Randy Minnich
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Randy Minnich was a research chemist and chemistry professor. Now retired, he has time to write and pursue environmental interests. His poetry has appeared in Snowy Egret, Pudding, TAPJoE, Pearl, The Unitarian Universalist Poets (an anthology), and Nature Observer News.
Clumsiness
One day when lake and sky
flung themselves together at the shore,
midst splash and spray, upon a rock,
a gull stood, thin and pale
against the racing gray.
Bemused, he seemed, and clumsy,
peering down a crooked beak
on tumult at his silly feet-
a clown, a hook-billed shmoo,
a nose thumbed at Creation.
He needed symmetry;
needed grace.
Lord, he needed arms!
Then with a cry into the gale,
he unfurled pure white sails
and Sky called him back home:
he floated lightly on the tempest,
smiling as it howled,
looked casually down on me,
then nodded to the wind.
It whisked him up the shoreline
with the suddenness of magic;
easy as a shadow on a wall
around the bend and gone.
appeared in Snowy Egret.
One day when lake and sky
flung themselves together at the shore,
midst splash and spray, upon a rock,
a gull stood, thin and pale
against the racing gray.
Bemused, he seemed, and clumsy,
peering down a crooked beak
on tumult at his silly feet-
a clown, a hook-billed shmoo,
a nose thumbed at Creation.
He needed symmetry;
needed grace.
Lord, he needed arms!
Then with a cry into the gale,
he unfurled pure white sails
and Sky called him back home:
he floated lightly on the tempest,
smiling as it howled,
looked casually down on me,
then nodded to the wind.
It whisked him up the shoreline
with the suddenness of magic;
easy as a shadow on a wall
around the bend and gone.
appeared in Snowy Egret.
Seizure
In the middle of a song
the giant grabbed you-
without warning; without reason.
You sighed a little, “Not again”,
then it shook you till you rattled,
flung your music to the floor,
dropped you like a doll
it tired of playing with,
and left you, bruised and weary,
all alone,
to retrieve your scattered senses,
to gather up the fragments
of your melody.
You did what you had to, of course,
as only the brave can do:
you continued the song from the middle,
sang it to the end-and sing it still.
You walk down the street with your friends,
laughing, though you know
the giant awaits you somewhere-
around that corner, maybe-
to hit you from behind
with never a hint
of when or where or why.
In the middle of a song
the giant grabbed you-
without warning; without reason.
You sighed a little, “Not again”,
then it shook you till you rattled,
flung your music to the floor,
dropped you like a doll
it tired of playing with,
and left you, bruised and weary,
all alone,
to retrieve your scattered senses,
to gather up the fragments
of your melody.
You did what you had to, of course,
as only the brave can do:
you continued the song from the middle,
sang it to the end-and sing it still.
You walk down the street with your friends,
laughing, though you know
the giant awaits you somewhere-
around that corner, maybe-
to hit you from behind
with never a hint
of when or where or why.
To a Two-inch Millipede
On this, the Rules of the House are clear:
“No critters with more than four legs—
or fewer than one—are allowed upstairs!”
So I’ve stomped on your kin,
squashed every one that I’ve seen-
upstairs-with never a second thought.
But tonight I saw you rowing home,
sedately across the cold cellar floor
like a Viking ship on a slick, black sea.
You flowed away on waves of legs
with symmetry and rhythm that would awe
the coxswain of a Harvard shell. Now
we surely can’t have little beasts
making nightly ceiling voyages,
lurking beneath the couch,
or waving feelers from behind
the gentle waters of Monet.
Still, I sit upon the basement steps
watching you and wondering
what marvels we must miss
with our exclusionary clauses.
On this, the Rules of the House are clear:
“No critters with more than four legs—
or fewer than one—are allowed upstairs!”
So I’ve stomped on your kin,
squashed every one that I’ve seen-
upstairs-with never a second thought.
But tonight I saw you rowing home,
sedately across the cold cellar floor
like a Viking ship on a slick, black sea.
You flowed away on waves of legs
with symmetry and rhythm that would awe
the coxswain of a Harvard shell. Now
we surely can’t have little beasts
making nightly ceiling voyages,
lurking beneath the couch,
or waving feelers from behind
the gentle waters of Monet.
Still, I sit upon the basement steps
watching you and wondering
what marvels we must miss
with our exclusionary clauses.
