Not Yet

 

Tybee Sunrise

—Poetry by Gary D. Grossman, PhD, Athens, GA

—Original Art and Sculptures by Gary D. Grossman

 

 

 

AMBIVALENT ABOUT CROWS

1. My heart a pendulum—crow love to crow hate—and back again—these large, dark Einsteins—bullying everyone from Carolina Chickadees to Red-Bellied Woodpeckers—despots of my yard—they guard and hoard the suet block, like a hockey goalie fronting the net.

2. Darwin said, “I get it, aggression is good—fight for survival and all that—pass on those traits” although it took Watson and Crick to figure out the trick— with a side of Mendel’s peas—back to the main path—crows.

3. The corners of my mouth turn upwards in admiration—then arc downwards—biological referee raising the head crow’s left wing in victory—eleven species now defeated in our yard.

4. Another meaningful friendship lost?—crows have great memories and I’ve shooed them repeatedly—my picture tacked onto the murder’s “unwanted” bulletin board—beware of the mean dude on Highland Avenue—yes, social transmission of knowledge—it’s a fact—they remember faces, and their parents—solve a puzzle, no problem—even tool use—much to respect.

5. I can do a great caw, and if unseen, lure them close for a corvid—“who’s the new bird”—but at first sight—I’m marked as avian fraud not friend.

6. Can amends be made—more peanuts on the porch?

 

 

 

 Angular Birds—Smiling Thrush

 

THE COUCH

The couch cools my thighs for the first time in four months given that fucking Summer has left the building, and no I don’t mean my ex, who liked to “stuff the taco” on this anti-vegan, 8-foot, cowhide-covered, living-room filler—it’s true my heart raced to her little moans and quick inhalations which complimented the squeaks her tanned ass made when it rubbed against the ten-year old leather, but that’s old news— dried-up tears and cracked heart—two years later she’s only a slightly faded image stored somewhere in my left eye—but what makes my heart race today—yes, a bit sad—is the elation I feel from the Georgia Bulldogs’ comeback win in the fourth quarter of last night’s game—having been ten points down to Mizzou in the third quarter—and deep down I do agonize over the fact that I’m conflating hot sex and football—the anticipation—the foreplay—and finally—the climax. But four quarters are about all I’m getting’ these days.  

 

 

 

Eve III

 

  

OFF-BLUE SKY

So I asked the sky, who responded in a nettlesome voice, “that’s Sky, capital S”, “what makes you special, I mean all those photos, paintings, poems and descriptive phrases?” and they replied “first of all, everyone’s got it backwards, it’s not Earth that holds us in place—we’re the glue holding that glob of rock and dirt together—Earth hates that reality. In fact, we stop her from rolling down the astral bowling lane right into the Sun—which would leave humanity twisting and popping like bacon in hot cast-iron. We secure her in endless pirouettes, like a baton twirler on the varsity squad. And those show-offs, the Oceans, they steal their color from us, okay, exaggeration—though mostly true. But is there anything that unites people more than the sight of us in a cobalt dress—I mean I’m everywhere from Tierra del Fuego to Greenland, as are our blushes—yellow to crimson sunrises and sunsets? When Earth harangues, I turn cloud-grey and tear up—when exhausted, fog arrives—but anger brings the purples and greens of tornados and typhoons.

I’m really much more sensitive than I seem.”

 

 

 

 Blue Fish 2

 

 

LESSONS FROM THE ZEN POET

Having written for years I finally
visited the Zen Poet, and asked
about his work—he said “nothing new—
been working on the same poem for
a decade; almost have the wording
right.”

Five years later I returned and he
replied “wording finally right,
working now on line structure”.

Five years later I returned
to find him rearranging stanzas
and whispering “not yet”.

An additional five years
yielded “punctuation
still isn’t quite right.” And
I exclaimed, but Sensei,
no one will know your
work, your perfect poem.

He replied “it doesn’t matter”.

 

 

 

 

 Hourglass

 

 

COLONOSCOPY

In politics, it ain’t the crime, it’s the cover-up—but in digestive medicine, it ain’t the procedure, it’s the prep—Go-Lyte, sarcasm?—because nothing about this is lyte, and somewhere there’s a research pharmacist meaner than a hung-over preacher on Monday morning. It’s three o’clock on a mid-July afternoon—two tablets of bisacodyl—the pre-game warm up. Sadly my GI doc has denied my request for an early start—“research shows…”—I drink my first quart of Go-Lyte at six PM—now, my three-hour reign on the commode—a second fucking quart at two AM—begetting an additional reign from two-fifteen to four AM—all of this, after one day with just white rice and unseasoned chicken, the next just clear broth and jello—no red or purple, mind you—right now my stomach begs for the Chinese buffet, but I lay on the couch, waiting for the next bathroom sprint, limp as a garden string bean left out in the July 17th sun, watching old Andy Griffith reruns, but fuck it, it’s worth it—colon cancer, ooops, colorectal cancer to be precise—mortality cause number three for non-smoking males.

Afterwards, I learn three polyps were knocking on the door of my colonic epithelium, despite the no solicitors sign. They had no inkling, they were headed for the reaper via cold snare—twisted little fuckers that they were—modern medicine is great—as is the sausage biscuit and black coffee from Momma’s Boy, I’ll eat in the Volvo—wife driving, while I mumble, “wasn’t bad, but that prep”.

 

 

 

 Cubist Mammals—Surfing Dolphin

 

CLICKING ON THE HEART

Fifteen years on Facebook—my ropes
well worked and burnished—yet I
find myself clicking the heart
emoji all day long—it’s not
love welling up for every
cat post, yoga selfie, or
pumpkin pie, redolent with
clove and allspice, but in a
life of masking and quarantine,
the thumbs-up seems wanting—even
its color is blue-cold—although
surveys teach, blue is everyone’s
favorite shade.

It’s Pandemic year three, new
strains pushing up like daffodils  
in March, and the Reaper
ringing every door bell—sliding
through every unlocked window—
but I will click each heart
possible—telling the truth—
love isn’t exhaustible—  
not a commodity that
can be devalued through stock
buy-backs—and though here in
year three I am withered like
a crushed paper bag—clicking
the heart emoji is a
contribution I can still make. 

 

 

 

Geometric Fishes—Coral Reef

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

I think... if it is true that
there are as many minds as there
are heads, then there are as many
kinds of love as there are hearts.
 
—Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina 

 

 

 

Cubit Mammals—Waving Whale

__________________

Many thanks to Gary Grossman for today’s fine poetry and artwork! Gary is Professor Emeritus of Animal Ecology at University of Georgia. His poetry has been published in 30+ literary reviews, as well as short fiction in MacQueen’s Quinterly and creative non-fiction in Tamarind Literary Magazine. Gary’s micro-fiction piece, “Mindfulness”, was just nominated by MacQueen’s Quinterly for inclusion in The Best Small Fictions Anthology 2022. For ten years he wrote the “Ask Dr. Trout” column for American Angler. Gary’s first book of poems, Lyrical Years, is forthcoming in 2023 from Kelsay Press, and his graphic novel, My Life in Fish: One Scientist’s Journey is available from todaysecologicalsolutions@gmail.com. Welcome to the Kitchen, Gary, and don’t be a stranger! Here’s some more from Gary:

Website: https://www.garygrossman.net/Writing
Blog: https://garydavidgrossman.medium.com
Sculpture Site: http://www.garygrossman.net/g-grossman-fine-art/sculpture-by-gary-grossman

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Gary D. Grossman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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