Prologue
Many French expressions sound, at first hearing, romantic
And several are, joie de vivre, je t’adore,
But transposed into Anglicized words
They can be deceptive
Cul de sac, roll it around your mouth
Sounds good, but what does it mean
It is the language of surgeons and anatomy
Going nowhere, more elegant than
Rue sans issue, the bottom of the bag
A bursa, and appendix, nothing romantic
So why is it better in suburbia
To have a cul de sac, rather than a dead end
No thruway, blind alley, or
A caecal entity of turbidity
Because it exudes privacy
Where all, but none, are welcome
Far from the madding crowd
Yet in the heart of lightness
A storage place for ideas
Recharging spirits, rejecting evil
Integral with nature
An oasis in the urban jungle
A creative space, for
Friendly hummingbirds
Musical thunderstorms
And a new Peaceland
Heaven Forbid the Deflowering of Carolina
Peaceland
Redeemed from an overgrown
Ivy-infested copse of unruly trees
Accessible by an ill-fitting rickety
Cast-iron and wood apologetic bridge
Over a creek in a marginal flood plain
Home to occasional errant deer
Possibly a few snakes and racoons
But few birds and butterflies
A Peaceland cannot be random, ugly
It had to change
Not pristine, mind-you, just welcoming
A reminder of Hiraeth
And changed it was
A stone-masoned elegant bridge
Crested by Ile Heddychlan inscribed in slate
Of my country’s Peaceland
A rocky dry creek with water-plants
To absorb the transient torrent
From tail-ends of hurricanes and tornadoes
That fly by our normally sweet Caroline
The old majestic magnolia given space
Now adorned by infant sweet bays
Quinces, lilacs, a mock orange
Viburnum, the wayfaring tree
Grasses and sedges, Japan’s Solomon’s Seal
Lilies of Casablanca and Pretoria
Our friendship is parochial but yet global
Halcyon land that is neither secular nor canonical
Just spiritual
Symphonia in the Sky
Symbolic of a Piedmont summer evening
Heat and humidity approach their centuries
Oppressive, more than sultry, stifling
Mowers, blowers, sweating with ease
Wheezed their last, power silencing
Transient quiescence, not even a breeze
No sounds from planes or train
Just the purl of our homely cascade
The seesaw of the rocking chair’s refrain
A lull before the tempest’s raid
As the assembly of clouds teases the vane
Rustles the leaves, animals afraid
The orchestral actors take their place
Thor appears, dressed in an ever-darkening sky
Baton on the right with sinistral black mace
Buena Vista becomes a foreboding cry
A muffled clap before they lace
The charged atmosphere with spirits and rye
No pastoral here, no pianissimo
Eighteen-twelve cannons from the start
Cymbals, symbols of fortissimo
Tympanic membranes vibrate the heart
Nature controls energy’s flow
Son et Lumiere, moments apart
The heavenly roof, populated by a hundred shapes
Each gyrating, tumbling around
An infinite universe, converging, drapes
Neptune and Mars down the vortex of sound
Through precipice, pinnacles, sculptures
Silhouetted against the firmament surround
The lighting impresario flashes from afar
Conducting rod covers all bases
Scores of heavy black notes and bar
Thunderous crescendos have all the aces
Lightning lightening the evening star
As water from above washes our faces
Light, sound, water, nature’s treasures
Elements rampant, descending together
Momentary apocalypse, nature’s displeasure?
At our willful ignorance of weather
Omission and emissions, chaos to be sure
Darwin and Holst, linked forever
After the coupling of these senses
Detumescence swiftly follows, but boasts
Engaging partners, moving easterly, dances
To the music of the Atlantic coast
Concert-master allows a few more plashes
Now eerie, awaiting the ghost
Immediately, those pliable, sequacious plants
Sense the change, unfold their drenched wings
Saint-Saens takes over, more subtle chants
Little creatures of the night start to sing
Discordant to us, even from a distance
But music to small ears, with comfort it brings
Our screech owl takes over the baton
Cicadas perform dissonant xylophone and tambourine
Tree frogs as welcome as cold bagpipes tartan
Fireflies do their best to be seen
As nature’s symphonia lowers its curtain
On an evening, now beautiful, serene.
The Mask-less Hummingbird
Our moon-vine hasn’t heard of Covid
Although a corona it certainly has
The hibiscus, battered by storms and quake
Carries on blooming even better than before
Hostas fought off the deer
Coleus all in full glory
Canna lilies and mug wort reach for the sky
Willows are weeping to their heart’s content
Magnolias stand out in their shade
I could spend all day
Watching nature unfold
Unassailed by virus and stupidity
But my evenings are profound
Once thunder clouds have passed
Our own hummingbird comes to inspect
Recognizes me, sitting with wine and pen
Hovers and buzzes before my glasses
Retreats for a suckle at the honeysuckle
I say that I can’t find a mask
Small enough, my friend
Good luck to you, he or she, I can’t tell
See you tomorrow it replies
Socially distanced of course
Winston-Salem, North Carolina, USA, July 2021
