#119…Yorick’s riddles, the answer …

IMG_0001  The answer to last week’s riddle?

     The Turn-Light Traffic Signal !

What you say, love poem? Yes, but only when it turns green, the color of life moving on.  The other colors (and the winking) certainly means that someone must just want to look at me, and hold me stopped; their love possession.  Alas, this may seem paranoiac but I like to think of the world as personal, not some random computer-generated authority.  To whit, the anarchist out of step with Times.



#118 … a web-bit of thought …

Spring brings forth little surprises that last fall were common and non-surprising; unless, of course, a spider appeared.IMG_0002 People, including emotive artistics, have little fondness for the sudden awareness of a spider; react, startle and avoid, or pursue that fear’s demise.  The first spider of this season (alone, a bit early) was spied by Yorick.


Babbling contentious emotives are considering devisive issues here, as in most places.  Here the greyed-out dividing line between Empathistic or Sympathistic views and actions seems to widen.  Whether an emotive can (“should”) have empathy and therefore act on a matter; or, sympathy and accept inhibitions to action.

The heartlessly pursued arguments sent Yorick for a walk, to whit, he encountered the arachnid.IMG_0001

Passing from the fleshy, juicy, mortal realm eased his fear of spiders centuries ago. Arachnids (skeletonistically anarchists ) live by sucking juices; juicy types find that abhorrent. Never mind what sympathy is rendered for arachnidian efforts constructing intuitive geometry.




As a fluid-less exoskeleton Yorick can have a pet to walk with a self-elongating leash, and in a gesture of empathy attempt an imitative nod to the master of geometry.


#117 … considering things up in the air …

IMG_0001  The sky whirling and falling from the clouds of snow has been relinquished as a topic of conversation; a weakening of the tensions from a winter of frozen enclosure, the worry of stumbling on ice.

Anarchistic emotive artistics have spent the winter here in the tent housing The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture, this is the first exit by those suffering from extended cabin fever.  The green still has not returned to the treetops; the sky above is wafty bits of clouds, not grey brooding sleet dispensers, a bit early for the luxuriously picturesque fearsome late-spring behemoths.

A simple wandering about refreshing and de-stressing should encourage a general pleasantness.

But, as it is, the excitement of new phenomena (even a seasonably warming sunshine) is easily manipulated into a type of mass hysteria.IMG_0002



An emotives excited pointing-out of fast-multiplying unlikelys, creates an agreed upon unease; even if there really isn’t anything seen that is worthy of exaggeration into hysteria.



Forewarning, though, is a profitable service by hot-aired emotives sure of their need to lead by unreasonable harangues. Some “thing” can surely be found as a topic of dread.








The emotives find no reason not to go along with an agreed approaching doom, no matter how obscure, absurd, and unrealistic. Fear, as you know, is the always realistic to  emotives.







Harangued hysteria is best tethered to some haphazard historical fact, regenerated into boastful claims of knowledge in the ways of those who course the heavens, by those who course the irrational.



Soon enough, some means will be commended, the objects of violence deemed necessary for an absurd offense against an oblique oversized unknowable hysteria.


And to that end, all will forego a general pleasantness walking under wafty clouds.

#116 …considering bunny rabbits, etc…


If this is supposed a happy constellation, and right-here but an errant star-child corroded by unhappy actors, emotives, entwined with anarchists ( looking for their sole satisfaction); then what is to be said for the now proliferating off-spring in a defrosted garden?

As winter passes the hawk gathers the wind, the serpent – the warm, the cat emerges from domesticity; in pursuit of the bunny rabbit, furry cute protein.

Always this goes on etc.,etc.,etc., ( or as recorded in the old-days … &c, &c, &c … ).

This being violence, it is the way the world is, ask any bunny rabbit.

Invoking a sense of peace is real, here and for the bunny rabbit, but it is the peace amidst the nervous; pricking greyed-brown thickets for green shoots. A search for a treasure popping up from the heaving frost melting into simple wet.






Welcoming the sun in near nakedness, He & She will have much to pay for a treasure search in the thickets (fear?); perhaps for knowledge unnecessary to the bunny rabbit.




IMG_0001 2



Youthful searching gestures,  about, and about, and about,

&c, &c, &c …,

pushing aside the prickles, for a brief metaphorical grass filament, in the clustered thickets.




Perhaps the bunny rabbit construes necessity, and so hops into the sun’s fatal freedom.

… #113…considering simple wonder …


Humble, first shoots, and maybe a thought about resurrecting that which is seemingly dead. The prairie has been of this habit since the days of the glaciers, humans a bit more to this moment. To set aside the gloom, the chill, the colorless for a consideration of simple wonder is appropriate.


#112 … more, more, and more gifts of the winds …

IMG_0001Wind, or any fluid, is seasonally apt to mostly come from the same direction, what was upwind blows down into disheveled recirculated patterns, whirlpools, eddies; vaguely recognizable piles and levees.  Recognizable, that is, to repeat observers of small areas where gravity has interceded, downwind from an obstruction, settled in morning frost.

Refugee leaves lie in slightly altered re-compositions, remixed in the eddies that settle on the lee-side of trees and buildings; among them bits of commercial wrappers, colorful leavings of human habits.

IMG_0001Maybe frustration and annoyance at the abundance of political “discourse” in the tent has the anarchists outside in a disruptive mood. The winds have delivered from distant unraked acres forests, woodlands, unplowed stalks broken by ice and snow the gifts of the wind … leaves. Maybe to be kicked (with foolish but optimistic grace?) into new configurations. Incorporated piles of shredded leaves, brown, dusty bits of oaks and corn, (once verdant green, luxurious golds, and red-browns) now lifeless pales; momentary objects of a reflexive emotive’s frustrated attentions.

In the scattering, the re-coalescing and repeated gatherings the dried leaves will always abide by the winds and return to what they always have done, and probably always will do. Even into that – the artistics kick.

#111 … considering the wind gods of March …

It’s March, moody, mumbling, left-over darkness; March, not really prairie winter, but a surly disheveled February without the layer of usable often beautiful snow.IMG_0001

It is the month for a crotchety wind god.






There are days (measured better by hours than days) when a bit of warmth blows out of the south and the remembrance of Spring and roses and a whiff of delicate green breath pauses our glum-poets chill.  That best might come (probably will come, but when oh when).



Ah, let hope bring a once vanquished wind goddess to momentarily step forward spreading charmed exhalation upon the leadened  gloom.