Lost and Found

A poem about a nut

It needed a better search algorithm.

 Apologies Emily Dickinson. Temperatures are dropping, and the squirrels and chipmunks know that their survival will be at stake.

Look what I found at the gym!

Old lady’s Spray bottle singing
Ottawan: Official clip: 

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no one wants to be a victim
or a meme
it’s the double down 
passive voice
(unknown poet)

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Birch Brackets

Ah! new-born razor strop, next to the ivy-clad silver birch.

I wonder what nibbled on it? Not a holly blue’s caterpillar, probably.

Stroppy Shelf Life
The dead birch trees dream of Ötzi the Iceman
and of their pale youth
when a coat of green loyal ivy
shaded them from bulbous fungi
– not a shield from whipworm, a human problem after all –
One silver birch still stands,
stretched tall to the blue sky,
snug in the coiled embrace of fruiting ivy,
alive with bumble-bees
– or are they the selfsame carpenters that drilled their brethren’s polka dots? –
The winter cat awaits with polished claws
and snowy cloak, hidden in its cloudy paws.

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Klompe klompe
Things are going klopdisselboom! Dilly the gogga wears new clogs, not Träskors or Harley Davidsons like she used to, but home-chewed ones. She’s been watching an old favorite, Robert Sapolsky. Maybe she should read  his new book, Behave… (This interview “You have no Free Will” is also interesting.)
Dilly rows her winged clog.

I love thistles, which include the Cynara/artichoke, with its added allure of providing vegetable rennet for vegetarians that like cheese.

spent thistle

Thistle bush


Goggatjie, nou is jou kansie
Trek aan die rooi klompe en dans
Ek breek vir jou ‘n lansie
Al is die wêreld uit wans-
Dis tog elke gogga se droom:
klopdisselboom, klopdisselboom
Die distel is so mooi en so pers
fier en regop, soos ‘n kers
stekels en prikkels is niks;
hulle hou jou net fiks
Jy kan dans dat die stof so staan
-daarna kom die heengaan-
kap ‘it uit:
Dans goggatjie, dans.

Work in progress; painting of thistles

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Red Roses Are Red and Horses


H/T to the rose. I you’re a realist, read about the rose here. If you’re a tasteful consumer, here is your Red Rose. If your medium is mystery, let’s go Sub Rosa. We aim to please.

Horse Trading

In the horse-trade of life

free will is like free lunches

that’s why I would never be a dentist;

imagine probing all those free lunch cavities.

A horse doctor might be different

-you’d still have to look the gift horse in the mouth though-

as you dream of unicorns

but you could laugh about it;

snort, whinny even.


horse trading
Gift Horses





Re:verse Prosopagnosia


Re:verse Prosopagnosia

Be your own story, be your own plot

Learn tough lessons, how to be mild

Transplant to a boroughs lot

of a wild flower, child

Scatter on three continents, the seed

Spring up in a wildlife trail

Shoot up like a veld weed

Cropping a reverse fail



Dozen Day! It is NaPoGloMo Day 12…Without further ado, an Index Poem:


Chrys waters the castor oil plant

that grows next to the cardboard castle

in Uganda

There she has chameleons.

They chat and play with charms;

she does her hair in chignons

like the girls

of Dodinga,

of Karamojo,

of iNiashukulumbi, of Shilluk, of Suk,

of Turkana.

The colobus, Coly

pretends to be a cormorant

but Coucal chases the cranes


over craters and crests

past the crocodiles

cuckoo, lark-heeled.

*Chrysanthemums ; Pyrethrum, the Old World Chrysanthemum:



made with Paper53, and Man and Beast in Eastern Ethiopia‘s input.