Here Comes Summer

I kill time
killing flies -
time flies

—-

© Steve Mitchell 2013

One Job

breath after breath,
our one job – stay alive,
be alive

—-

© Steve Mitchell 2013

Flavor Grab

oh, impulsive,

impetuous me,

chewing two sticks of gum

because, man,

I want all the flavor

—-

© Steve Mitchell 2013

Onka Bonka

Onka Bonka

It Don’t Matter To Them

I think and think
and the birds see me think
but – es macht nichts

—-

© Steve Mitchell 2013

This Morning

the morning sun

slanted, golden,

while our dogs sleep

in restless circles

and birds eat the grass

—-

© Steve Mitchell 2013

You’ll Never Get These Minutes Back

Oh look!

It’s so clear and sunny!

Or . . . is it?

Oh! No! It’s actually very overcast!

Ha! No, wait!

it is sunny!

But wait? How can that be?

What manner of magic is this?

Do I have amazing powers? Can I summon and dismiss the clouds at will?

Is devilry afoot?

maybe . . .

Naah!

Ha! Tricked you!

It’s not magic! It’s just me goofing around. I’ve got one current photo and one older photo! There’s a significant temporal shift at play!

It’s digital trickery. It’s not magic. It’s just me being bored and stoopid.

So

umm

yeah

Oh! And there’s also a pigeon on my roof . . . or is there?

Blithely So

I’m outside, in the backyard, in the shade, with a cigar.  The weather  is warm.  My feet are tired.

Alec comes outside and stops at the patio’s edge.  He’s barefoot.  The grass is dry and pokey.

He’s stepped away from his homework.  He’s nearly done writing an essay on the meaning of The Secret Garden.

I’ve never read the book so I ask him about it.

He launches into a plot summary and, as he talks, Lola, our pit mix, joins him on the patio.  She faces me and sits next to him.  She’s smiling.  She might be the smiliest dog west of the Missouri.

So, for a minute or so, Alec explains and Lola sits and smiles.

A fly buzzes Lola’s muzzle.

glarrp 

She tries to catch it.

Alec hasn’t stopped or noticed.

glaap 

She tries to catch the fly again, still smiling.

I’m distracted by her display.  I listen to Alec.  I focus on Alec, but Lola threatens to steal the show.

glaarpp

One last try.

I don’t know if she’s eaten the fly or if it’s left.

She returns her attention to me and Alec.

Alec finishes his summary and we chat a bit.  He goes back inside.

Lola follows him.

I resume my cigar.

No Breeze

no breeze, none -
the air here just hanging just
hanging there

—-

© Steve Mitchell 2013

My Mom

Here’s the kind of mom I have.

She used to write messages and draw pictures with food coloring on my sandwiches.

She’d hold hands with my sister and me and we’d all three of us skip down the sidewalk instead of walking.

She read to us all of the Wizard of Oz books.

She explained to me the birds and the bees, with frankness, blushing the whole time.

She sings Happy Birthday to each of her children and grandchildren, on the phone or in person, every year.

She worries about us.

She’s not a perfect mom, but she’s a much better mom than I am a son. And she reads this blog, so . . .

Mom, I love you. Happy Mother’s Day!