Haiku: 詩人はマグロの缶を食べる

 

How to open up?

With a gray and cautious squeak?

Or a purple roar?

開く方法は？

灰色で慎重なきしみ音で？

または紫色の轟音？

Coins in a fountain.

Thirty pieces of silver.

Bowling for dollars. 

噴水のコイン。
銀貨30枚。
ドルのためのボウリング。

All the homeless hearts

face the winter's harsh flurries

so alone alone.

すべてのホームレスの心
冬の厳しい風花に直面する
一人で

A silent chapel

redolent of polished pews

Salted frozen shrimp

静かな礼拝堂
磨かれた会衆席のあふれんばかり
塩漬けの冷凍エビ

Prepare to write verse --

sharpen the red pencil --

hunt for a toothpick.

詩を書く準備をしなさい-
赤鉛筆を研ぐ-
つまようじを探します。

Are those rocks or mice?
Are these the tires or the wind?
Has the road ended?

それらの岩やネズミですか？
これらはタイヤですか、それとも風ですか？
道は終わりましたか？

My favorite quote

I don't quite recall too good;

but I'm telling it.

私のお気に入りの引用
あまりよく覚えていません。
しかし、私はそれを言っています

The rustle of leaves

upon the dry winter wind --

warms my heart for her.

葉のざわめき
乾燥した冬の風に-
あなたのために私の心を温めます

Timerick: Grocery chains are stocked up on Thanksgiving staples like turkeys, though some expect tight supplies of items like pie crust and cream cheese.

 

Pie crust and cream cheese are shades of the past;

the stores have run out and my stockpile won't last.

It's true that the turkey is plump as can be

and cranberry sauce, like the sands of the sea,

abundantly flows round the gravy boat lee;

but where is the butter for rolls and the like --

are we now to face a petite hunger strike?

The dill pickle relish is plentiful, sure --

but glossy black olives have become quite obscure!

 The only boxed wines are uncorked antifreeze.

The heck with it . . . where is that darn mac and cheese?

Today's Timerick: With Vaccine Mandate Looming, Business Owners Face Wary Workers

 

Wary workers won't get vaxed;

they run the risk of being axed.

Bizness owners do complain

that their staffers still maintain

that a puncture to the skin

is now tantamount to sin.

Where they get this addled thought

is probably from some crackpot.

America would rather shirk

common sense than stay at work.

People know that smoking's bad.

Drinking may kill your doodad.

But somehow with a simple shot

people go all Huguenot --

martyrs to some Fed intrigue;

victims of a quack blitzkrieg!

Phooey to such aberration.

Employers will use automation.

Today's Timerick: Airlines Gird for Thanksgiving Travel Test After Rocky Year

 

The time has come, the time is near

to visit relatives so dear.

And so upon the plane I board

with nothing but a harpsichord.

I never bring my luggage now

cuz it gets so lost anyhow --

I'd rather get insurance paid

on some antique that is mislaid.

My seat has shrunk since last I flew;

they must think I'm an allen screw.

The meal I'm served is vulcanized

and so stale it has crystallized. 

The in-flight movie is so dull

it's cracking up my fragile skull.

And in the seat right next to me

a man is snoring blissfully.

He shifts his bulk to block my view

of anything but his muumuu. 

And then it's time to you-know-what,

but how will I get past this nut?

My busted bladder's not severe;

I just won't fly again this year . . . 

Haiku: 詩人は便秘です

 

the little tin pan

with not enough oil in it

burns the anchovy

小さなブリキの鍋

オイルが足りない

カタクチイワシを燃やす

the green hollow air

reverberates with nothing --

shreds of bark remain

緑の中空の空気
何も響かない-
樹皮の断片が残っています

lefse on the grill

flour covers her apron

the smell of burnt grain

グリルのレフセ
小麦粉が彼女のエプロンを覆っている
焦げた穀物のにおい

The gray clouds are scrubbed

clean and white again tonight --

the moon stays unwashed.

灰色の雲がこすり落とされます

今夜もきれいで白く-

月は洗われないままです。

The Latest Proctologist Jokes.

 

Aren't you ashamed of yourself

for clicking on this link?

Don't you have anything

better to do?

Timerick: Gun-Control Support Drops Amid Growing Crime and Firearm Purchases.

 

Lemme tell you something, son;

there is nothing like a gun.

Hefted in a manly hand

it will make you feel quite grand.

Did you know the Feds curtail

guns and ammo when for sale?

Used to be you'd pay in cash

and got your gun as quick as hash.

But now, alas, that ain't the case;

the red tape is a huge disgrace.

Try buying a Kalashnikov;

you will be told to bugger off!

And when you want to buy a Glock

they'll tell you they are out of stock.

No dum dum bullets or hand grenades --

How can a guy go on crusades?

Now down in Mexico, my lad,

things are not yet quite so bad.

If you have enough dinero

you can be a bandolero.

Guns and apple pie, amigo;

that's the true blue Yankee ego.

So start with BB guns, my boy,

to join the brutal hoi polloi!

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

I ordered a new oven but it's still in port they say/I need it for the pumpkin pie on this Thanksgiving day/I guess I'll light a fire in the basement on cement/and roast the turkey over embers with no decent vent/And if my cooking is all charred and turns out to be smelly/I guess I'll order something from The Brothers Kosher Deli. 

Timerick: Gun Law Allowing Police to Seize Weapons From Potential Shooters Often Isn’t Used.

 

A crazy man walked down the street;

his eyes you did not want to meet.

For if you did he'd yell at you,

and scream just like a cockatoo.

He had a gun; he waved it madly.

He crooned to it, and called it Bradley.

Was he a vet; what was his race?

The cops ignored him, just in case.

He shot up windows, aimed at birds;

he was a menace, in other words.

No John Wayne would face him down,

and so he terrorized the town.

Until, that is, he shot a bear,

who didn't take it debonair.

The critter pawed him right and left

and gave his head an awful cleft.

So now the crazy man reposes

in a nursing home with roses.

The nurses took his gun away;

twas easier than mowing hay.

When cops their duty shirk so well,

then madmen with their shot and shell

can walk our streets quite unmolested --

knowing they won't be arrested!

Haiku: 詩人には腰痛があります

 

no one rends chickens

the red puddles dry crusty

they want a desk job

誰も鶏を引き裂かない

赤い水たまりは無愛想に乾く

彼らはデスクの仕事をしたい

with one ping dinging

and another one singing

my hands are wringing

1回のpingで
そしてもう一人は歌っています
私の手は絞っている

under a dead tree

grass crawling with cockchafers --

there's only black mud.

枯れ木の下
コフキコガモと草を這う-
黒い泥しかありません。

Try Smiling When You Shave . . .

 

When I make the effort to smile, to grin broadly, while I shave, I find I cut myself much less often.

You can draw any conclusion you like from that; or none at all, hoping, perhaps, instead, that a man who simpers at himself in the mirror deserves to have his throat cut.

Waking up this Sunday morning I immediately thought about baking and/or cooking something to serve to my neighbors here in Valley Villa Apartments. I often have such thoughts upon awaking. And I often act on them. But this morning as I stretched and yawned like a cat, turning over on my left side to caress my new bride, I felt a distinct distaste for the hurly-burly involved in making a big meal to serve out our front door or as a Potlatch in the Community Room.

(As I write this Amy is already in the kitchen making pear butter to give away to our neighbors after church.)

Then a vagrant yet pleasant thought drifted into my unfurnished head. Why not make something . . . not to portion out as servings, but as a whole casserole meal to give away to some couple or family at church this morning? I am intrigued by this idea. What will be the reaction when Amy and I approach a couple at church after Sacrament Meeting, to offer them a pan of spaghetti casserole and a Tupperware container full of Amy's cookie crumble pudding? I will carefully note the reactions and duly report them back to you, faithful reader, at the end of this essay.

For I am now beginning a new phase in my writing. I am become another Montaigne -- writing reflective essays on my life and the life around me. This is as a result of the heightened state of aufklarung I enjoy as a newly-wed. A newly-wed who has just married the same woman he lost 26 years earlier.

Writing a slick limerick about such a subject just doesn't cut the mustard.

I can't think that my musings will be very profound or original. They will be rambling, anecdotal, and, for the most part, inconsequential. Which disclaimer, of course, is how all writers have fished for compliments down through the ages. But, somewhat like Montaigne, I feel so self-contained in my own happy contentment right now that I don't give a rat's patootie as to the opinion of others who may read this. 

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

As we smoothed ourselves down for church, it came to me that the casserole and pudding should be given to the ward clerks, secretaries, and the Bishopric. With Tithing Settlement in full swing, this is a busy time for them -- I doubt they get home for Sunday dinner.

So that's what we did. I have no idea if any of it has been or will be eaten -- but there it sits in the clerk's office; a thank-offering for those who toil long hours over church membership, finances, and godly administration.

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

We have such a very small kitchen that both of us cannot be working in it at the same time. Only when doing dishes can we companionably stand side-by-side washing and drying. 

Walking home from choir practice at church this afternoon I spotted one lorn red rose about to unfold, surrounded by a herd of rose hips, in the front yard of a staid brick house. Reaching through the mesh fence, I gave the stem a violent tug, nearly uprooting the entire bush. But I got the rose. And I gave it to Amy.

The last rose of summer. How corny can you get?