March of the Dust Bunnies

 

I think we need a new housekeeper…

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

—Poetry from Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,

Joe Nolan and Sayani Mukherjee

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of

Joe Nolan and Stephen Kingsnorth

 

 

Dust bunnies huddle

in gloom, in great numbers,
wintering where I
cannot brush them away.
Finally, bright sunlight
and birdsong and flowers.
Dust bunnies cheer
and roll outside to Spring. 

 

—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth

 

TASTING TIME
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Great grandpa’s clock has ceased to tock,
that mantel piece of crude cut wood,
a case too large for inner works
where even dust just lost its way.
That alloy block on ramrod stick
founds its weight too much to sway.

Great-grandad sat there by the peat,
sipped Bushmills from up the way,
admired his cutting from the moss.
She would have him up the stairs
but once the whisky had its way,
along with glowing from the grate
he was balanced on his seat,
content, the ticking of her talk
wafting, smoky, up the stack;
no matter words, straitjacket, Mum,
admonition of her tongue.
He piled bog slack from crumpled pail,
settled back, ignored the pain,
tasting time, port barrel stock.

Next morning shock,
his clock had stopped.
For wont of cleaning clogged-up spring
the fossil smoke spread from the peat;
tar coating him from briar shag
as he had dreamt of springy turf,
the blades that tickled toddler toes—
adventures as that timepiece berthed—
and he had run down to the stream
before his call to linen mill,
clog roughshod feet, reluctant trudge.
But now all settled, slow to stop.

 

 

 

 Soapwort (Soaproot)
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth

 

HOME AND GARDEN
—Stephen Kingsnorth

A white wash loaded by the snow,
starched cracked crevices of frost,
but still the fall, its autumn death,  
bedraggled bedspread, curled-up hose;
pond ice iron bored today.  

Now year’s spring clean, up underway,  
surface clear-up of the dross,  
ready for annual alchemy,
spin, dryer cycle coming round;
bleaker words hung out to dry.  

Then nest egg need for landing soft,  
space, retire, when done with chores,  
beaky hoovers brought to the fore  
so bulbs can shoot, a clearer shot;
cleaner patch into fair air.  

The scrub now shows a brighter hue,  
spring-watch as the clocks change gear,
lady’s mantle sports spider plant,
cloaked crannies cleared where cobwebs smeared;
low-lye soapwort in the nooks.  

The broom stands in its corner site,
brimming bouquet, mop heads out,
red feather duster, bottle brush,  
soaproot, a chlorogalum type;
snow in summer budding, right? 

 

 

 

Rumpelstiltskin
—Public Domain Illustration

 

 

THE DEATH OF RUMPELSTILTSKIN
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

The death of Rumpelstiltskin
Was an item in the press,
Full of criticism
For not spreading the gold around.

Surely, many suffering people
Could better have gotten on
With some gold in their pockets
If the wealth were spread around. 

What should be the fate of those
Who use their talents,
But don’t expose
Their skills
Or what they do?

It isn’t up to us
To throttle a
Golden-egg laying goose
Just because.   

Wherefrom comes salvation?
When we pray to the ass of a goose—
Praying for another golden egg,
While we tie a rope into noose?

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration

 

GRAB-BAGS
—Joe Nolan

A grab-bag
Holds a treasure,
Undiscovered.

Value versus price—
Is it twice or thrice
Or only zero—
To you?

You’ll never know,
Until it’s opened.
Then, too late,
Unless you’re happy,
Like marriages
And wedding nights,
For those who
Marry without trying. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of
Joe Nolan

 

RIP-TIDES
—Joe Nolan

How would you know?
That underwater currents
Won’t let go
And sweep you
Out to sea,
Helplessly—

An undertow,
That flows
Along the outline
Of the shore,
But at an angle,
Leaving your
Frail life
To dangle—
Like a little doll.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy

of Joe Nolan

 

CRASHING THE EDIFICE
—Joe Nolan

People, here,
In California,
Tend to slip away.

They have
Their own
Frail daydreams,
In which they
Always play.

When
Interrupted,
Daydreams disappear,

Resulting in a nightmare,
Because you stole away,
Something they held
Closer to their hearts,
Than could be stripped away,
Without bringing
The whole edifice
Down. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of
Joe Nolan

 

 

IT ENDS WITH US
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

It ends with us
Two golden spoons
An olive branch
Dog's kennel to watch over
The cry of the parrots
Lullabies of small porched mouths
Babes are to be fed
Domesticity, Age-old grammar roles
Old garbs
A heavy breath of coming home
Writing over the beamed tuppence
To watch the words for their own sake
It ends with us
Original grave
Two golden spoon-fed children
Old money new money
Over the years
It ends with us
A Cashmere shawl
Kernel of the universe.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good. Lower the bar. Actually spending ten minutes clearing off one shelf is better than fantasizing about spending a weekend cleaning out the basement.

—Gretchen Rubin

_____________________

Good morning to another week in May! Our Seed of the Week is Spring Cleaning, so we’re celebrating dust bunnies and soapwort. Thanks to today’s contributors for fine work and fun ideas. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

Another busy week in NorCal poetry, starting this morning at 10am with Poetic License in Placerville. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of
Joe Nolan


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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