A spear point under an oak,
shark teeth in the roiling beach sand;
shooting stars spied from my porch cot;
fossil trilobites in my hand;
lightening bolts found underfoot
and potshards after a rain.
while my muse reckons
the irregular fringe of time.
If we live long enough
it’s gonna be rough.
Tell-tale signs of age
spoken off the cuff
betray us and oh
how long and how sad
will it get to be
before…until…we
write bad verse, yet don’t hesitate
to remember to meditate
on what’s gone before and what
lies ahead instead?
Hey nonny nonny,
honey, if it’s not funny
why do we laugh at
our forget-me-nots?
When will we touch base
and head for home?
Not funny, dammit,
unless you’re like me–
easier to laugh
than it is to pee.
Ha ha got you there.
You expected to “cry.”
I know poor taste
when e’er I try
and will until my
looney runs dry.
Ouch! Tell me I
didn’t write this…
Life’s too short
Tooth’s too long
Horses snort
Answer’s wrong
Eyes too bright
Pool’s too deep
Bra’s too tight
He’s too cheap
Sky’s too high
Feet too smelly
Words can lie
Too tight belly
Stream beds trickle
Chewing gum sticks
I’m in a pickle
Up to old tricks.
Lost my keys
This won’t do
Down on my knees
Should get two.
Don’t say pome
Only a verse
Come on home
Could be worse.
1899. John Brown. (USPD.pub.date, artist life/COmmons.wikimedia.org)
I CAN’T Play hopscotch any more Nor skate across an icy floor. I know headstands would break my neck I drove my car and caused a wreck.
It’s hard to write a funny verse ‘Specially when you’re glum and terse. I wonder if I’ll ever see a poem sadder than my knee.
Oh I know it could be worse– I could have Trumpkin as my nurse, Pointing at me and saying he Would never make a pass at me.
BUT Now I don’t have to clean my plate Or remember to stand up straight Oh what fun to say shit and damn while chasing Mary’s little lamb.
Yet no one tucks me in at night or hugs me as my mother might. Home made peach ice cream’s the best I’d not swap it for all the rest.
I STILL KNOW Little Orphan Annie can say “Watch out for the Goblins today. They’re bigger than ever and terribly clever–”
Citizens United foretold The capitalist manifold That can squeeze you to death, Enjoying your last breath.
I guess there’s a Devil after all. Call him a Goblin, you say? But the evil’s outrageous, And even contagious!
GOOD LUCK For the next century– I’m outta here.
JUST JOKING Though not very funny, I guess. The whole thing’s a horrible mess. Oh I’m moved now to barf, Do watch out for the scarf!
NEXT SCENE Maybe it’ll be better after my next round trip down home. I’ll be pushing up sod Second only to God.
You watch; I’ll be back.
THE SCRUBWOMAN
She’s on her knees, but not to pray
Trying to scrub the stains away
While knowing that they’re on to stay
“Undoing” ‘s the term used today.
Today I stopped to see my shrink.
He said, “Well, what do you think?”
I said, “You mean how do I feel?”
“O Yeah, yeah, but what is the deal?”
“I’m losing it, and that’s no fun.”
“Life is no bowl of cherries, hon.”
“I didn’t think it was, but it’s
overflowing with all the pits.”
“You should think Happy Happy.”
“O that is so crappy, crappy!”
“Don’t let me rain on your parade!”
“I can’t believe what you just said!”
“I know it’s mighty bad out there.”
“Well you look comfy in your chair!”
“I am, and you should be too.”
“How can I when I am so blue?
How much do I have to pay to you
for this therapeutic hour or two?”
“S & H green stamps will be fine.
What was it that you had in mind?”
“I’m out of stamps but hope you’ll take
a cherry cheesecake that I’ll make.”
“You’ll bring it next time that you come?”
“Maybe we can both enjoy some.”
Sigh. “Goodbye.”
Today I could talk straight through until I die and not tell you half my thoughts, history and fellow travelers. None great but I was there and lived it all. So much, all the time. Little things, big feelings–I am an Indian mound full of artifacts, a wrapped present on Christmas morning, full of surprises, not all good. These atypical thoughts will leave me, but here they are for you to see, caught on my flypaper.
Moon casts her shadows
A plop sounds in the old creek
Night birds croon their songs
And I sleep…
Image:Ruth Scribbles.com
Jill Dennison shares an anatomical survey of Lump’s racist body by Nicholas Kristof in the New York Times:
I have identified the following racist bones in Trump’s body:
Phalanges and metacarpals: These are bones of the fingers and hands that Trump has used to tweet tirades against black and brown people and to retweet Nazi sympathizers, including, twice, an account called @WhiteGenocideTM with a photo of the founder of the American Nazi Party.
Mandible and maxilla: These are the jawbones that Trump has used to denounce Mexican immigrants as “criminals, drug dealers, rapists,” not to mention to refuse to criticize the Ku Klux Klan.
Femurs, fibulas, tibias, metatarsals: These foot and leg bones carried Trump into his casinos, where black staff members would be rushed off the floor so he couldn’t see them, according to a former employee, Kip Brown.
Virtually every remaining bone was implicated in Trump’s early refusal to rent apartments in his buildings to blacks, leading the Nixon administration Justice Department (not exactly a pillar of liberalism) to sue him for housing discrimination in the 1970s. A former building superintendent working for Trump explained that any rent application from a black person was coded “C,” for “colored,” apparently so that the office would know to reject it….
Good sleuthing, Jill…
A Transitional Object
is a beloved and reassuring
item that stands in for Mom
when she is out of sight.
A late bloomer, I still crave
nurturance, but I get comfort
now from books.
The books I most like are those
that make me scratch my head
and wonder why and how and who,
Like reports of the flying monk
who flew around the church wearing
no underpants and became a saint.
Graves, Yeats, Mann and Leibnitz
believed in the monk, as he is
described in Wilson’s The Occult.
In An Experiment with Time, Dunne
suggests we dream of both future and
past events equally.
Hillman’s Dreams and the Underworld
scared me out of my Jungian analysis
with hints of archetypes come to life.
Wilhelm Reich knew that his patient
had an abortion when she reported a
dream of a book standing upside down.
Strangers to Ourselves, The Whisperings
Within, and Sam Harris’ Free Will all
hotwire my curiosity.
Wilson’s Consilience stirs my mind
and my heart, even though the friend
of a friend says he’s a misogynist.
Intellectuals alerted me to the fact that
Rousseau placed his five newborns in
baskets and left them, unnamed.
Discovery of the Unconscious tells of
a fox who possessed a sick woman and
refused to leave without a fine meal.
The journals we pen ourselves of
dreams and doodles and wonderings
devour loneliness and stir the pot.
I save pure escape reading until bed
time, when I reward myself for making
it through another day, with mysteries.
Did the header say something about
dishes? I prefer reading, writing
and paper plates.
Former Obama speechwriter (and Mass. native) Jon Favreau wrote, “The crowd at Trump’s rally chanting “send her back” after the President viciously and dishonestly attacked Ilhan Omar is one of the most chilling and horrifying things I’ve ever seen in politics.”
You - philosophical, thoughtful, witty. Me - still thinks fart jokes are funny. We should DEFINITELY get together!
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