Prose Poem: The Terrible Secret in the Garage.

 

At the age of fifty-five I decided

to run away from the circus

and join a home. 

I packed enough cotton candy to last

me for a week and snuck off the lot

in the middle of night.

First I went to my son's house

in Walla Walla.

His mother was the bearded lady.

But he would not let me in.

Said I abandoned him and his mother

when times got hard back in the 90's.

I guess I can't blame him.

So I went to my daughter's house

in Oshkosh.

Her mother was head kinker.

She died during the Great Milwaukee

Circus Parade of 2009.

Run over by an elephant.

She was glad to see me

and made up a comfortable 

back bedroom for me,

with a view of apple trees

from my window.

She only made one condition:

I was to never go into the garage,

where her husband kept something

secret and terrible.

I said okay, sure, no problemo.

I was very happy playing with

the grandkids and eating oatmeal

at the same table every morning.

I never got bored watching the mailman

come by every day at 4 p.m. 

Then my daughter's husband disappeared.

He went into the garage one day and never

came out. The police searched for him

but got no clues from the garage.

When I went into the garage there was 

nothing in there but hundreds of dried

peach pits.

My daughter was so distraught

that she packed up the kids

and joined my old circus --

as a ticket taker.

She left the house to me.

I take in boarders and embroider

face masks to make ends meet.

My God shall be my strength.

 

My God shall be my strength;

his might he shares with me,

when I obey his will

with true sincerity.

His spirit speaks of love;

of comfort, joy, and peace.

With God I hope all things;

his power brings release.

Where are the cranks of yesteryear?

 

Where are the cranks of yesteryear;

the ones we jeered but did not fear?

Without a cyber platform stand

they rattled folk throughout the land.

On street corners, in public parks,

they gave us such delightful larks.

There was Carry Nation, then;

the terror of all drinking men.

She axed saloons with pious glee;

bartenders thought her quite screwy.

Emperor Norton, of old Frisco,

whose mental state was that of Crisco,

lorded over all the nobs --

and ruled the merry, laughing mobs.

He dined for free on lobster bisque

and granted titles without risk.

And nobody is quite surpassin'

the nuttiness of Harold Stassen.

For president he ran nine times

(he had a glitch with his enzymes.)

Taken first so seriously,

later on 'twas deliriously.

He was a laughing stock, but stay;

nobody said "Put him away!"

Compare those cranks of former days

with how we treat our mental strays

in this cruel, suspicious age --

when ev'ry quirk doth have its cage.

Police respond with rubber hose

to those who thumb a public nose.

The internet is laid with traps

for those who make the slightest lapse.

All innocent eccentricity 

is treated with severity.

Mike Romanoff, we need your kind -- 

to give us laughing peace of mind!

Today's Timericks.

 

Nobody fights the Taliban/They have become a bogeyman/They come and go just as they please/They are fanatics who have fleas/Some groups are just bad news, that's all/The Taliban outshines them all.

Critters in Montana, flee!/The Governor is on a spree/and wants the wolves and bears to know/they're gonna fall like Jericho/with traps and poison tossed about/and that includes complacent trout!

 Happy days are here again/for the lucky businessmen/But blue collar jobs are not/getting such a booster shot/Jobless, homeless, hungry, too/for many it's still Waterloo.

The Lord remembereth all them that have been broken off.

 

The Lord remembers each of us --

to Him, none are superfluous.

He made us, gives us life and breath,

and cares for us long after death.

We may think we're beyond the pale,

but God's watchcare can never fail.

Today's Timericks.

 

My neighbor came down sick one day/and to myself I thus did say/I ought to bake a casserole/to take to him so he gets whole/This was a very noble thought/I thunk about it quite a lot/But by the time I reached his bed/the ingrate up and turned quite dead!

Wear a mask and get a shot/Yet another school of thought/says it's all a put-up-job/by the Biden-Pinko mob/If you don't know which way to go/just stay at home and count fish roe.  

When children come back home to roost/they bring more baggage than M. Proust/This Covid virus has given Boomers/too many exhausting roomers/So mom and dad take long vacations/in some cheap third-world type nations.  

The more sure word of prophecy.

 

The more sure word of prophecy,

available to you and me,

comes not from cults or gurus' chant,

but in the heart grows like a plant

when hearing a true prophet's voice --

you'll know it's true when you rejoice!

Today's Timericks. (With New and Improved Gun Control!)

 

It should come as no surprise/that Democrats have set their eyes/on people who have too much gelt/and want their bankbooks to get svelte/Joe Biden funds his spending spree/by shaking rich folks' money tree/If bankers weep, I do not care/since I am not a millionaire.

Ron Weiser of the GOP/made foolish comments recently/He said some ladies rode on brooms/then pronounced some deadly dooms/on his Democratic foes/Here's a guy whose brain's on doze/I bet he has prehensile toes.

I wonder if those activists/who want to worship guns/would feel the same if maniacs/gunned down their own young sons/What vaunted right is worth the risk/of sudden senseless death/What parent trades their children's life/for hollow shibboleth?

Rebellion upon the waters

 

I'm sailing in a leaky boat;

the Lord alone keeps me afloat.

And yet how oft I do defy

my Captain's orders and deny

His right to steer me safely to

my sacred blissful rendezvous!

Today's Timericks. (featuring deepfake!)

 

I wouldn't be a teacher/not for all the tea in Shanghai/The children are rambunctious/and you have to wear a necktie/Playing Minecraft on their phones/those little scholars dawdle/All they learn is from their folks/watching Fox News twaddle. 

When I was young a spicy dish did suit me to perfection/It was a macho moment when I downed a hot confection/But now my innards have become a quivering fiasco/from volcanic curries and a surfeit of Tabasco!  

I'm trapped inside a deepfake on my iPhone, mercy me!/I'm stuck as Martha Washington trimming my goatee/This app has got me flummoxed, and I don't know what to do/I'd like to find some expert help, but they're all deepfake too!

Amy, notre amour mort peut-il être ressuscité?

 

When I saw you yesterday, resurrection once again

took place in my heart and in my loins;

all that poignant pain reborn --

from your soul I'm too long shorn.

Have I spent those silver coins

Judas-like on fruitless yen?

Today's Timericks.

 

Chili con carne's the ticket for me/even the French, of it, all yell 'Mais oui!'/The meat and the beans and the fiery gravy/sail down my throat like a nectarous navy/Who cares about vapors that later are fanned/Just gimme some chili that has not been canned!

Ignorance and malice, sowing fields of rancid dreams/now concentrate their ire on the innocent vaccines/These oafs are only happy when their plots diminish hope/and make the people stumble as through sorrow they do grope.

The President's first forum with the press was unexciting/Unlike He Who Won't Be Named -- which seemed more like bullfighting/Normalcy's been gone so long, it's hard to recollect/how to deal with presidents with regular respect. 

 

New Love Poem For Joom

 

The stale coffee on your breath

and dark eyes to which I sank

as I kissed you half to death

and your greedy ardor drank.

Laughing, snapping teeth so white --

would you really truly bite me?

Holding on to what so tight,

since you never had to fight me?

I pushed down upon your hips,

tracing moles upon your back;

as you licked your ragged lips

and I called you 'Heart Attack."

Plucking eyebrows, brushing hair --

doing all that girly stuff;

I would watch you from a chair

and could never get enough.

I last saw you years ago

at the airport in Bangkok.

It was all so allegro;

it made love a laughingstock.

Now the mountains here are white

like the hair upon my head;

I still think of you at night

and could wish that I were dead.

Today's Timericks (with a helping of Van Gogh.)

 

Amazon and unions mix/just like smoothies and chop sticks/Amazon has sent out spies/so workers do not organize/Workers on a sit down strike/make old Bezos feel warlike/But with Democrats on top/unions are sure not to flop.

When a poet disappears/very few are shedding tears/Poets, gadflies, nuts; the same/All are playing just a game/So say ignoramus crowds/who have never ridden clouds. 

The world is an asylum/and we are trapped inside/Anyone escaping/is caught and swiftly tried/Van Gogh escaped so often/and painted what he saw/until he broke the windows/of ev'ry jail bourgeois. 

Photo Essay: The Postcards I Mailed to President Biden So Far This Week.

 

Prose Poem: A Plastic Bag Diet Will Save the World!

 

We all have to make life choices from time to time.

I made one a while ago that I must share with you.

After hearing about all the plastic bags

being found in the stomachs of whales

and camels and cows,

I went on a plastic bag diet.

They are best eaten raw, sprinkled with

 sea salt.

Make sure you get a variety of plastic

bags -- from the grocery, drug store, and dollar

store.

The different kinds of polyethylene they use

on the bags gives them a distinctive

taste and texture.

Don't be tempted to cheat by sneaking

in a few paper bags! They're full of corn

syrup.

And stay away from bubble wrap --

it'll make you flatulent.

Nowadays I snag my breakfast

from a trash can while out

walking in the park.

I meet friends for lunch downtown to

enjoy a plastic bag smoothie.

I usually skip dinner,

although sometimes I'll munch

on a quart-size baggie while watching 

the boob tube.

Why am I sharing this with you?

Because I believe we can end

world hunger, here and now,

if we all work together to provide

enough plastic bags for everyone.

So won't you please bring all yours

 to our Plastic Bags to

End Hunger Initiative

at the White House Rose Garden

this Easter Sunday?

Donations are tax deductible. 

Koszonom!

Today's Timericks.

 

Gun control, that bugaboo/still upsets both me and you/I say ban 'em; you demure/Can there be a useful cure?/Tax 'em like we do tobacco/maybe that will stop a whacko.  

Cereal boxes now contain/shrimp tails and perhaps bird brain/These are prizes I would ban/were I selling Raisin Bran/Rusty nails in frosted flakes/give consumers nasty shakes/I don't want such horrid dregs/and so I'll stick to ham and eggs. 

Sheltering in place did cause/weight gain like old Santa Claus/I was thin and in good shape/Now I'm rounder than a grape/Snacking in anxiety/since there's no society/sure is not a funny joke/next I'll probably start to smoke!

Prose Poem: The Breathing Act of 2021.

 

I'm proud to say I played a small part

in helping to pass The Breathing Act

of 2021.

Too many people are taking advantage of

our liberal and naive breathing policies.

Our forefathers fought for the right

to breathe, for the truth of "One Man, One

Breath!"

We can't let that sacred privilege go by

the boards by giving it away to every Tom,

Dick, and Harry that saunters into town

and demands a breath.

As of this coming May,

no longer can just anyone take a breath of fresh air;

you have to have a valid photo ID,

a birth certificate, a Social Security number,

and a zoning permit.

 Anyone caught breathing illegally

or fraudulently will see the inside of

the slammer pdq.

I know some soreheads complain

that if you can't breath you can't live.

Well, my answer to that is this --

stay and breathe in your own country,

why don't you?

Or if you're a felon hoping to breathe

again, you'd better keep your nose clean

and your hands dirty with good honest

labor -- no living off of welfare.

Then, and only then,

will you be allowed to breathe again.

Rest assured that our Breathing Integrity 

Committee, of which I am Chair,

will leave no stone unturned to see

to it that each breath is legitimate.

Any breath that is in doubt will be

thoroughly investigated, and, if

warranted, nullified.

And needless to say,

we are putting the lid on

absentee and mail-in

breathing . . . 

Today's Timericks.

 

Finding laughs is hard today/Things seem more like shadow play/I believe that hope exists/when you cut away the cysts/of despair and stark fatigue/and believe that no blitzkrieg/can prevail for long if we/place our trust in Deity.

She is dealing with parosmia, a distortion of smell such that previously enjoyable aromas — like that of fresh coffee or a romantic partner — may become unpleasant and even intolerable. Along with anosmia, or diminished sense of smell, it is a symptom that has lingered with some people who have recovered from Covid-19.  NYT.

I smell garbage when I eat/roses now are not a treat/And my lover stinks so foul/I would rather kiss an owl/Tell me, Covid, am I doomed/to never sniff a thing perfumed?

Spring is sprung; mild zephyrs blow/But still asparagus I know/as something green and slimy which/makes my taste buds start to twitch/I'd rather celebrate the Spring/with a pan-fried chicken wing.

In a conclusion that even surprised its editors, the 2021 World Happiness Report found that, amid global hardship, self-reported life satisfaction across 95 countries on average remained steady in 2020 from the previous year. The United States saw the same trend — despite societal tumult that yielded a national drop in positive emotions and a rise in negative ones. The country fell one spot, to 19th, in the annual rankings of the report, which was released Saturday.  WaPo. 

Happiness is what you get/when your troubles you forget/All day long you'll learn to croon/mantras that are so jejune/they will turn your brain to mush/telling intellect to hush/Happiness will come to me/only with lobotomy.  

I see lots of UFO's/I report them, heaven knows/Soon the Feds will validate/all my sightings with great weight/Then I won't be called a loon/when I'm kidnapped by Neptune!

Mormonism, like some other faith groups, requires members to tithe 10 percent of their incomes but is more organized and deliberate about collecting it and understanding why members cannot pay.  Washington Post. 

I have never been strong-armed/or told I should be alarmed/if my tithing I don't pay/I'm not forced to so obey/out of fear or as a bribe/in thrall to some pious scribe/I pay tithing as a way/to thank God for each new day/In return, when I'm distressed/I still know I'm being blessed/God is not a financier/All He asks is love sincere.

Today's Timericks. (Now with German quark!)

 

Senators who like to fib/always making with ad-lib/sheltered by immunity/have the scruples of a flea/Voters who will keep them in/must be drinking bathtub gin.

Milk on walls and bread on floors/these are springtime cleaning chores/Antiquaries so expound/how the old folks messed around/with wood ashes and bedpan/to keep homes real spic and span/Me, I'll stick to alcohol/It makes cleaning quite a ball.

Now when shopping I expect/foreign foods to oft detect/ Fonio and German quark/Nori and chinchona bark/locust bugs from Myanmar/But where is my grape jelly jar?  

Preachers come in many sizes/and some really like their prizes/coming from communion plates/and their pious delegates/Could I stay poor as a vicar/would I worship a stock ticker?/Luckily, I feel no call/to go shopping at the mall.

Prose Poem: The Dogs of Rangoon.

 

I left home to become a feral dog at a young age.

I was tired of sitting at the table

and wearing clothes all the time;

I wanted to snarl over a piece of offal

and squat wherever I wished.

So I wandered the world

on all fours,

grew a muzzle and a tail.

Picked up fleas and lice.

Caught the mange in Budapest.

And finally came to Rangoon

one sultry evening,

when the street lights were

sickly yellow

and the flying termites 

dripped from the sky --

I gobbled them up with gusto.

Just my kind of place.

At first I simply chased other dogs,

nipping at their backsides.

Then I attacked the night people --

those brave, foolish people,

who were defying curfew,

marching in protest.

Being Buddhist, they never harmed

animals -- even a mangy creature like me.

It was wonderful.

I ripped apart their longyis

in a foaming frenzy, as they ran

from the police.

I loved chewing up their sandals;

most of 'em only had one pair

to their names. 

In the daytime I slept under the Yangon River

docks, where it was cool and fetid.

One night I attacked an old woman

on her way home with a package 

of soup bones.

She fell and hit her head on the curb.

She didn't get up again.

I feasted on the soup bones until

a crowd gathered around me.

They wouldn't let me leave, no matter

how I snapped and snarled.

They beat me with sticks and clubs.

Just my luck --

a bunch of lousy Christians.

But the laugh is on them,

because I've been reincarnated as 

a general in the Tatmadaw.  

And I remember distinctly each

one of them . . . 

Today's Timericks. (Featuring Waffles!)

 

The world is filled with trouble/the world is filled with grief/and any happy moment/is usually quite brief/Don't read the headlines, brother/and sister, turn off the set/Just play a bit more sweetly/in life's short string quartette.  

The poet of tomorrow/an algorithm uses/to check forbidden nuance/that might come from her muses/With cancel culture rampant/and deepfake on the rise/a poet can't get published/without the right disguise.  

A Sunday morning waffle/eaten in pajamas/is better for your spirit/than all the Dalai Lamas. 

Photo Essay: More Postcards Mailed to President Joe Biden.

 

Photo Essay: Puzzling Postcards Mailed to President Joe Biden today. See if you can figure out their meaning to win a prize!

 

Today's Timericks.

 

China's always in the news/what they do and how they schmooze/other nations to maintain/lots of power, glory, gain/If they want to play tough guy/we their chicken feet won't buy!

The bigger you are, the less you aspire/to understand the worth of satire/Facebook and others, like all stuffed shirts/never approve of what disconcerts/No algorithm can comprehend/Mark Twain, for instance/and what he has penned.  

Rand Paul is a know-it-all/when it comes to virus crawl/He has read a book or two/so he knows just what to do/Listen to his crack advice/and you soon will be on ice.

Photo: Postcard Mailed to President Biden Today.

 

Today's Timericks. (Featuring toy trains and penny stocks)

 

Along with baking and jigsaw puzzles earlier in the pandemic, model trains are among the passions being rediscovered while people are cooped up indoors. Several companies that make trains are reporting jumps in sales. For many people, the chance to create a separate, better world in the living room — with stunning mountains, tiny chugging locomotives and communities of inch-high people where no one needs a mask — is hard to resist. NYT.

A train set in the living room is not for kids today/Adults are laying tracks to keep insanity at bay/Hauling boxcars; signal switching; tiny mountain passes/is sweeter to enthusiasts than the best molasses/If I had my druthers, I would play with trains instead/of trying to go out and earn my daily bread!

Penny stocks — the name given to more than 10,000 tiny companies like SpectraScience — have been around forever, but they’re booming as small investors flood the market. And this time around, social media is fueling the craze. Whether traded to fend off the boredom of pandemic living or to turn a quick profit, these dirt-cheap but risky shares are another frontier in a world where meme stocks like GameStop gained overnight stardom, Dogecoin morphed from a joke cryptocurrency to a hot investment and a digital artwork known as an NFT sold for $69 million.   Penny stocks occupy a low-rent district of Wall Street, a world rife with fraud and chicanery where companies that don’t have a viable product, or are mired in debt, often sell their shares. Traded on the lightly regulated over-the-counter, or O.T.C., markets, penny stocks face fewer rules about publishing information on financial results or independent board members. Wall Street analysts don’t usually follow them. Major investors don’t buy them.  NYT.

Penny stocks are just the ticket/to begin a sticky wicket/Buy them cheap then sell them dear/What is there to really fear?/So think all the suckers who/swallow all the ballyhoo.

If you're tempted to invest/give your foolish greed a rest!

Still Stuck at Home? It Might Be Time to Work on That Novel. Online writing groups have thrived during the pandemic, with membership fueled by more time at home and fewer to no social obligations.  NYT.  

Nowadays I feel the urge/on my novel to so splurge/that its subtle paradigms/show up in the New York Times/Then I'll be that lucky feller/with an opulent best seller/Online writer's group, let's talk/all about my writer's block!

People of Asian descent have been living in the United States for more than 160 years, and have long been the target of bigotry.  WaPo. 

Whether you're from Vietnam, China, or Japan/America still welcomes you -- like an old bedpan/We have opportunities for our Asian friends/paying them with violence, and other dividends.

TAIPEI, Taiwan — Taiwanese officials urged people to consider the implications before changing their name to "Salmon," after dozens flooded government offices to register a name change so they could qualify for a restaurant promotion.

The frenzy took hold this week after Japanese chain Sushiro promised a free sushi meal to customers whose names included the traditional Chinese characters “guiyu,” meaning salmon. Customers with names that sounded similar to “salmon” could enjoy a half-price feed.  WaPo.

I'd change my name to 'hamburger' or 'french fries' in a trice/or 'chopsticks' if it meant free servings of some ham fried rice/I'd draw the line, however, at reneging patrimony/if it came to changing mine to something like 'baloney.' 

People have said for years that the bus could be the next big thing in transportation. Now we can make that a reality. With the proper investment, city buses might be transformed into the sort of next-generation transportation service that technology companies and car companies have spent billions over the last decade trying to build — a cheap, accessible, comfortable, sustainable, reliable way to get around town.  WaPo. 

I would take the bus to work/were I CEO or clerk/I would take it out to eat/and sit back to post a tweet/I would take it out to dance/I would take the bus to France/I would take it anywhere/if I could afford the fare.

If you want a problem to recede into the distance/do not bother with the facts or a loud insistence/Just spread a lot of cash around to people near and far/and it will be like children with a brand new candy bar/They will skip away in glee, so glad to stuff their face/and that is how you win a narrow presidential race!

Photo: I mailed this handmade postcard to President Biden today, to send him a graphic message.

 

Today's Timericks. (Now With More Squishmallows!)

 

If you need a judge real quick/in New Jersey you'll feel sick/Magistrates are overwhelmed/by the cases they have helmed/They collapse with nervous strain/as justice goes right down the drain.

Squishmallows, a line of soft, huggable toys created in 2017, have exploded in popularity during the pandemic, thanks to social media and in particular TikTok (or “SquishTok,” as fans call it). Collectors say the stuffed animals have given them comfort in a painful year, and that hunting for them has fostered a much-needed sense of community during an extended period of isolation.  NYT. 

Squishy toys are all the rage/if you're feeling in a cage/As a comfort it sure serves/for those raw pandemic nerves/Buy one now, before the price/doubles, triples, once or twice.  

Greenland's ice sheet is too fickle/putting mankind in a pickle/When it melts (not IF, my friend)/it could mean our very end/Have we crossed the Rubicon/with global warming too far gone?

in cemeteries headstones rest/at an angle in their quest/to remember those below/who have gone on high (or low)/we are squatters in their place/running death a futile race.

Why so many crazies born and bred here?

Can it be

toxins in the water or some inner

killer bee?

Is there too much sugar and red meat in

all our meals?

Is it residue from all our driving

on bad wheels?

Lone gunmen of today are not John Wayne,

not by a mile;

they don't seem fueled by anything

except their own damn bile.

Photo Essay: Postcards Mailed to President Biden.

 

Prose Poem: A New York Minute

 

"I'll be with you in a New York minute"

I said to her on my phone,

in the lobby of a busy Federal building downtown.

Then I put my mask back on.

Suddenly whistles began to screech

and gongs began to reverberate,

like in a World War Two movie

when the sub has to crash dive.

Several people in expensive business suits

fainted dead away at my feet.

Children clung to their mothers, 

wide eyed with terror and loathing.

Two cops pinioned me to the wall.

The first cop snarled

"Caught in the act -- profiling!"

The second cop put me in handcuffs

before barking "You'll get life for this!"

I was led away to a judge, who

looked at me the way an owl

looks at a field mouse.

"I'm from New York, son"

he said sternly. "And I suppose

you don't care for our bagels, either!"

I wanted to explain, but my pro bono lawyer

advised me to throw myself on the

mercy of the court.

That was a big mistake.

I was led away to a correction facility

far away in New Jersey.

The first night they put me in a room

filled with inflated balloons;

they kept popping at random intervals.

I didn't get a wink of sleep.

Next day they fed me on nothing but

pot stickers -- with only 

fry sauce as a dip.

"This is an abomination!" I screamed

through the bars.

No one responded.

And so it continued.

I was hooked up to electrodes,

which then did nothing.

Nothing at all.

I nearly lost my mind.

Several times a week they

brought in Bob Ross to teach

me watercolors.

Now I hate the very sight

of mountains and pine trees.

After several months

I was a mere shadow of a man.

I had bags under my eyes

the size of Mount Rushmore.

But somehow I survived.

After twenty long years they released me.

"You're free to go now, friend"

said the Warden kindly,

as he gave me ten dollars

and a clean pair of socks.

He opened the gate to the outside

world. I blinked at the bright sunlight.

"Gee" I said happily, "it must be summer."

"It's hotter than a Texas pistol."

This time I got sent to 

Coney Island.  

Today's Timericks. (Featuring Deepfake!)

 

The border swelling like balloon/there is very little room/for the poor and desp'rate ones/with their daughters and their sons/No one wants them; no one cares/Not a part of world affairs/So they sit and wait -- for what?/They are merely scuttlebutt.

Have someone you want to ruin?/Deepfake does it very soon/Amateurs can use with ease/cranking out a lot of sleaze/Anyone can be a mark/with this unsigned cyber-snark/Don't believe what you can see/in this age of trickery.

Preachers, rabbis, swamis too/must persuade their pious crew/to get shots to keep them well/Do they threaten them with hell/Or just plead for common sense/from parishioners quite dense/Atheists get vaccinated/without being consecrated.

Here it comes: another tax/as your car is making tracks/ev'ry mile, you pay a fee/just to have mobility/It ain't right, and it ain't just/I'll leave my truck at home to rust!