Strung eyes gaze lazily at the trash-lined street through Hall-o'ed month known best for treats and fright. Their plum lights blaze hazily on passing feet when darkness blooms and daylight fades to night. These spooky, staring, silent spheres that watch and wait as walkers wend spy strident steppers strolling near and hope to lure them to their end.
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It strikes me that I've learned of plants much more by writing poems than I've done the whole rest of my life from childhood to grown-ass man. This poem project's practice puts priority on pretty things and nature packs prismatic punch on purple passionflower wings.
From figgy fruits to tiny treelets, watch the wondrous world reveal its plumage, pink, yellow, and green, (like watermelon tourmaline!) and red, and orange, brown, and blue, and every other herbal hue I see while walking down the street. The neighbor's flowers sure are neat.
And when out of the corner of my eye I glimpse a novelty, a prickly puff, a spray of stars, a bottle brush, a truant tree, I dig through wikipedia to rhyme with scientific care and find some facts about our surveyed specimen's specific flair.
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Body stretched across the sofa with your shag dog after wine. Winding down the distant evening, it's too early, only nine.
Drape your legs along the armrest, posture sprawled in deep repose. Nighttime looms, we've had our ice cream topped with Flamin' Hot Cheetos.
Furry friend looks up in wonder from his cushioned fleece-lined throne, curious to know what's showing on your glowing telephone.
Little nosey "Hairy Robert", resting on the rugged floor puts his head back on his pillow, softly sighs, and naps some more.
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On the nature of this writing I have many thoughts to share. Why my diary is rhyming lets me balance lust and care.
Lust for leisure, lust for whimsy, lust for language, lust for play. Care for truth and for correctness, care to contemplate my day. Feisty forms of flippant fancy hinder haste and help me heal, help me focus on the locus of descriptive beau ideal.
Eat the thoughts. Digest the notions. Take the time to say them right. Join the dots between emotions. Always see today's delight.
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Idyllic country getaway, I'd love to live this every day. The breeze that chatters in the grass, the cloudless sky like azure glass, the trees, the deer, the winding stream, to be out here feels like a dream.
A father, mother, son, and daughter walk with waders through the water, stumbling on river rocks in rubber pants to shield their socks. They fling strung flies with soundless swishing; it seems they're really into fishing.
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These poems are Avi's diary. You can email him at avi@invariablyhappy.com