Brought up in the way ye should go.

 

Some have goodly parents

who have taught them right from wrong;

others aren't so fortunate

and somehow scrape along.

No matter what the case may be

for you and I, dear friend --

I testify that angels still

our welfare will defend! 

Prose Poem: Grandpa Palazzolo.

 

It was a strange-looking device that

rattled down the street in my home town

back when I was a boy.

The old folks said it was from the devil.

But younger folk, those with open minds,

wanted to give it a chance --

so the strange thing was not run

out of town on a rail.

Instead, it was allowed to rumble

into the gazebo at City Park, 

where it hummed and hissed,

belching out a noxious black smoke

from the smokestack on top.

There was a Victrola horn on the side,

and as soon as the strange machine

was settled in the gazebo a harsh

mechanical voice began tickling 

our ears with balderdash and

innuendo.

My mother tried to keep me away from it,

but after dinner I snuck out my bedroom window

and went down to City Park to listen.

The machine told us that Mrs. Johnson,

a school teacher,

was secretly married to Nikita Khrushchev.

Our Town Hall was full of wormy 

catalpa seed pods,

to be sold to Mexico at a huge profit by

the mayor and city council.

Mr. Plummer, a veterinarian, licked

fire hydrants at night.

And my own dad, Fred Palazzolo Sr., 

hoarded matches.

"It's a dirty lie!" I yelled at the horn.

Then I threw a rock at the darn thing.

It went down the smokestack and

a minute later huge glowing red sparks

came flying out of the machine 

as it burst at the seams.

We all ran screaming back to our homes

before that dratted disinformation machine

exploded -- destroying our beautiful town

gazebo.

Don't ask me why, but all the prominent citizens

in town turned against the old folks

who had warned us in the first place

about the strange machine --

so those prominent citizens 

had every single solitary senior citizen

hauled off to the county poor farm.

That's why I never got to know my grandpa Palazzolo.

  

In all labor there is profit.

 

God has made the world to be

run by sweat and industry.

Making money from thin air

seems to be most people's care;

but all true prosperity

comes from humble drudgery.

Learn a skill and ply a trade,

to be well and truly paid.

Today's timericks.

 

In Heidelberg cars are verboten/mare's shank is what they're promotin'/So take the bus line/And fossil fuels? Nein!/Then down the Neckar you be floatin'.

Razor wire in D.C./is the brand new normalcy/militias prowling all around/make D.C. a battleground/land mines are the next big step/in our nation's combat prep/Now we are a Third World state/filled with nothing but cheap hate.

Is that you, Joe, behind the mask?/The reason that I have to ask/is cuz no one looks quite the same/playing this here masking game/The other day I thought a guy/was my old mother's sis, Aunt Vi/I'm agreeing with those wags/who say we need to wear name tags!

Photo Essay: More Postcards to My President.

 These are original postcards that I fabricate myself, then mail to President Joe Biden c/o the White House. I have been told they are subversive, enigmatic, funny, threatening, and profound. I prefer to think of them as just pure Zen.

The welfare of my soul

 

The welfare of my soul

lies with the Great Physician,

who cures me of my ills

upon complete submission.

No bill does he submit;

his prescript is that I

serve all my fellow men

with kindness in my eye.

Prose Poem: Valid Information.

 

There was a man in our town

who gave away golf balls.

He always wore a gray fedora 

and a white shirt 

with a bright floral bowtie.

His name was Mr. Peters.

He owned the hardware store.

I think he gave away the golf balls

because, in reality, 

he didn't want to own a hardware store

but a sports shop.

When he grew old and blind

he lost the hardware store

and had to move in with 

a daughter who went bowling

every night, leaving him alone.

He got disoriented one night

and wandered onto the highway,

offering golf balls to passing semis.

One of 'em ran him over.

There wasn't much left of him,

so he was buried in a golf bag.

Everyone agreed it seemed appropriate.

But before the accident,

before he went blind and

lost the hardware store,

Mr. Peters told me an interesting tale.

It seems as a young man he 

hunted jaguars in Brazil.

He put jaguar bait on 

strips of duct tape,

and when the jaguars 

took the bait they got

entangled in the duct tape

and collapsed from nervous

exhaustion.

Then he sold the jaguars 

to Indian maharajahs 

and Hollywood starlets.

The interesting part,

according to Mr. Peters,

was that there are no jaguars

in Brazil.

When I asked him why he would

tell such a nonsensical story 

in the first place he replied:

"I give away golf balls, 

not valid information."

He may have meant something 

by that,

but I prefer to think

he just liked to hear himself

talk.

Today's timericks.

 

Stomach rumbles come with age/old folks have a pressure gauge/that sends spices, cheese, and nuts/roaring through their inner guts/and MUST there be an audience/when it ends in flatulence?

Tittle-tattle reigns supreme/from pool room right to academe/We are spied on and reported/for innocence and things most sordid/Friends and fam'ly now are snitches/so watch out for those sons of . . . glitches?

When pastors flout the law they show/the Lord is just a cameo/in their ego-sodden creed/as from mask-hood they secede/Congregations follow suit/as gospel love they prostitute.

How I loved the milkweed plant/when I was knee-high/to a hopper and could watch/the silky seeds drift by/Food for monarch butterflies/and imagination/those vagrant plant still offer me/a bit of consolation.

And would none of my reproof.

 

The Lord reproves his servants oft,

and not always with phrases soft.

He lays it on the line when we

come nigh to some iniquity.

Be thankful for a reprimand;

'twill help you gain the Promised Land!

Photo Essay: New Postcards to My President.