Today's Timericks: What if Space Junk and Climate Change Become the Same Problem? (NYT)

 

space is full of junk, you know/tho it's going awful slow/astronauts into it crash/giving NASA quite a pash/global warming makes debris/up in space quite fancy free/even good old Santa Claus/now avoids the tropopause!  

peacocks on the lawn, I swan/strutting there from dusk to dawn/think I'll write a book that shows/they do not breathe through their nose/and some other crazy fluff/readers love such offbeat stuff!

I'm a senior, got that straight?/Cryptocurrency I hate/People buying that fool stuff/are lemmings running off a bluff/If investments you desire/do like me: buy chicken wire!

The widow and the unjust judge/is known by one and all/how that poor woman importuned/a soul like a brick wall/Finally he favored her/because she was a scold/which only goes to show that/nagging often gets the gold!

The walrus has a funny face/it looks to be from outer space/it flops about like gummy squid/it cannot dance -- it never did/global warming is destroying/ice packs -- which is so annoying/to walruses of ev'ry stripe/that they may fly away like snipe.

Prose Poem: The Long Shirt Society.

 

So Chico asks me if I want to come to their meeting.

"There's a dinner afterwards" he told me.

"What meeting?" I asked him.

"The Long Shirt Society" he said.

"Never heard of it" I replied. "Sounds dull."

"Well, yes" Chico admitted. "We mostly meet

for the good food afterwards. The secretary is

a fabulous cook; you should taste her braised ribs!"

"Is this a membership drive?" I asked suspiciously.

"Well, yes" admitted Chico. "We need more dues-paying

members so we can afford to buy

a DeLonghi espresso machine."

"No thanks" I said firmly. "I'm not a joiner.

How about a ride home?"

We drove in silence for a while.

"Here you are" Chico said, pulling

up to my house. "That'll be one-hundred

and seventy-five dollars."

"What are you talking about?" I nearly screamed at him.

"You never said anything about money when

I asked you for a ride home!"

"Mister" said Chico, "I drive a taxi cab.

I picked you up three hours ago at 

the airport."

"I thought you were my friend, 

a good friend" I said bitterly, as I 

got out my wallet.

"Well, I did invite you to a meeting 

and dinner, Mister" he said quietly

as he ran my card.

"Well, I guess it's okay" I said,

trying out a half smile on him.

"Would you like to come in for some

Postum and a quick video before you head back

into town? The gridlock is terrible this time of

day."

"What video is that, Mister?" he asked, 

squinting at me.

"Meet the Mormons" I said cheerfully.

 

Today's Timericks.

 

Reporters cannot make up facts/They hire good internet hacks/the 'truth' to display/so they earn their pay/with non-fiction that's pretty lax.

Wild horses once under the care/of Uncle Sam need to beware/The market for meat/makes folks indiscreet/They'll wind up on menus, cooked rare.

Investing in good ransomware/can make a guy a billionaire/It can't be stopped; it's spreading fast/potential for it, unsurpassed/Like the Mafia of old/just join a gang to get your gold!

Photo Essay: Postcards Mailed to my President.

 

Prose Poem: The Gift.

 

Nymphets sporting at a mountain stream.

"I'm getting a gift today"

I told the nurse from my

hospital bed.

"How nice" she responded.

"What is it?"

"Oh" I replied, "it's a surprise.

"I won't know until I get it."

She said "How nice" again

and then gave me an

enema.

Actually, I wasn't expecting anything

from anybody during my hospital stay.

I wasn't dying, so nobody but my

brother Casey had come to visit.

He brought me a sports magazine --

he knows very well I loathe sports.

I told him, too crossly, to come back

with something worthwhile to read,

and he left suddenly, silently,

and sullenly. 

I didn't expect him back.

I don't know why I told the nurse

I was getting a gift -- it just

popped out spontaneously,

like a bit of chewed food flung

from my mouth during an animated

dinner conversation.

I do it all the time --

once I told a friend that I was

being published in the New Yorker.

He was duly impressed,

so I had to drop him completely

to keep from ever answering his 

embarrassing questions about when it would

be published.

In grade school I told all

my teachers that I was extremely

allergic to jute twine --

so I was excused from the annual

paper drive, and any time

I caught sight of a piece of twine

at school I began to sneeze like

crazy.

But that same day Casey

surprised me by coming back with

a book for me.

"Well, thanks!" I told him.

"S'all right -- hope it's deep enough

for you" he said, then patted me on

the shoulder and left.

It was a copy of Lolita.

The nurse saw it when she came in.

"Dirty old man" I could hear her thinking.

My oncologist saw it that evening on his

rounds.

"Read that in college" he told me.

"It wasn't as dirty as everyone said."

When he left I threw the book into

the wastebasket.  

And read the damn sports magazine.

Photo Essay: Spring Haiku.

 

Spring is aching green --

the color of summer still

remains to be seen.

There is purple here --

strangest of colors by far

and never fearful.

Brown is part of spring --

the illegitimate child

of waiting too long.

Today's Timericks.

 

First there was the Cold War/now it's Cyber Clash instead/If we don't take stern measures/then our infrastructure's dead/We do not know the hackers/and their bosses stay obscure/They haven't got the guts/ for open conflict, that's for sure!

Oat milk, almond cream, and such/do not move me very much/They ain't dairy, which I love/I won't switch despite the shove/And there's proof their benefits/don't amount to musty grits/Give me moo juice ev'ry time/cuz milk from hemp is just a crime!

The Census shows our birthrate has declined in recent years/this has given rise to speculation and sharp fears/that the country's shrinking and our vistas have a ceiling/We no longer can be thought of as a folk freewheeling/I refuse to bellyache about a future bleak/America is still the place that hopeful people seek.

Prose Poem: A Touch of Prinkweed.

 

This Mother's Day

give your mother 

a touch of prinkweed.

Yes, this common 

garden variety plant

can do a lot to please

the most demanding mommy.

Drop some in her tea --

she will break into song.

Sprinkle it down the back

of her neck --

she will begin to dance like

Vilma Ebsen.

Stuff her pillow with it --

her dreams will be sweeter

than gulaab jamun.

Present her with the seeds

to plant around her cottage --

the vigorous prinkweed will

lift her little home like Baba Yaga's

chicken legs, turning it ever 

counter-clockwise.

Last, but not least,

add some to her skin cream

and watch as she happily

transforms into an Old World babbler and

flies away to the Grampian Hills.

Prinkweed is available wherever

fine botanicals are sold.

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

Prose Poem: The Dust Storm

 

I like to read the newspaper at breakfast.

In fact, I dreamed of doing just that for many

years while I was a working stiff --

Retired and sitting

 down to buttered toast and marmalade,

with bacon and eggs, and a cup of peppermint tea,

 then snapping open the paper to continue my

pleasant struggle of becoming an informed citizen.

No rush -- I could spend all morning reviewing my horoscope

and doing the crossword.

So as soon as I retired I subscribed to the

Saint Paul Pioneer Press.

Then one morning there was this headline:

"GIANT DESTRUCTIVE DUST STORM HEADING OUR WAY!"

The reporter wrote that due to global warming

a huge dust storm from the shores of Africa would

hit our town by tomorrow; the potential for disaster

was enormous.

Gridlock. Power outages. Tire stores closed.

Famine.

Refusing to be stampeded into a panic,

I searched online for confirmation of this

unsettling story. I found none.

I turned on the radio, put the TV on CNN --

nothing.

The story in the Pioneer Press had a phone

number for the reporter who wrote the dust

storm story -- so I called her.

"Hello" said a voice. "This is Tiffany Chino."

"This is me" I replied, working up a fine

head of steam. "What's the big idea of making

up that dust storm thing? You're going to scare

 people into their graves!"

"You don't believe the story?" she asked quietly.

"No I don't! Besides, there's no other news media

carrying the story -- so I'm calling your bluff, you

phony!" 

I heard her sniffle. Then begin to weep.

"Oh, now . . . " I told her consolingly, "maybe I

was a little harsh. Anyone can make a mistake."

"Thank you" she said. I heard her blowing her nose.

"That was my very first story -- I'm just a cub reporter.

I wanted to impress my editor, so I made the whole thing

up."

"That's understandable" I said, suddenly liking this girl

very much. "You sound like you need a good breakfast. Why

don't you come over to my place tomorrow morning for some 

ham and eggs. I have a wonderful view of Phalen Park

from my condo."

The next morning she was at my door bright and early.

She brought a photographer with her, and didn't

stay long. Didn't even take a bite of toast.

And wouldn't you know it --

the next morning the newspaper ran

this huge headline, with my picture beneath it --

"ELDERLY MAN INVITES YOUNG

GIRLS INTO HIS APARTMENT, ALLEGEDLY TO

MURDER THEM WITH CHOLESTEROL!"

At least they said 'allegedly' . . . 

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

From a teacher at BYU comes this email compliment about the above piece:  Thank you! Very entertaining. Drama, humor, social commentary--wonderfully combined and engagingly presented.

Prose Poem: There is nothing left to write.

 

When I went into the Writing Bureau

for my weekly assignment,

the clerk behind the counter said:

"Sorry, there's nothing left to write."

"What does THAT mean?" I asked him.

"Nothing left to write? That's nonsense!"

I felt something unpleasant closing in on me.

He adjusted his arm garters and pulled down

his green plastic eyeshade before he answered me:

"Just like I said: There. Is. Nothing. Left. 

To. Write. Period. Everything has been written

about exhaustively, to the point of nausea.

He shuttered his counter right in my

face.

"So I'm superfluous" I whispered to myself.

As I shuffled out of the Writing Bureau 

I bumped into my old friend Sally Applebaum.

She wrote exquisite recipes for fruit compotes,

using the metric system.

Now she was superfluous, too.

I took her to a nearby stationary store,

where we commiserated with each other

while trying out fountain pens and drinking

distilled water on the rocks.

"Sally" I said to her, "why don't we get married?"

So we went down to City Hall to get a 

Marriage License.

The clerk behind the counter told us:

"Sorry, there are no more marriages . . . "

I stopped her right there.

"I know" I said, "everybody is already

married, right?"

"Wrong, wise guy" she told me,

tweaking her jabot,

"There are no more marriages . . . on earth.

You have to go Mars to get hitched."

"Has this been written about?" asked

Sally hopefully, "because I haven't read anything

about it."

"Search me" said the clerk with a shrug.

"I belong to the Illiteracy Brigade."

"I haven't read about any Illiteracy Brigade either" I

told Sally excitedly.

"So there are still things to write about!" she

yelled at me joyfully.

In our mad enthusiasm we literally skipped

down the steps of City Hall,

where we saw a police officer put

a pterodactyl in a choke hold. 

"That's been written about" I told Sally glumly.

"Way too much" she agreed.