Hoot. Peep.

Robert Ronnow
The Imaginary i

Hoot. Peep.

It’s all magic to Joe
and music to me, too.

An owl’s quiet hoot
even simpler than the pentatonic bamboo flute.

* * *

Belonging to the drums and wooful war
I woof and bay like every other dog.

Ukes v. Orcs, a hockey brawl
the pros vault the stands and redd the fans.

* * *

It’s only a papier-mache moon. Or is it?
Hey ho the wind and rain wear us away and it’s ok.

The outline disappears and the meaning.
This could be a pert sweet thing.

* * *

Rain in my courtyard. Rusty trucks stuck in mud.
To bring order from chaos, just say yes.

Or do the day's disputes leave you indisposed
to share your heart of zero and your inner rose?

* * *

The tragic mind knows nuclear inferno is a probability.
Every leaf that’s coming out is out, come what may.

That's joy. As time grows short, I get stoic.
There’s work to do but does it matter if I do it?

* * *

Start each day in despair, work up to acceptance.
That there’s no there there requires resistance.

Give generously, gratuitously, flamboyantly
like good luck, but stop before it hurts.

* * *

Apocalyptic visions are popular again
but Earth will merely take a mulligan.

Beyond mountains more mountains,
peepers peeping.