest in the bottom of my cup.
“The poem is not in the words.”
She dips a bamboo ladle
into the steam rising from the kama,
pulling it back full,
pouring it into my bowl,
bringing life to the powdered tea.
“The reader breathes each syllable,
feels each pen-stroke upon their soul.”
With a final twist of her whisk
stirring the green slurry,
she is now sure
the matcha and water are one.
With graceful motion,
measured by ritual,
both hands raise her new poem,
turning it twice to meet my eyes.
“Please, drink.”
Hope From The Dead
—Photo by Michael Strosahl
THE AUTUMN CROCUS
And with one last gasp,
she bloomed,
growing blue with the onset of cold,
one last casket to be buried,
one last six-foot hole
dug into the earth before it hardens
under fallen leaves
and the first flakes of winter,
sleeping the dreamless slumber
of those in wait
for the promised rebirth.
Internet Photo of Nation Makers
—Painting by Howard Pyle
BRANDYWINE
Inspired by the painting,
Nation Makers, by Howard Pyle
The day up to now lost,
yet even at eventide’s approach
those still standing in defeat
kept moving northeast and by cover,
tattered and weary
from surprise at right flank—
eleven hours of battle at Brandywine.
Still the drummers drummed,
fifers blew at their pipes,
and our frayed banner stayed high
as we limped behind the Colonel
leading us back towards Philadelphia
to regroup,
bandage our wounds
and make our plans
to fight another day.
Inspired by the painting,
Nation Makers, by Howard Pyle
The day up to now lost,
yet even at eventide’s approach
those still standing in defeat
kept moving northeast and by cover,
tattered and weary
from surprise at right flank—
eleven hours of battle at Brandywine.
Still the drummers drummed,
fifers blew at their pipes,
and our frayed banner stayed high
as we limped behind the Colonel
leading us back towards Philadelphia
to regroup,
bandage our wounds
and make our plans
to fight another day.
Poor Dead E d
—Photo by Michael Strosahl
“DEAD E D”
They said he ran away,
escaped the knock-down,
drag-around with
the Mrs. about
the dishes,
the toilet lid,
the mistress.
She never seemed
to mourn his leaving,
planted new flowers
around the street sign,
had a sale
to remove the rest
of Edward Casey
for nickels and dimes.
I got his golf clubs.
I got his Hawaiian shirts,
but watch her with wary eyes
from my window,
because I saw
fresh-turned soil
long before the blooms
and that sign
has somehow moved—
a little higher
and to the left.
Cattails in Winter
—Photo by Michael Strosahl
CATTAILS
The years have passed as summer,
the seasons as the sun
and it remains for us
to remember the laughter
of children in the cattails—
the stories they could tell
of fireworks and fake cigars,
wading into cool lake waters
on the Fourth of July,
chasing fireflies as the night above exploded,
watching the final cloud
of burnt powder blow east
letting the sky put on
its own sparkle show until
suddenly it was all over
and we were back in school,
back to life, love
and just the memories
to carry us forward:
cattails still standing in winter’s approach.
Internet Photo of Ying Yeung
—Sculpture by Tsang Cheung Shing
Today’s LittleNip:
COFFEE-BREATH KISSES
Inspired by the sculpture, Ying Yeung,
by Tsang Cheung Shing
She tasted of Andean mountains
and two teaspoons of Sweet ‘n Low,
lips still warm and wet.
Her tongue ranged
the Arabian peninsula,
mocha dark and swirled
with just a hint of cream.
__________________
—Medusa, welcoming back and thanking Michael E. “Maik" Strosahl for his fine poems and pix today!
COFFEE-BREATH KISSES
Inspired by the sculpture, Ying Yeung,
by Tsang Cheung Shing
She tasted of Andean mountains
and two teaspoons of Sweet ‘n Low,
lips still warm and wet.
Her tongue ranged
the Arabian peninsula,
mocha dark and swirled
with just a hint of cream.
__________________
—Medusa, welcoming back and thanking Michael E. “Maik" Strosahl for his fine poems and pix today!
Trouble Breathing
—Photo by Maik Strosahl
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
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