Prose Poem: Penelope Green hits pay dirt.

 

I sell treasure maps.

And they're not too expensive.

People get a kick out of them,

thinking they might hit paydirt.

 

Of course the maps are worthless doodles.

They won't even locate the nearest KFC.

But they're colorful, filled with place names

like: 'Dead Man's Hole' and 'Croaker's Corner.'

 

One day this gal named Penelope Green

stops at my little kiosk at Times Square.

Says she's a reporter for

the New York Times.

 

She wants to buy a treasure map.

But I smell something fishy.

So I tell her I only sells maps

of Manhattan. Nothing else.

 

She slides a 100 Grand candy bar

across the counter towards me.

What could I do?

I give her one of the treasure maps.

 

I didn't think anything more

about it.

Everyone in Zanesville, Ohio,

suddenly decided to move to New York.

 

So business was brisk.

Nice thing about Ohio people

is they never complain.

Then I open the newspaper.

 

There on Page One it says

"NYT Reporter Strikes Pay Dirt!"

 She dug up a mess of pirate gold

in Hoboken. Of all places.

Didn't say anything about my map.

Maybe she found it some other way.

With a metal detector. Maybe.

But I'll tell you this much --

If any other reporter ever

saunters up to my kiosk

to buy a treasure map

I'm gonna ask for a 50/50 split.

 

 

Prose Poem: Generous Robin Givhan

 

I don't know about you

but I think of reporters

when I think of them at all

as self-absorbed and predatory.

 

In the past I've been rooked

pretty bad by 'em.

Like when I got fired over

that homonyms thing.

 

They called me up and got

sound bytes and quotes --

and then made me look

like a ring-tailed lemur!

 

But Robin Givhan, now --

she's different.

She's generous; she's kind.

She's the jewel of the Washington Post.

 

She's never interviewed me.

But I know if she did

she would be understanding.

She would quote me verbatim.

 

Her writing is dripping with

the cream of human kindness.

He prose shines like brass tacks.

She is a good egg.

 

I sent her a letter once,

asking to be interviewed.

About anything she wanted

to ask me.

 

She replied promptly.

Sending her regrets

that there was nothing

notable about me or my life.

 

It was very nice of her to respond

so quickly.

And to top it off she enclosed

a discount coupon for Red Lobster.

 

That's classy.

Putin Poems

 

Peewee Putin's on the prowl

till Ukraines run him afoul.

Go ahead and rob and rape;

you'll regret it, stupid ape.

Judgement waits, and can't be scared;

you'll be caught quite unprepared.

When you talk of puny Putin

it is often cuz he's scootin'

far away from all his sorrows

while he's killing the tomorrows

of the people he's oppressing --

and I bet he likes cross dressing!

Paltry Putin thinks that he

is the top of history.

But the apparatchiks know

he is melting like the snow.

When he's gone I hope Ukraine

will once again have hope that's sane.

haiku

the windowsill dust

floats up in the morning sun,

 

disturbed by a sneeze.

 

 

 

Prose Poem: Paul Farhi and the Magic Bag

 

One day while walking home from work

at the Washington Post

Paul Farhi (who reports on style)

found an old carpet bag.

It had an antique rose dusky pattern.

He was enchanted by it.

And since it was just lying by 

a street lamp

apparently abandoned

he picked it up to bring home.

At home a wonderful scent

drifted up from the bag

when he opened it.

It reminded him of warm misty nights

on the dock of a lake

and the sound of children

gently breathing in their sleep.

There was nothing inside the bag

as far as he could tell.

But after the bag was open

all sorts of blessings came to him.

His editor praised his work

and gave him a raise.

Cottage cheese tasted like Camembert.

As long as Paul kept the bag open

his life was redolent with good things.

But when he shut the bag the toilet 

backed up

and the tires on his car went bald.

So he tried to open the bag again.

But he couldn't get it to unclasp.

When he jimmied it open

with a screwdriver

there was a fearful wail

before red foxes began dancing.

Dancing around his living room.

With cruel grins and sarcastic

barks.

They are still at it in Paul's 

living room.

But he has moved out;

 into the

Mandarin Oriental Hotel.

 

*************************************8

Mr. Farhi's emailed response to the above:

"Thanks. There’s a lesson in this for all of us. I’m just not sure what it is." 

Prose Poem: The Cultured Dan Bilefsky.

 

If there's one guy I know who has culture,

it's Dan Bilefsky.

Never have met the guy.

But I read his stuff in the newspapers.

His articles make me ashamed of wearing

brown shoes.

Of sopping up gravy on my plate with a 

piece of bread.

After finishing his last article,

all my clip-on neckties were

tossed away.

It's getting expensive to be like

Dan Bilefsky.

He ain't elegant, exactly.

It's more like he's just so

well-traveled and knowledgeable.

I might do like the old joke

says:

 I got so tired of reading his cultured articles that I gave up reading.

But in the meantime

his articles give me hope

that we can win the 

culture wars.

Or, at least, take back

Alsace-Lorraine. 

Prose Poem: Jennifer Brooks drinks lemonade.

 

"I think you're pretty great" said Jennifer Brooks to me.

She was interviewing me

for the StarTribune newspaper.

 

She looked pretty great herself.

With a long string of Chiclets

around her neck.

 

"Why did you steal quarters 

out of your mother's purse?"

she suddenly asked.

 

How did she know that?

It happened sixty years ago.

I had wanted a candy bar.

 

"We reporters know everything"

she said, as if reading my mind.

I decided to brazen it out.

 

"Your information is incorrect"

was my reply.

"My mother's purse had a hole in it."

 

She didn't miss a beat.

"Then why didn't you buy

her a new one?"

 

This was not the way

I wanted our interview

to go.

 

Luckily a shotglass

magically appeared

in my hand.

 

"Lemonade?" was my arch question.

"With gingersnaps?" she asked shyly.

"But of course!" I replied gallantly.

 

Afterwards we played

Minnesota Monopoly.

I let her win.

Prose Poem: I owe my career to Sydney Ember

 

I owe my career to reporter Sydney Ember

and will be forever grateful to her.

It happened this way:

I was stuck at a small market radio station

in Northwest Iowa.

One of those places where the Dutch

Reformed Church has taken root

like dandelions in a graveyard lawn.

I read the news and was supposed to

dig up local stuff to read on the air.

But those Dutch Reformed bozos were

a hard nut to crack. News-wise.

They would talk to me about sports.

About church picnics.

About the next tulip festival.

But they were tight-lipped when it 

came to hard news.

Traffic accidents.

Brawls and assaults.

Robbery and theft.

Niets.

The sheriff; the cops; the state patrol.

They were all in cahoots. Members in

good standing and not likely to spill

the beans to a buitenstaander like me.  

Then Sydney came to town.

Reporting on state caucuses.

For the New York Times.

She was a live wire. Let me tell you!

She dropped by the radio station to

pick up a free rain poncho.

And we got to talking.

I told her of my problems with

the local yokels.

And she said: 

"Kid, when the authorities won't talk

you just say they are reserving comment

until the families are notified."
 

I nodded my head. Not really understanding.

Then she turned the key for me:

"Local families will go nuts wondering if

one of their kids or cousins died or was arrested.

They won't give City Hall any rest." 

She winked at me and gave a nod

as she rose up the chimney --

"You'll have the cop shop spilling their

guts to you after that!" I heard her exclaim

ere she drove out of sight.

Now the sheriff's deputies bring me homemade bread pudding at least once a week.

Prose Poem: Sarah Nassauer Sells Me Crampons.

 

so i went into walmart

just to look around.

sometimes i get lonely

and like to drift along. 

like a Chinese spy balloon.

it was there i ran into

Sarah Nassauer. the reporter.

she was behind a counter,

selling things.

there was a gleam in her

eye 

that boded no good to anyone

who wanted to keep their money

that day.

"Hi, Sarah" I said to her.

"I'm not buying anything today."

"Just looking."

she didn't speak. not a word.

she just looked at me.

and suddenly i wanted to buy things.

lots of things. 

she's got that hypnotic knack.

she picked it up while in

Paris.

Paris, Texas.

where they make the soup.

so i bought a pair of crampons

from her.

which will come in handy

this winter.

the doctor tells me i'm

losing too much calcium.

my bones will get hollow 

and brittle.

if i fall down i'll shatter like

a pane of glass.

i am terrified of going out

on snowy days. 

but i asked Sarah Nassauer

if she would like to take a walk.

she answered "Oui."

so i guess i'm stuck.

Prose Poem: How Christopher Mele Saved My Life.

 

I'll never forget how Christopher Mele 

saved my life.

We were hiking in the Poconos.

My son and I. We got lost in a thick fog.

So thick that it felt like bacon

on the back of your hand.

Just as Willy and I were about

to give up hope.

About to sit down under a tree

to slip away into the final dream;

Mele came striding along, 

whistling Nessun dorma from

Turnadot.

He gently took our hands.

Which by now were pale and palsied

and smelled of bacon.

He lifted us up.

And with a journalistic flourish

he guided us to the Promised Land.

A land of ink and honey.

Where the Hudson Valley River Steamer

still delivered stacks of 

the New York Times

to indigent farmers and mechanics.

For only a nickel.

Mr. Mele set my son up as

a copy boy in the cavernous

basement. Washing linotype.

He ought to get an award.

Mr. Mele, I mean. For saving us.

And for his extraordinary attention

to detail in tight time constraints.

 *********************************

The journalist himself emailed me back:

Thank you! I saw this on Twitter and I don't know what to say! To what do I owe this honor?
Been a while since I've had a byline (doing mostly editing these days), so I wondered what inspired this?
Good to hear from you. Hope you are well. And love the photo on your site!

 

Prose Poem: Heather Haddon. by Tim Torkildson

 

Heather Hadon called me on my cell today.

"Will you do something for me?" she asked.

"Sure, why not?" I replied.

"It's really, really important" she said.

 "Just name it" I said. I like Heather.

She and I go back a long way.

I knew her when we were students together

at Oberlin College. She studied anthropology.

I studied farrier technology.

Which I flunked out of.

And then we both got reporter jobs at

the Bergen Record.

 "I need you to buy a subscription to the

Wall Street Journal. The print edition.

Not the online edition" she told me.

"Can do" I replied. "Any particular

reason why?" 

"The paper is losing readers. It's hemorrhaging money fast" she said tearfully.

"Really?" I said, amazed. "That's so sad. What happened?"

"I dunno. People don't want to get ink on their hands, I guess" she said. "So each reporter has to sell ten subscriptions per week or get fired."

"Land o' Goshen!" was my only response.

After I hung up I immediately went down to the news stand on Fifth and Center. I told Barney, the guy who runs it, to sign me up for the Wall Street Journal.

"No can do, chum" he told me.

"Why?" I demanded.

"They only take on readers with college degrees" he said. "And I happen to know you washed out of the farrier program at Oberlin. You told me so yourself."

"Well, then, can I at least buy a copy of it?" I asked in exasperation.

"I guess so" he grumbled, handing me a copy. "But don't tell anyone where you got it. I might lose my license."

Sad to say Heather lost her job at the Journal.

She couldn't meet her sales quota.

Which is a real shame, since she writes so well

about supermarkets and restaurants. 

She gets awards from the National Press Club 

all the time.

I hear she went back to work for the

New York Post.

A step down, sure.

But better than going back to Oberlin for a 

masters in anthropology.

You can't do anything with that nowadays.