Potluck Passion

Reindeer sing noel on the hilltop
Their gift to all who may pass by
We all have something to give
It can be from the heart
Like a song of hope
A priceless gift
That touches
All who
Hear

Special Note: This poem is known as a nonet. First line is 9 syllables and goes down to 1 syllable in the last line,

Another blog

Poetry

"Take a penny, leave a penny"

I can’t speak for you, certainly, but I’m convinced that clerks at some convenience stores are abusing the “take a penny, leave a penny” trays that sit next to the cash register. Just think about it… how many times have you walked into the Quik-Stop to buy a 12-pack of Bud Light^TMand needed a penny to keep from breaking a twenty, only to find an empty “take a penny, leave a penny” tray? Then, as you dig that twenty out of your wallet, you look up into the deviously happy grin and dancing eyes of the nineteen-year-old high school dropout with the tattoos all over his neck and arms, who even now salivates at the prospect of giving you change for your twenty, being sure to ask you if you mind if he leaves the pennies in the “take a penny, leave a penny” tray.

Then it occurs to you… if he waits until you walk out, picks up those three pennies and slips them into his pocket, he’s well on his way to retirement at an early age. Think about it, if he collects three cents from 50 customers a day, he’ll earn enough in two months to fund a $100 T-Bill or buy an eight ball of crack!

I figure that I’ve been buying 12-packs of Bud Light^TMevery day now for the last forty years. If I’d bought them all at Seven-Eleven, and that same clerk had grown up with me, I’d have supplemented his income to the tune of $438. If fifty other customers had contributed to his little slush fund in the same way and he’d invested the skimmings in T-Bills at 3% simple interest, he’d have over $40,000 right now! Or he’d have a $200/day crack habit that would force him to spend his off-work time breaking into my garage and stealing my Dremel®, miter saw and invaluable box of Slim Whitman records.

Folks, the moral of the story is very clear. Don’t fall into the trap of enabling that poor unfortunate manning the cash register… eschew the “take a penny, leave a penny” tray. It’s pure evil.

Thoughts Upon A Summer Evening

Mrs Jedediah H Richards

By Cecelia Beaux (1895)

Thoughts Upon A Summer Evening

Now, ain’t it just like him? Here I sit, all dressed up, apparently with nowhere to go. It’s not so much that I really like barn dances, but he promised. I understand that I may not be the pick of the litter, but he didn’t seem to mind last Saturday night down by the creek when I let him have his—

I need to stop this. It ain’t proper for a mature woman to think about such things. After all, I wanted it as much as he did… maybe more. It ain’t like we’re a couple of kids. Maybe if we were, I could excuse him. But the things he said when he was…

There I go again. I think I need to go find something cool to drink, it’s jeezly hot tonight and I swear I’m about to get the vapors. Maybe not as hot as last Saturday night, all things considered, but any breeze at all would be welcome. This fan just ain’t gettin’ the job done. What I need is another swim in the creek, with a certain—

Stop it, Bertha, this ain’t helpin’ matters at all. Lord, how I miss Jedediah, God rest his soul. He was a good man, even if he lacked skills in a certain arena, unlike another man whom I hope dies a very slow and painful death if he fails to show up tonight.

Why am I hungry all of a sudden? Just sittin’ here like a ninny won’t bring him to my door any sooner… maybe I’ll go down to the kitchen and fix myself another plate of supper, that country ham was superb if I do say so myself. Too bad others don’t feel the necessity to show up when they’re invited to dinner.

But, I suppose Bessie Cavender is probably capable of cooking supper, too, even if her pickles have never won an award at the Fair. I guess if your breasts have trouble staying inside your dress, it doesn’t matter to some men.

The Yellow Blouse

Esoterica

This is my Workshop Challenge, my interpretation of The Yellow Blouse by William M. Chase.

The trouble with portraits is their aggravating lack of subtlety. Take this one, for instance, a little beauty that Daddy paid handsomely for, one that a certain famous artist created to punish me for protesting and finally shunning his advances. As I stand before him for hours at length, my legs are not my only body parts to suffer from cramping. My very thoughts suffer their twisted effect as well. I can scarcely withstand his leering gaze as his eyes flit between palette and my bodice, as his mawkish expression trumpets my discomfort, exposes my shame. Even now his impudence mocks me, flaunting my weakness before the world.

No matter. Portraits, for their intimate betrayal of one’s innermost secrets, lack the cudgel necessary to wield blow after blow upon the psyche of a viewer, no matter how long he might stare at my questioning countenance, no matter what speculations he might hold about my character. No, portraits cannot inflict any modicum of retribution as exacted payment for indignities suffered at his hands.

The same cannot be said for the pistol concealed beneath my beautiful yellow sweater. For his sake, I hope he likes my Cross— it will be the last thing he sees when he stares at my breasts and bends to caress them.

New Prompt -- Words & Pictures--- 11/14

Her Last Mardi Gras

Party streamers. Luciana LaBalenciaga surveyed the balcony meticulously before proceeding, taking great care not to step on any of the colorful beads and paper shards that only recently had been blasted onto revelers who’d poured out of the apartment for a prime position at the rail. Not that she really feared twisting an ankle; it was more a matter of respect for the spirit of the past and the dignity of the dead, even if the departed amounted only to a few beer bottles and strips of crepe. After all, Mardi Gras, with all its pomp and ceremony, floats and New Orleans marching bands, served only as a masquerade for people’s hidden agenda, drinking and obscenity.

Women who’d never dream of revealing their breasts in a public setting would, for the price of a few strands of worthless beads and an equitable amount of exotic alcoholic beverage, stand on the balcony and, to the exhortation of the multitudes, bare their feminine finery for all the world to behold—and hoot. How many of the same people would find themselves on their knees tomorrow waiting for the priest to smear chrism in the form of a cross on their foreheads, reminding them of their sinful ways and asking them to search their conscience, to rededicate themselves to the banishment of iniquity from their lives?

No matter… it wouldn’t be her. Not tomorrow, not ever again. This balcony would be her last. The dark, cool dampness of the late March night weaved its charms through the fine loose hairs at her temples, tickling her cheeks and whisking her to a simpler time when the breezes foretold only a storm of the natural variety, the spring rains that threatened daddy’s pirogue and made a walk through the bayou a muddy mess. Thoughts of mama standing at the screen door in her simple housedress and apron pushed their way past all the others, demanding that she concentrate, insisting that she listen. Luciana… you come on in now, chil’, de supper ready an’ you ain’t washed yo’ hans. A girl ‘most fo’teen years ol don’ need to be tole more’n once. You hear me, Luciana, don’t dawdle now, come on in.

“I’m comin’, Mama,” she whispered, “I’m comin’.”

With few regrets and malice toward no one, Luciana LaBalenciaga quickly scaled the ornamental wrought iron and stepped off the balcony. Somewhere in the sixty feet between balustrade and destiny she took her last breath of New Orleans honeydew and joined mama and daddy in the ageless memory of days gone by.

Bob Church© 2007

Lady Of Spain, I Adore You

Mothers, in their attempts to enrich their sons’ lives, often resort to unconventional tactics. For example, my mother believed that the accordion was an instrument that people actually enjoyed. I never really inquired how she came to this conclusion (not that it would have mattered one iota), but one of her fondest dreams for my future included my coronation as the next Myron Floren.

What? You’ve never heard of Myron Floren, the Polka King? Mr. Floren was the accordion guru of the Fifties, having nailed down a position of prominence in the Lawrence Welk Orchestra. On Sunday evenings in homes across the country, kids were sitting down to watch Bonanza or Walt Disney Presents or even Ed Sullivan Theater.

In my house, the couch was filled with Mom and Dad flanking me, attempting to keep me upright, silent and paying full attention to the mellifluous renditions of The Beer Barrel Polka. After the first week or so, I wasn’t allowed to go to the bathroom except during commercials, given my history of not returning for twenty to thirty minutes. I still can’t understand why I always seemed to get a tummy ache or bowel attack during that show. I can remember holding my breath to see if I could pass out or get polio… anything that would require my presence somewhere else. As I daydreamed, I’d set up mental scenarios with me laying on my deathbed on Sunday night, my parents at my side. Through her tears, my mother would ask if there was anything she could do, and I’d look up at her in my most pitiful expression and ask if I could watch Leave It To Beaver one last time…

It was usually about that time that she’d smack me on the side of the head. How could I ever learn if I didn’t listen?

At some point in time, I remember being driven to the music store, where I was taken into a back room with the world’s fattest woman, Mrs. Beasley. I’m sure she didn’t have a first name. She didn’t need one. Her neon purple dress stood out because the satiny material was a different shade every time she moved, and it reminded me of the big curtain at the Fox Theatre. Plus, it made the twelve pounds of rouge on her cheeks look like Christmas ornaments sitting on top.

Immediately, I knew why Mrs. Beasley chose to become an accordion teacher. She could actually lift the damn thing. Once, when she was sick, I had a substitute teacher, a thin little man. When it came time for my lesson, he merely picked the accordion up with a hydraulic wench and sat it on my lap. Once I decided to try to lift it myself. The next day I woke up in a ward in Presbyterian Hospital, recovering from hernia surgery. (That reminds me, why do they call them ‘hernias’? Women don’t get them, shouldn’t they be called ‘hisnias’?)

After four years and roughly a quarter of a million dollars invested in my stardom, I think my mother realized that Myron Floren was sleeping quite soundly knowing that I was a contender for his throne. One day, my accordion was miraculously transformed into a new pair of size six Ridell baseball cleats and a Wilson A-2000 ball glove, and the rest is history. I’m sure Mom would have liked to keep that accordion, just in case I changed my mind at some later date. Dad probably pointed out that the house simply couldn’t support that much weight in the attic.

Why eat canned soup?

Litany of Punishment Too Bizarre To Escape Comment

I’ve given up my pursuit of learning the cello. Admittedly, what few attempts I may have made while an adolescent, while pluperfect, were less than vigorous. Frankly, the cello is an instrument whose tones I consider abhorrent if not totally repugnant, and any claims I may have made to attractive females regarding my interest therein were bald-faced lies designed to entice said attractive females to have sex with me. The fact that all such attempts were unsuccessful is beside the point.

No, the cello is no longer on my list of unaccomplished stratagems, but I’m still convinced that the ladies are suckers for musicians. With that in mind, I’ve decided to enroll in Banjo College. Wish me luck… with one finger missing on my left hand, I’m sure I’ll need it.

Night Terrors...part 2...the story

Night Terrors

I stretched on my bed, alone, as the clock ticked. Radiant moonlight drenched me in its glow, like icy murmurs of ghosts outside swishing in the snow. I don't know why I imagined them as playful, "swishing" in the snow. Everyone knows ghosts are fearsome creatures. But really, what interest have I in ghosts?

I closed my eyes and prayed for slumber. But the flickering moonlight transformed to a strobe racing in frantic bolts across my body, fueled by a windy concert master who made tree limbs outside the window tremble in the moonlight. And tremble, so did I.

The murmurs again. This time they lingered in my ears, cementing their presence...here in my room.

I bolted up, eyes wide, jaw dropped, my own heavy breathing then the only sounds. Gazing about, I saw nothing.

I laid back down and closed my eyes. The strobes took center stage again, pulsating like wacky electrical charges across my prone torso. My heart picked up on their rhythm, pounding in unison to the light strikes.

The murmurs again, this time louder, roaring like a train in the distance. And the lights pounded, pounded across my body. Lights, pounding vibration, whispers and gentle squeals, lights...my body joined in the raucous. I felt it give way to the demands of the moment, vibrating in a frenetic display; but it wasn't my torso that moved...it was my soul. My soul pounded, demanding to be let go. It quivered in my chest, then dissatisfied, thumped harder, until finally it screamed against my pleas to stay put. And then I felt it escape. With a tug and a screech, it pulled free of my desperate demands and with new life shot up to the ceiling. To my alarm, I traveled along in a whispery stream, my consciousness contained in its vapors, content and free from bodily concerns, free from worldly worry. I floated. I don't know for how long, but I recall looking down to see myself, my bodily self that is, still lying on the bed. I think I may have been centuries floating up there, but only one physical moment in earthly time.

The murmurs returned. Only this time they were angry screeches. I was an unwelcome guest. I knew it. They wanted me to go, to return to my proper plane and be a good human.

A crack of thunder outside the window sent my ghostly presence tumbling down in a blast like the big bang. I slammed into my physical body with a horrific jolt that shook the bed. My eyes flew open at the sound of my trumpeting heart. I was back.

Exhausted, I rolled over and succumbed to restless sleep that at least offered an avenue to practice my necessary denial. My "trip" was lovely, but "they" didn't want me. I was unwelcome among them, at least for now. It's a good thing. Because, really, what interest have I in ghosts?

Copyright 2007 JO Janoski

Night Terrors

The Lessons of a Ladle

The ladle isn’t pure silver, certainly, and may not be silver at all. Like as not, it’s some lesser alloy of tin, forged in the 1850’s or thereabout, close as anyone can remember, but it’s silver in color at least. It doesn’t matter, though. It manages to stay pretty clean, since I use it only occasionally, to dip water from a bucket when I get nostalgic for the old days. I rather enjoy the slight metallic taste it leaves in my mouth after I drink from it. It’s not a good taste or a bad taste, it’s just… there. Besides, it doesn’t last long, and I don’t stand there like a ninny thinking about it, but it’s there, nevertheless, and worth pointing out.

I think we tend to do that when we get older. All the little things mean more since we understand that there’s a certain finite quality associated with mundane events. Focus becomes centered upon the immediate rather than the far-reaching, and attention to detail reigns supreme. I think the kids would call that micro-management or microeconomics or some such micro-gobbledygook. It doesn’t matter what you call it, it’s the recognition that’s important.

Anyway, back to the ladle. This particular artifact is no ordinary hunk of metal. Countless sets of lips have enjoyed a cool drink of water while resting on one or another spot around the rim. Apparently, it’s home-made. The designer was careful to round the lip, curving it under around the outside, ensuring that the baby or drunk grandpa didn’t cut himself.

Plus, the metal yields to temperature. When dipped into a bucket of ice-cold spring water, it makes sure you pay attention and don’t drink too fast. This sort of thoughtfulness is rare among inanimate objects and should, rightfully, be acknowledged.

Even the handle is accommodating. Whoever pounded out the metal could have left it flat and sharp, and in all likelihood, no one would have complained. After all, it’s only a way to grasp the ladle, so why worry about how it’s shaped? I’ll tell you why. It’s because his granny, mama, daughter or granddaughter might have grabbed that handle, and he wanted to make sure it would be safe and easy to use. That’s why it’s concave, too, providing a spot to rest your thumb on top while dipping or drinking since the ladle itself can be a little unwieldy if filled too full or if hands are very small.

I came upon the ladle by way of inheritance. When grandma died, I was told that I could have my choice of anything on the porch by way of remembrance. We were all down at the farm, and the funeral was tomorrow. By the time a small boy got his turn to pick, all the pictures, antiques and ice cream churns had pretty much been spoken for, but I didn’t care; honestly, I had zero interest in any of them, anyway. As soon as I saw it hanging on the wall, on the same nail it had always hung on, I knew it was what I wanted. My only regret is that I couldn’t take the porch and nail along with it. Images of Dad and Grandpa sneaking out onto the porch rushed into my head, as Grandpa hurriedly grabbed his bottle of ‘corn’ from under a slat on the far side of the porch. I can still see his grin as he poured and offered Dad that ladle. They each shared a couple of sips, alternating until it was empty, then Grandpa would stare into it before swirling it in the air and shaking it to remove any evidence that may have inadvertently been missed. Then, he’d reverently hang it on the hook before heading back into the house… they couldn’t stay long or they’d lose their stealth capabilities and be picked up as a heat signature on Mom or Grandma’s radar.

Of course, I can’t prove it, but Grandpa told me stories handed down from his grandfather about Robert E. Lee himself drinking from that very ladle. It was during the early years of the Northern Aggression, and the general had bivouacked his troops in the woods adjoining the property. It was not an altogether wise move, Grandpa said, because our part of Missouri bordered Kentucky, and everyone knew those ridge-runners to be a treacherous lot; as many cow-towed to the Union as were loyal to Jeff Davis.

Even the cup has a personality all its own. The years have yielded a few bumps and dings and the outside feels rough and pitted, but the inner surface is smooth and glassy as a baby’s behind with only a tinge of white discoloration in a semi-circle along the section opposite the handle. I suspect it may be calcium left when water evaporated while it hung. If I was to compare it to humans, I would say it takes on the appearance of age spots; and as I look at it, I only wish I could age so gracefully.

Yea, it’s just a ladle. There’s no precision machining or coat-of-arms, not a trace of pretense. It contains nothing of intrinsic value to anyone but me and that alone makes it precious. For now, it goes back on the hook, waiting patiently to be of service. It’s not silver, it’s pure gold. Someday, I hope my grandson will understand.

I'm sorry, I have to say goodbye.... you'll find someone else

Sheena Easton, you are dead to me. I don’t care if you are scheduled to perform at the Lewis Family Playhouse in Rancho Cucamonga in November, I don’t feel any desire to be in attendance.

Okay, okay… you are rather attractive, I must admit, in a ‘90’s sort of way, with your sensual, suggestive album covers and your appearances on PAX networks’ Young Blades, which I must confess, I have not seen. However, I simply cannot sit still for an album named Todo Me Recuerda A Ti, even though I can’t recall ever hearing you sing.

Recuerda this, Sheena, if indeed that’s really your name, it’s nearly incomprehensible for me to envision a mother looking down at her precious newborn daughter and saying, “Welcome to planet Earth… Sheena”... she probably named you Brandi or Wilhelmina and you couldn't stand the stigma attached. Oh, you didn’t think anyone would question that, did you? You think we were all born last night, don’t you? Next thing you know, you’ll be trying to make me believe that Ian Donald Calvin Euclid Zappa’s real name is Dweezil.

So, go on with your pathetic little singing career and minor-star status among those pallid, simpering unfortunates gullible enough to pony up enough shekels in the audio department of the West Des Moines Wal-Mart to purchase your latest rendition of some hit that a real star made popular twenty or thirty years back.

Just know that some of us out here are keeping our eye on you, girl— any shenanigans and there’ll be h-e-double-hockey-sticks to pay. Someday you'll understand that it's not polite to ignore a well-wisher who cares enough about you to rent an apartment in your building... and restraining order or no restraining order, I've got your back, baby, don't you worry. If you'd just take the time to read one of the notes I slip under your door instead of giving them to the detectives, you'd understand that I just want to have dinner with you-- no expectations, of course, that goes without saying. I mean, I'm not some creep, you know? I just want to watch you eat your Cobb salad and check out whether or not you're truly left-handed. But, if it's really too much to ask, well, what can I say? If I miss this bus, another one will come by soon... or so my mother keeps reminding me seven or eight times a day.

New Prompt 11/7 Words and Pic--A Dual Challenge

Shingled House

Shingled house, shingled house,
sitting in the glen,
won’t you open up for me
and let me walk on in?

Surely you can tell that
I’m a very weary man,
I’ve picked these wild grapes today
and stuck ‘em in this can.

My eyes aren’t what they once were
I’m sorry as hell to say,
things tend to get all blurry
now toward the end of day.

Blemishes are blemishes
whether shingles, wood or skin,
and make no other statements
of the quality held within.

So I won’t hold it agin’ you,
If you’ll do the same for me,
will you kindly grant me entrance
in the spirit of amity?

I promise not to bother
any treasures found inside
I won’t snoop in any cabinets
Though I might tarry fireside

And turn a page of structured prose
from bookshelf on your wall
I’ll try to make some sense of it
With no guarantees at all.

Then, hopefully, I’ll end my day
midst human apprehensions
just dreaming of my shingled house
with perfect glen dimensions.

The Fourth Night

The Fourth Night

Come with me, gaze tonight, into my world of transient dreams,
Where fairies flit upon the sands, resting until beauty gleams...
Come with me, your eyes though closed, still watching splendor full adorned,
Tears die there upon request; unmissed, unloved, and best-- unmourned.

Stay with me, my heart’s bequest, laze for eons in my arms,
Freed from stresses, love's frail craft lies moored in freeport, safe from harm...
Stay with me though starry night might beg entry, flashing eyes aglow,
Rejected once, its harried flight through cracks and fissures tries to flow.

Rule with me dominions grand, perched atop passions’ rubied throne,
Lightning bolts of pleasured lust have issued edicts- ours alone.
Rule we naught but what we feel, regal matters lost in rapture?
Affairs of heart take precedence; frenzy dictates terms of capture.

Rest with me, laze tonight, within my world of prescient dreams,
Where pixies flit upon your hands, resting still with beauty’s sheen…
Rest with me, your eyes yet closed, reliving glory that was born,
Tears of joy sit on my chest, treasured most when not forlorn.

Blues, my brothers

I feel so good right now... energized in a way that is difficult to describe. And it didn't take much to accomplish it, either. I merely sat down on my couch and tuned the TV to AMC. I caught the last 30 minutes of The Blues Brothers, and came in during the scene where Cab Calloway and The Cotton Club Orchestra are performing "Minnie the Moocher". Immediately, convulsively, inextricably, I felt my foot begin to tap and my hands start to drum on the sofa... the blues inside me demanded to come out! Cab in his white tuxedo, slow-handing around the stage with his trademark "Hidey, Hidey, Hidey, Hi... Hodey, Hodey, Hodey, ho...skiddley, skiddley, skiddley, skee...", the crowd going wild and whatever soul I possess suddenly yearning to stand and dance along with him.

Then, on cue, Jake and Elwood goofy-foot their way onto the stage with, "Everybody loves somebody", Wilson Pickett's masterpiece zephyring non-stop across my consciousness, culminating in Sam Cooke's immortal, "Sweet Home Chicago" before I was able to realize that I'm really neither black nor standing alongside a thousand other revelers in Calumet City, Illinois… and I didn’t care. Sweet Jesus, does it get any better than this?

I don't need Masterpiece Theater right now... it'll wait. For now, I think I'll just go put on a little early Jimi Hendrix or Howlin' Wolf and pretend it's 1964, when we still had a conscience and time to feel our music's soul.

Potluck Passion

Reindeer Sing Noel

Another blog

Poetry

"Take a penny, leave a penny"

Thoughts Upon A Summer Evening

Mrs Jedediah H Richards

By Cecelia Beaux (1895)

Thoughts Upon A Summer Evening

The Yellow Blouse

Esoterica

New Prompt -- Words & Pictures--- 11/14

Her Last Mardi Gras

Lady Of Spain, I Adore You

Why eat canned soup?

Litany of Punishment Too Bizarre To Escape Comment

Night Terrors...part 2...the story

Night Terrors

The Lessons of a Ladle

I'm sorry, I have to say goodbye.... you'll find someone else

New Prompt 11/7 Words and Pic--A Dual Challenge

Shingled House

The Fourth Night

Blues, my brothers

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