Prose Poem: The Lady on the Staircase.

 

The Lady on the Staircase told me:

"I love only Liz Cheney."

"Can't you find it in your heart to love

me just a teeny-weeny bit?" I pleaded.

"No" she said sternly. "Unless you can perform

three impossible tasks for me."

"Name them" I whispered fervently, "and

I will perform them!"

"First" she said, "go to Australia

and help them win the war against China."

Five years later I returned to the Lady

on the Staircase, missing an arm and

blinded in my right eye.

"We won at last!" I told her exultantly.

"The Chinese surrendered at Port Arthur 

this past week."

She deigned to smile at me.

"Next" she said, with a hint of a caress

in her voice, "light a match on a bar of soap."

I was stymied by that one, 

so I sought out the wisest man I knew --

Mitt Romney -- and asked his advice.

"Simple" he replied, ruffling my hair

with avuncular affection, "use a bar of 

Lava soap."

And so I lit a match on a bar of Lava soap

for the Lady on the Staircase.

"Well done" she beamed at me. "One last

challenge I must give to you."

I awaited her words with my heart soaked in sudor.

"Bring me" she said "a pregnant Egyptian mummy."

At that I shot up the staircase to gather the Lady on the 

Staircase into my arms.

"You are the only pregnant Egyptian mummy

in all the world" I murmured in her ear, "and I 

love you foolishly, madly, completely!"

She tapped me three times with her ankh --

and I became her mummified husband.

Prose Poem: Uncle Soapy.

 

I went to visit my Uncle Soapy out in the country,

but his caretaker told me he wasn't there.

"He's gone off with some British Nonconformists

on a bicycle tour of the Great Lakes" he told me.

I was very disappointed, and put out -- because now

I had no place to stay and there wasn't a train back

until the next day.

The caretaker sensed my predicament somehow.

"Would you like to come in for a cup of Bovril and

then perhaps we can find you a cot to sleep on in

my cottage?" he offered kindly.

I accepted gratefully, and soon we were in his

book-lined study. 

We talked late into the night, about books and authors

and Godel's Incompleteness Theorem. 

As we finished the last of the strumpets and

Gentleman's Relish the caretaker told me he

was writing a book himself.

"Really?" I replied. "What kind of book?"

"A biography" he said, with a shy smile.

"Anybody I know" I replied waggishly.

"Actually" he said, "it's about you."

I goggled at the man.

"Me?"

He nodded pleasantly as he filled his meerschaum

with Turkish Taffy.

"But . . . but" I spluttered, "you don't know me at all!"

"Ah" he replied, "that's what makes it so easy to write -- I

can make up everything as I go along. Your Uncle is

quite taken with the manuscript so far -- and has promised

to see that it gets published next spring."

I demanded to see this manuscript at once. 

"You've just cribbed the story of John Paul Jones and didn't even bother to change the name!" I told him sharply after I had finished reading.

For answer, the caretaker opened the curtains -- the sun was already up, and if I wanted to catch my train back to town I'd have to hurry along. 

As I rushed out the door I paused to tell the caretaker that he was a scoundrel and that I would inform my Uncle about his effrontery.

"Do that" he said as he closed the door in my face, "my biography will indicate that you were illegitimate, and so your dear uncle will not leave you a dime in his will."

At the train station I asked the telegraph clerk if the city-bound train would be on time.

"Come and gone already" he replied shortly.

"But your schedule clearly states it would not leave Templeton

until 9:45" I said to the clerk crossly.

"This ain't Templeton, it's Finlay Corners" he told me.

I glanced up at the station sign. It said Finlay Corners.

Then I remembered that 'Uncle Soapy' was the name of an old

circus clown I used to know -- and not my uncle at all.

So I laughed the whole thing off and 

went white water rafting. 

**********************

This poem was reviewed by a friend, who simply emailed:  "Interesting, and full of words I don't know and won't bother looking up because I'll forget them 5 minutes later."

Prose Poem: The Evil Spirit of Upton Snodsbury, Worcestershire.

 

I read about a man who spent his entire adult

 life parking in new parking spots.

His goal, the newspaper said, was to park in

every parking space in his hometown of 

Upton Snodsbury, Worcestershire.

The minute I finished reading about this man,

I was attacked by a horla -- 

a ghastly spirit of obsession 

that compelled me to seek out innocent

people and murder their time with inanities.

My first victim was an elderly gentlemen

who was sitting on a park bench enjoying

the warm spring sunshine.

I sat down next to him.

"Nice day, ain't it?" I said to him.

"Mmmm . . . yes" he replied distantly,

obviously wishing to savor the warmth

 by himself.

"Did you know" I began,

"that the Sun is about 93 million gallons

fuller than the Earth?"

The old gentleman stared at me.

"Fuller with what?" he asked.

"Of course" I continued insanely,

"the Marblehead Ferry will not

resume service until late May.

And the Chicago Bears are scheduled

for rotary cuff surgery by the Gallup Poll.

Will you hold this string for me?"

I gave the bewildered old man one end

of a piece of string, and then walked away

from him, unspooling the string until I 

was out of his sight, and then tied it off

around a sapling.

I then slunk off, chuckling to myself like a 

madman. 

Next I volunteered at a homeless

shelter,

where I inveigled residents to collect

cigarette butts for a statue of Albert Schweitzer.

They completely stopped their job searches

and apartment hunting 

to waste their time on my bootless task for nearly

two months, before the shelter's director kicked 

them all out and banned me from the premises. 

Then I pedaled my velocipede to 

Washington D.C.,

where I worked as a lobbyist

for the Thomas R. Marshall 

Commemoration Fund.

I button-holed Senators to

give them exhaustive lectures on

why the Washington Monument

should be renamed for Thomas R. Marshall,

the 28th Vice President of the 

United States.

I passed out bubblegum cigars

like crazy -- 

which the fools sat around chewing 

for hours on end.

The evil spirit finally left me to

inhabit a stop sign at Wisconsin Avenue

and M Street.

Now, like Napoleon,

I am banished to Ellis Island --

where I make amends by scattering

sunchoke seeds to the gulls to carry

to Europe -- there to replenish the barren

fields of France and Germany. 

Stumbling Blocks

 

I stumble often on my way

to that happy, holy, day

when with God I am allied,

and not bedeviled by fool pride.

Mercy, Lord, and understanding,

I crave before my next crash landing!

Today's Timerick: Mike Pence.

 

Michael Pence remains serene

navigating Trump's ravine;

loyal as the fam'ly dog,

he's still pushing Trump whole hog.

Though the former president

all his goodwill now has spent,

Pence believes his former chief

still is layered with gold leaf.

Strange as it may seem to some,

Pence will never stay too mum

on the glory and elation

of that golden-haired crustacean.

What's his game, perhaps you wonder --

is it just hubristic blunder?

Or has Pence some darker scheme

to enhance his own bent dream? 

Perhaps he's thinking "O, White House,

I'll fly to you like Mighty Mouse!"

"From there I'll guide the GOP

back to fossil victory!"

Hey Mike, please think of better things.

Cuz we all know who'll pull the strings . . . 

Today's Timerick.

 

“Fried-Chicken Sandwich Craze Is Causing U.S. to Run Low on Poultry.”  Bloomberg Report.

I went to see my butcher for a chicken wing or two/he told me there weren't any and I didn't know what to do/Even stewing chickens are evaporating fast/If this goes on much longer I don't think that I can last/Fish is too expensive and my doctor says no beef/Pork is getting stale for me; where can I find relief?/Will even eggs be rationed and hen gizzards go extinct?/I'll file a missing fowl report down at my own precinct!/I blame the fast food people -- they have gobbled up supply/leaving me with tofu here at home, which makes me cry/I do not wish to have to buy a chicken sandwich, mate/I do not have a budget that such costs will tolerate/I'm reduced to pork & beans, and maybe buttered toast/Gone the days of chicken soup or tender luscious roast!/I may be forced to join a cult and live off nuts and berries/pecking at the kind of stuff they feed to pet canaries!  

Today's Timericks.

 

Biden has proposed such change/it gives Republicans the mange/New taxes will provide the gelt/to keep the poor from growing svelte/To help the homeless destitute/the rich will wear a birthday suit. 

The pundits say commodities/like diapers and our dear Wheaties/are going up in price until/we're gonna holler 'overkill!'/Even tp now will cost/more than silk that's been embossed/With my savings vaporized/I'll give up being civilized.

There's face masks in the gutter/there's face masks in the trees/they're blowing down the highways/with the springtime breeze/like plastic bags they litter/the landscape near and far/they're even clogging sewers/in far off Zanzibar. 

Ole Anthony Edward.

 

Ole Anthony Edward was born again one day.

Embracing gospel teachings, he gave his things away.

Like whiskey, which he still drank, he liked religion straight,

and sought corrupted preachers to gleefully eviscerate. 

His mission, as he saw it, became a great crusade --

to bring to light the hypocrites who sought financial aid

by preaching on the airwaves and asking for donations --

which they used for prodigal big ol' mansions and vacations.

Investigating bank accounts and digging through the trash

of television preachers he found how they spent the cash

that widows sent in envelopes in hopes of intercession

for their sins and trials (with many a trite confession.)

He aimed the spotlight on the lives of many famous clerics,

showing their hypocrisy and causing them hysterics.

But now his earthly time is done, and he's gone back to God --

I wonder if in heaven he still searches for some fraud?

(From an obituary in the New York Times by Clay Risen.)

Today's Timericks.

 

In China nobody retires/they cannot find any new hires/so elderly staff/do not often laugh/as their pension plan now expires.

The Fed's in cahoots with Wall Street/so rich people get all the meat/The rest of us dine/on leftover brine/ and sorghum with cold Cream of Wheat.

Hamburgers are history/according to most GOP/Biden's conniving/to start us all shriving/confessing we'd rather have brie.

A letter from my President.