Fly On His Nose, and The Lake, by Rocky Rhoads

Rocky (aka Shirley) Rhoads is a 77 year old retired nurse who lives in Colorado. She has always loved to write and has done so in many forms, and has published several articles, prayers and poetry in an anthology. She has spent nearly half of her life in the Arizona desert and loves the widely divergent beauty of both Colorado and Arizona. She lives with her daughter and their kitten in Littleton, close to the lovely green foothills of the Rockies, and spends time with her son and his family. She revels in watching the many birds, bunnies and squirrels that abound in their area.

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Fly On His Nose

The fly buzzed round and round his head

Then zoomed in to land on the end of his nose

His left turn signal was blinking

But, with the fly on his nose

He’d lost all thought of turning

Hard even to drive the car

While staring cross-eyed down his nose

If it weren’t for my X-ray vision

I’d not have known of the fly

For I was in the lane to his left

I’d pulled back to give him room

But the blinker had blinked a long while

And the car clung stubbornly to the right lane

So I trained my X-ray vision on the man

There sat the fly, black and bottle green

Looking comfortable and unperturbed

At the tip of his bulbous nose

Showing no inclination to leave

And why should he, I ask

He was being moved rapidly cross country

Without having to stir a single wing

Courtesy of a big blue Lexus

And a driver cross–eyed and enthralled

Who was watching the fly on his nose

I wonder if the man will wind up

With his eyes permanently crossed

My mother would have said so

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The Lake

I watch the serene waters

Across the lake the mountains

Soft and voluptuous

Green, dark gray, spotted with gold

Where sunlight strikes hill

The giants

Those that reach for the clouds

Are behind, but not seen

From this place

The low, rolling mountains

Are repeated in the water

Perfectly replicated

Though turned on end

A band of green trees divide

One from the other

Beauty seen once again

Ducks and geese float gently

Now and again one flies

Disturbing the water on take off

The water then rippling

Distorts the mountains image

And the picture shimmers

Before returning to itself

A band of geese on the shore

One standing as a heron

On one leg, perfectly balanced

But the webbed foot hanging behind

Disrupts the picture of grace

He turns and walks to the water

The limping gait hard to watch

Balance had come from pain

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