Happy Father’s Day

Mothers have a day
Fathers also, ‘ray!
Without a kid, none.
All year then, have fun.

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Mow the Lawn

A cloudy cover to the sky.
Did not make me want to cry.
I had to mow the lawn.
The long blades are now all gone.

In case you thought to fret.
Be assured, I did not sweat.
After a week of rain ahead
I may continue with this thread.

bosky

bosky

/ˈbɒski/
adjective
literary
Covered by trees or bushes; wooded.

Origin
Late 16th century from Middle English bosk, variant of bush.

A swale is swell
If it’s tended well,
But nature does its best,
Well beyond our behest
To block the sun to merely dapling
With bosky bits of shrub and sapling.

You might wish to grump and grouse
As you wander, aimless, through your house.
I’ll attempt to reassure a bit
You’ll need not have a literate fit.
I tried to avoid well known “bosky Dell”
And, of course, swell HP just as well.

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cortina

cortina

/kɔːˈtiːnə//kɔːˈtʌɪnə/
noun
Botany
(in some toadstools) a thin weblike veil extending from the edge of the cap to the stalk.

Origin
Mid 19th century: from late Latin, literally ‘curtain’.

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Toadstool or mushroom,
Seen in the forest gloom
Often has as a little ring
Left by that cortina thing.

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precursor

precursor

/prɪˈkəːsə/
noun
1 A person or thing that comes before another of the same kind; a forerunner.
1.1 A substance from which another is formed, especially by metabolic reaction.

Origin
Late Middle English: from Latin praecursor, from praecurs- ‘preceded’, from praecurrere, from prae ‘beforehand’ + currere ‘to run’.

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I hope it will not come as a surprise that the precursor is the one who arrives first. In a race that person is called the “winner”.

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When you’re seeking grace,
There’s no need to chase
Or be the one in first place.
Finding grace is not a race.

Cycles

In morning’s early hours
Ideas bloom like flowers
Many efforts spurt and jerk,
But, on occasion, some good work.

Afternoons are quiet.
After the morning’s riot.
Ideas still percolate
But without a hectic spate.

Lunch is very often followed
By a nap after food is swallowed.
Then later in the day.
The mind’s again at play.

At the evening’s approach
I state without reproach
The lids of eyes conspire
To make me soon retire.

Then reading just a bit
As I lie instead of sit.
In comfort, bed’s my home
As through my dreams I roam.

Creativity

Creativity is a self-filling pitcher. No matter how often we pour our ideas onto the page, the blog, the fediverse, new ones or, at least, provoking variations fill the temporary void.

As a corollary, avoiding the step of pouring out the ideas can have the effect of merely bottling and capping the output, trapping the creative process itself.

Moral: Don’t hold it in. Pour your ideas freely. Who cares if nobody else cares! And there’s a chance someone will make something useful in the end!

Gratitude

Mornings are generally brighter
Than the preceding night.
Structure somewhat tighter
Than a dream state, right?

Enhanced experience of day
Interactive time with others.
No absurd overlays in play
With online sisters and brothers.

I’m reaching out with thanks
To those of you out there
Who build my day with planks
Nailed solid and cut square.