Prose Poem: Happy John Schwartz Day!

 

John Schwartz Day is coming up again.

Real soon.

Tomorrow, actually.

So you better buy your sweetheart

a box of candy.

Or get some flowers.

A dozen bottle rockets would be nice.

Just get something for the one you

love.

After all, John Schwartz gave his

life so lovers could keep loving.

At least that's the story they

used to teach us in grade school.

See, there was this scribe named

John Schwartz back in the medieval 

times. Back when newspapers

were real, along with dragons

and unicorns.

One day Schwartz comes upon

a pair of young lovers weeping.

"Why weepest thou, young lovers?"

he asks them.

"Our parents forbid us to wed!"

they cry in unison.

"Well, I can fix that. I'm a big shot

scribe!" he assures them.

So Schwartz girds up his loins

and goes to see the parents.

But they have never heard of him.

They only ever watch Fox News.

So they chop off his head.

And now every year on February 14th

we commemorate John Schwartz's

heroic deed and senseless death

by exchanging gifts with our lovers.

And hanging Rupert Murdoch in 

effigy.

 

Prose Poem: The Adventures of Joe Palazzolo.

 

Now I'm not saying anything of this

is true.

And I'm not saying any of it is made up.

I'm just saying that in a world of 

infinite possibilities

some of this might just have happened.

And it might just as well have happened

to Joe Palazzolo as to anyone else.

 

Joe's a reporter. A damn fine one.

He works for the Wall Street Journal.

Well, one day a man comes into his

office . . . 

No. No; Joe doesn't work in an office anymore.

Hardly anybody does. Everyone

works from home.

So . . . let's see . . . 

Okay. Got it.

One day at his home

while tuning his accordion

Joe looks out the window

and spots a man

carrying a green pony

on his back.

Being a reporter,

this naturally incites Joe's

curiosity.

 So he puts on his reporter

trench coat

and follows the guy

at a discreet distance.  

 

This man that Joe is following

goes down a dark alley

to climb up a fire escape ladder.

And into a third story window.

Joe waits a minute, then follows

him up and in.

This is a terrible mistake on Joe's part.

When Joe recovers consciousness

he finds himself in a dingy room,

with the green pony staring

malevolently at him. Joe is

tied to chair.

"What's this all about?" Joe asks.

"Wouldn't you like to know" sneers the pony.

"Yes I would. I'm a reporter for the 

Wall Street Journal" Joe replies steadily.

This seems to upset the green pony.

It backs away from Joe, muttering:

"This wasn't part of the operation."

"I better contact headquarters."

 

The green pony bolts out of the room.

 Left alone, Joe manages

to gnaw through the rope tying his hands

and escapes.

 

Back home Sergeant Muldoon

from the police is waiting for him:

"Did you happen to see a green

pony or a man carrying a green

pony pass by this way?" he demands 

of Joe.

"Wouldn't you like to know" sneers Joe.

"Well, okay -- I was just asking. You

don't hafta bite my head off" says

Sergeant Muldoon, close to tears.

"Don't worry, Sergeant" says Joe

in a soothing manner.

"You can read all about it

in tomorrow's print edition."

"Gee, thanks, Mr. Palazzolo.

You're a swell guy!" And the

Sergeant bolts out of the house.

Happy as ham and eggs on Texas toast.

 

 

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

haiku:

so who owns the clouds?

not federal property --

some guy in Dubuque?

 

Prose Poem: Winnie Hu and the matador.

 

A matador is an embroidered fool.

But then, aren't we all . . . 

This story is not about a matador.

This story is about the last newspaper

published in Belle Fourche

South Dakota.

 

I have no reason to think

that Winnie Hu,

who is not an embroidered fool,

but works for the New York Times,

had any inkling of what happened

in Belle Fourche.

 

You might think that mentioning

a noted journalist in this manner

is simply egregious name-dropping.

A fishing expedition,

I think jurists call it.

 

But she is an archetype,

an avatar,

that gives this Belle Fourche

incident meaning and 

substance.

 

The last newspaper ever

published in Belle Fourche

used an article by Winnie Hu

about planting more trees

in New York City.

 

South Dakota has so few trees

that those that spring up 

are suffered to grow unmolested

like a park statue.

 

And now the state has even fewer

newspapers, once the Belle Fourche

paper ceased publishing.

 

It happened like this --

No, I guess it's not that important.

It wasn't a very good newspaper

anyway.

Their obituary writer routinely

 misspelled the names of the dead.

And they ran a column of old quotes

by Harold Stassen.

Sorry, Winnie.  

Sorry, Belle Fourche.

Sorry, Mr. Stassen.

Apologies, matadors.

I thought I had something

important to say.

But I don't.

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

haiku

woke up from a nap --

my mouth tastes like cough syrup --

the Sabbath silence.

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

 

Ms. Hu's somewhat puzzling email response to this poem:

 

Hi Tim, good morning and thank you! So sorry to hear about the Belle Fourche paper but I enjoyed your tribute. And hopefully there are more trees in your future! Winnie  

Prose Poem: Peter Baker turns to brick making

 

There's a brickyard outside

of Reston, Virginia.

I go there sometimes to watch

the workers make bricks by hand.

 

They slosh the red clay mud

around in rough wooden troughs

before pouring it from buckets 

into wooden molds that dry 

in the sun. For many weeks.

They do peaceful, quiet, steady work.

Mostly older men in faded overalls.

But one day there was a man

in a grey pinstripe business suit.

Sloshing the clay mud around.

His face was round and contented.

I decided he must be a famous person.

Who gave up the hurly-burly of fame

to make red clay bricks

to build homes and libraries

and courthouses.

"Do brick makers get paid well?"

I asked the guy loitering next to me.

"I suppose so" he replied.

"They all drive Volvos."

At the end of the work day

I followed the man in the suit

to his Volvo and then followed

him home.

Past fields of bright green grass

that looked spray-painted.

He pulled up a gravel drive

to a wonderful old house

hidden amidst chinaberry trees.

I pushed the buzzer at the gate.

"Who lives here?" I demanded.

"Peter Baker" came the scratchy reply.

"The reporter? Why is he making bricks?"

I asked in confusion.

"He wants closure"

replied a different voice,

equally tinny and scratchy.

I got back in my car and drove away.

There were no clear answers here.

My curiosity bubbled over.

But I figured every person

has a right to their privacy

and I had a duty to mind

my own business. 

So I went home to look in a book

where I remembered reading

that Winston Churchill joined

the English bricklayers union 

but was ousted because of his

conservative views.

 

From which I concluded

that great men build alike.

 

 

Prose Poem: Fried Cheese Curds from Amanda Hess.

 

In Wisconsin they have fried cheese curds.

With a conniving oily sour taste.

Every county fair has 'em.

I lived off 'em all summer long.

As a feral child.

 

I was abandoned by my parents

while we were in Green Bay

during the big game.

They told me to go get a Coke

and when I came back they were gone.

 

 That's the story I told Amanda Hess

one night at a party in Oshkosh.

I don't think she believed me. 

But every Xmas since then

she sends me a box of fried cheese curds.

 

I hear she's a reporter out East.

That she lives in a house 

that's floats over the Hudson,

held up by a blimp.

And she never uses the same pencil twice.

 

Me, I repair bent tokens

for the Milwaukee Transit Company.

I never met anyone as interesting

or as compassionate as Amanda Hess --

before or since.

 

If you're ever out East 

and meet her, you might

tell her that the shipped

fried cheese curds she sends

me always get stolen

off my front porch nowadays.

Prose Poem: Travis M. Andrews, meet the REAL Jeff Goldblum!

 

It's not that I have anything against

the reporter Travis M. Andrews.

I don't. I read his stuff all the time

in the Washington Post.

 

But I have to say I was put out

when he published his book

about Jeff Goldblum.

Without talking to me.

 

Because, you see, I am 

the real Jeff Goldbum.

I have the birth certificate

to prove it.

 

I made all those movies.

I lead the Mildred Snitzer Orchestra.

Did all the video games.

And started my own theater group.

 

That guy Andrews interviewed

is my stand-in. My stunt double.

How the mix up occurred 

is an unfathomable puzzle. 

 

I thought about suing

or, at least, egging his office.

But, nah -- Andrews writes so well

it's a pleasure to read his book.

 

Even though I regard it as fiction.

 

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

to which Mr. Andrews replied via email:

"Tim! It’s been far too long. So happy to hear from you, and loved the poem as always! I award it five Goldblums."

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."