Directing The Unruly

At present, nature’s cycle lays down its campaign—

blue forget-me-nots spread like a polite little carpet,

with purple and yellow wildflowers freelancing at the edges.

It still looks manageable out there—or at least it does from the porch—and I, their General, must command the forces.

The wild animals, aside from the chipmunks and squirrels, are currently occupied with sabotage elsewhere.

We live in the country, bordered by woods and woodchucks—voracious little heathens with excellent tunnel strategy.

Monet would paint this if only someone had the decency to install a pond.

“You over there—yes, you—stop growing.

I’d like you all to remain exactly this height and not flood the front steps this year.

We will maintain peace and harmony despite the seasonal uprising.

Sticker bushes are hereby ordered to retreat and let the front line have its moment to bloom.

Day lilies, front and center. Lilacs, this is your hour—try not to get smug about it.

I need a clear view of the field before the next skirmish.

To mulch or not to mulch: that is the question.

Whether ’tis nobler to trim and weed or to let the ivy stage its slow-motion coup along the side garden remains under review.

Your General is, alas, allergic to the insufferable poison ivy, which looks innocent now but has the soul of a criminal.

I promise to attack the flanks and tidy up soon—tomorrow, if morale improves.”

Mother's Day

 Mother’s Day

 

Over the years,

we look back

and remember the women

who helped shape our lives

and this year was no different.

Each year, I like to think

I’m growing a little wiser,

though some years the jury is still very much out.

Choices made and lessons learned

have a way of humbling us at remarkable speed,

but Mom usually knows what you’re thinking

before you do, which is honestly unsettling.

She made you, after all,

and, as the saying goes, she can still take you out—without leaving her chair.

Maybe that is the purest form of love: fierce, patient, and never fooled.

So shape up, say thank you, and try not to make her repeat herself.

And when she leaves for her next great position,

as a star in  Andromeda,

pass on what she taught you:

Love, after all, is the greatest gift we get to give.

Sometimes, The Thing That Stands Out Is Small

Sometimes, The Thing That Stands Out Is Small

 

It is the board in the fence,

shifted only slightly to the right,

opening a breach in your understanding

of the neighbor—

and making you wonder which way they lean.

Is it safe to bring a hammer and a nail,

or would that cross the line itself,

that invisible border saying, without words,

where your limits lie,

what may be carried in your hands,

or whether a weapon still counts as speech?

Because you might expose what is already

plain,

and then they would have to set it right—

straighten the board by making a hammer of you,

in their grim reckoning,

and leave you on the fence, a warning to whoever forgets where they do not belong.

Blue State of Mind

 Blue State of Mind

The bleeding hearts and forget-me-nots have not bloomed.

How can this be?

It is September 2025.

The war has not happened yet.

Gas is cheaper for the moment.

I do not have to listen to a calm voice

still draping a silk sheet over the obvious

while its weather gathers at the door

Oh, happier day, while the weather gathered

So get to work on something that will not fold.

If you want greatness,

then alter the course of history.

Come up with answers that can stand in daylight.

Real answers. Real solutions.

For problems already licking at the frame.

We’ll keep the time.

Power, Code, and Accountability

 Power, Code, and Accountability

What is real? Who lays the first name on it? And when the system splits open—when the bright machinery throws sparks in the dark—who is left beneath the light, carrying the answer like a weight?

The documents are the Rosetta Stone. Not the smoke. Not the theater. The record. The fragment. The half-buried tablet that teaches you the grammar of power, syllable by syllable, after the public story has gone thin.

Power moves like weather now—crossing borders, climbing walls, outrunning the old alarms, leaving the people at the fence with their hands still raised.

Capability keeps widening its river. Reach keeps learning new roads. And accountability arrives downstream, late again, counting what the current carried off.

So skepticism is not a luxury. Verification is not a luxury. Scrutiny is not a luxury. They are the small lanterns we keep lit for one another. They are the habits that keep the dark from getting organized.

Because the danger is not only the face you can point to. It is the institution that goes soft at the hinges. The incentive that bends toward profit. The signal, smothered under so much noise, begins to sound like an echo.

So support independent reporting. Ask the harder question, then ask the question beneath it. Demand what can be shown. Demand what can be checked. Demand something sturdier than performance, something that can hold in the light.

The Seashell Indictment

 The Seashell Indictment

 

is like the proverbial ham sandwich

burning taxpayers’ money,

time,

and oxygen.

like a war with Iran

the cost of regime change,

nukes,

shaking hands with a dictator,

gas contracts,

ballrooms,

and data centers.

86 the mayo.

Ground your flight of fancy.

Do a 180.

Clean out the barn.

Signed, the people.

 

 

Posing For The Directory

 Posing For The Directory

Hello there—name’s B. Owl, pleased to meet your gaze,
Local legend, night patrol, working oddball days.
I haunt your hood, patrol your block,
A burrow boss around the clock.

My family tree? Oh, quite profound
We dig our dreams straight underground.
Champions of the sandy sprawl,
Cape Coral knows—we’re tiny but tall. 

We’re pocket-sized predators, yes, that’s the deal,
Mini Hawk vibes with a bargain‑meal feel.
Feathers fierce but fun-sized, cute,
Think raptor… in a travel‑size suit. 

Prolific? Please. We multiply like gossip,
Burrowing babies—you simply can’t stop us.  

We’ve got runway legs—oh, honey, they strut,
Long, lean lines? Yes, we serve that cut.
Takeoff smooth, landing bold,
Frequent flyer miles untold.  

We soar like Allegiant—no snacks, no frills,
Just feathered finesse and aerodynamic thrills.  

By day we chirp, by night we scream,
We cluck, we rasp—we run the theme.
Coo, rattle, shout, a vocal buffet
Broadway cast of the avian way.  

So do admire us—but mind your space,
We’re cute, not cuddly—respect the face.  

Spring has sprung—our season’s prime,
Burrows buzzing—it’s go‑time, it’s time!