The Shaving Cream Factory

 

I was invited to tour the shaving cream factory

because of my uncle.

May he rest in peace.

Those shaving cream factory

explosions are more common

than you might think.

Before our group arrived at the factory

we met up with a crowd of refugees

from El Salvador and Nicaragua. 

They were held in a disorganized dusty camp

on the outskirts of town, where our

tour bus broke down.

The camp guards promised to fix

our bus; they invited us into the

compound for a shower and a hot meal.

But as we mingled with those unassuming refugees

we became more like them and they became

more like us, until there was no way

of telling us apart --

 so the guards refused to

let any of us out. They drove the tour bus

off a cliff.

Using a pencil, a windshield wiper blade, 

and a box of toothpicks, I eventually managed to 

dig a tunnel under the barbed wire --

which led straight down to a vast underground

kingdom of geode worshipers. 

We had no choice but to join them

in their unconventional religious ceremonies

until our paperwork went through.

The red tape took years, 

and by the time it arrived

I had married a local girl, and we 

were raising a family in the

geode faith.

 I myself eventually came to believe

in the power of geodes.

So I decided to stay.

Now I watch my family grow

like chalcedony crystals

from the Mendip Hills. 

 

Is it any wonder I love

the smell of shaving cream?

 

Invasion of the bowling balls

 

The invasion of the bowling balls

began on a quiet winter's evening

when the moon looked like the 

face of Dean Martin.

People were snug in their warm homes,

choking on unpopped kernels of corn

and buttering slices of frozen pizza.

In the tropics, the tanna leaves bloomed.

World leaders were caught unawares.

With their pants down and their dander up.

Parliaments and congresses blithely played

tiddlywinks with slush funds and easy aces.

Even Barney Greengrass closed for repairs.

I myself was involved in a minor contretemps

with a professor of English, via email,

concerning the Oxford comma;

Citing irreconcilable differences,

we had both filed as amicus curiae.

Looking back, it all seems so footling now.

Then it happened.

The invasion.

And overnight everything changed.

The grass was no longer greener on the other side.

Scrabble was banned in Boston.

Anyone talking about the cinema

when they meant the movies was lynched.

And the Yucatan Peninsula declared for 

Wilkes and Liberty.

At Christmas people hit each other

over the head with heavy reinforced 

boxes of Whitman's Sampler.

And clowns went color blind.

But then, at the eleventh hour,

a person on horseback arrived

to save us in our skins.

He rallied the troops.

She never said die.

They kept the home fires burning.

And we all set sail together

to question the universe

about reverse mortgages. 

Today's timericks

 

Stocking stuffers this year should

be face masks -- then knock on wood

that a microbe gives wide berth

to your chimney: Peace on Earth!

Santa, bring me a remote

that will mute each silly quote

by a pundit this next year

making economics clear!

Russian hackers on the job

faster than a good flash mob

milk our agencies like kine --

while the admin lays supine.

In my jammies Christmas morn

I feel like I am reborn --

checkered flannel, fleecy hood;

bunny slippers from childhood.

Fashionistas, be advised

this new style is canonized!

Work-life balance is to me

merely triviality.

Loafing has been all my study;

work is for the fuddy duddy!

Burnout ain't an issue when

you live in a big playpen.

Sing redeeming love

 

Sing redeeming love, my soul;

with heart and voice proclaim the whole

of creation His footstool --

and how He cares for me, a fool.

No earthly choir's anthem sweet

can with one note of Christ compete.

The knowledge of that which is just and is true

 

The knowledge of that which is just and is true

comes from the scriptures with constant review.

The spirit will guide us through chapter and line

to lead us correctly and show us a sign.

Prose Poem: The Big Guy's List

 

I work for the Big Guy.

You know; the one at the North Pole.

Naughty and nice, and all that jazz.

I've been undercover since last March,

making a list, double checking it.

Who's wearing a mask

and who ain't.

You think the Big Guy 

isn't concerned about the Pandemic?

You maybe think he's all ho-ho-ho

and jolly belly shaking, with no 

Weltanschauung?

Jeeze, if you're thinking that --

what can I say? You're a jamoke.

Here's how it's going down Christmas Eve:

There's been a hundred of us working undercover

for the past nine months -- we send in our lists

this week and the computer geeks compile

and extrapolate and all that jazz,

then hand the Big Guy the hard drive of the 

Winners and Losers

And, confidentially, the list of Losers

is awfully long. 

Mostly male.

Mostly Republican.

And mostly under the age of fifty.

Dumb-dumbs, to a man. 

Me, I really don't care about the schmoes

who don't get anything under the tree this year.

They're the same ones who don't believe in a 

vaccine either -- 

So they'll mostly be pushing up daisies

come next August.

I won't be crying any river over 'em.

The Big Guy already has us prepping

for next year's op --

Still guzzling fossil fuel 

with a Dodge Durango?

Naughty.

Driving a Tesla 3?

Nice. 

Get the picture?

today's timericks

 

I'm spending for the Holidays exactly zilch this year/Why should I go in the hole others up to cheer?/Poetry don't pay too much, and if it pays at all/I'll be darned if I must spend it in a shopping mall!

Trading online is a trend that people love these days/They think the market is a chicken they can simply braise/Trading platforms tip the wink, then gouge them greedily/Suckers never cease to think that wealth's a guarantee.  

Big Oil thinks to hide its sleaze/by the planting of new trees/paying farmers to maintain/oaks with all their fields of grain/I like trees, seen in the dawn/but who will care when we're all gone?

Goats can stomach anything/from rank weeds to napkin ring/Many use them in a clan/so their lawns are spic and span/But even goats can't swallow blight/that comes from Trump in megabyte.

The Paynim.

 

Did you ever see that Tex Avery

cartoon where the cat accidentally

eats a bag of Mexican jumping beans

and its head goes bouncing all over

the place?

That's how I felt on the Saturday afternoon

I discovered a Paynim in my closet.

I was looking for an old bottle of

Turtle Wax for my bowling ball

in the hall closet when I caught

a stealthy movement out of the

corner of my eye.

I pounced on it immediately,

thinking it might be a pesky

inner tube moth --

but instead it was a Paynim,

trembling like a leaf.

Recoiling in surprise, I 

fell over some croquet mallets

and got entangled in a sinister

green badminton net.

By the time I had extricated myself

the Paynim had zipped out of the closet

and was up on the fireplace mantel

in the living room, next to the Shelf Elf.

Trying to blend in, no doubt.

But I wasn't fooled for a minute.

I glanced out the picture window a moment,

to let my eyes readjust to the light.

Snow was being shaken from the sky

like salt.

Then I turned back to the Paynim.

"I suppose you have a name" I asked.

"My name is Hooghly" said the Paynim.

"Like the river?" I asked.

"No, like my father -- who was

also named Hooghly, as was

his father before him" the little

Paynim said. He put a companionable

arm around the Shelf Elf,

who was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

Just then my therapist came in.

She often drops in through the trap door

I've installed in the roof.

"What do you see next to that Shelf Elf?"

I asked her.

"Well" she replied slowly

"I see a lovely holiday wreath next to your

Shelf Elf, and a framed photograph of 

Winston Churchill, and what looks like

an opened box of peanut brittle."

"Nothing else?" I asked her.

"Not really, no" she told me.

The Paynim made some frantic gestures,

which I ignored; instead I went over to gaze

out the picture window again.  Then I said:

"The snow drifts down like a lift net, doesn't it?"

I heard the Paynim jump off the mantel and run

over to me. He took my hand.

"And we are all little fish that will be hauled

gently up to heaven for sorting and canning" said

the Paynim quietly.

"I believe in myself" said my therapist happily.

And out in the yard the snowman's carrot nose,

which had been gnawed away by squirrels,

was made whole again.

And shall dwell in a tabernacle of clay

 

Who comes our grief and pain to stay,

while housed in frail and mortal clay?

Great God has done this noble thing;

his sacrifice we're bound to sing

about forever when we take in

that he was born to cancel sin.

Prose Poem: Three Wishes.

 

The genie said he would grant me three wishes.

He came out of a Jufran banana ketchup bottle

that I found washed up on the beach.

My first wish was for the color pink

to vanish from the earth and never return.

"That is an odd wish, master" the genie

said to me, his eyes sparkling like bottle caps.

"My ex-wife never liked the color pink" I told him.

"Why don't you wish to have her back, if 

you still have feelings for her?" he asked me.

"Nah" I said. "Her family wants to improve me."

"What is your second wish, oh master?"

the genie asked me. His breath smelled of 

salt water taffy.

"I wish" I said "that all pretzels tasted as good

as they look."

"Indeed?" said the genie, lifting one eyebrow

until it knocked his turban off.

"That is a highly subjective subject --

I am not sure it can be done to your satisfaction."

"Oh, well . . ."  I told him, "if you haven't got

the mojo for it just gimme a million in cash, then."

This enraged the genie, as I knew it would.

He wiggled his ears in a rage, until they

began to hum. 

Just go try a pretzel, any pretzel, now --

see how great they taste.

For my third and final wish

I asked that a war be named after me.

"Master is pulling my leg, right?"

the genie said, rather desperately I thought.

"Nope" I told him. "They don't write many

books about do gooders --

the bestsellers are always about wars

and their starters;

So I want one named after me --

'Tim's War.'"

"As you wish, master" said the genie

with a sigh that was pure Brownian Motion.

After Tim's War was over

(both sides surrendered to each other

and the only casualty was

an overweight Air Force colonel

who had a stroke while running up

a flight of stairs)

I made a comfortable living 

being interviewed by historians

and the news media --

charging five- hundred dollars

for an hour of my time. 

For some reason the genie

from the Jufran bottle turned

into a large red pencil eraser

after granting my last wish.

I keep him in a pigeon hole

in my mahogany roll top desk.

I haven't heard him gibber

in months now.