Month: December 2014

Graffiti Train

I’m sitting in my car watching a train roll through Quincy, FL. Every car has a bit of art painted across the side, some beautiful, some provocative, some profane. It occurred to me that these cars have their own stories and we just get a small glimpse as they chug on by us.

Graffiti Train

Union Pacific rail cars
Taking their sweet time
Chockety-chock, chock,
Covered with
Moving pictures:
Gang signs in
Fuchsia block letters
Join or Die!
Submit and Live!
4-2-1 Brothers.
Peace, man!
Skull with Crossbones
Oversized funky feet,
Hands, and eyes
Adorn these cars.
Secretly rich lives lived
In train yard towns like
Galesburg, Illinois,
Kansas City, Missouri, and
North Platte, Nebraska.
Chockety-chock, chock,
Squee, squee, squee!
Move on now,
I don’t have all day,
Just because you’re all
Dressed up,
Places to go
Doesn’t mean I can sit
Idly by just to
Watch this show.
Chockety-chock, chock.

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Favorite Words

Words, words, words!
We
speak,
bark,
question,
entice,
command,
suggest,
deny,
glorify,
demean,
defeat,
entreat.

These all make me grin. I’m weird that way.

Extrudable
Elucidate
Matriculate
Susceptible
Incorruptible
Misogyny
Parenthetical
Soliloquy
Malleable
Evanescence
Mythological
Slovenly
Minuscule
Embryonic
Emasculate
Postulate
Diarrhea (honestly, it’s a beautiful word for a nasty issue)

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Baking for Dummy

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At Studly’s request I am making two pecan pies from semi-scratch. I don’t/can’t make my own pie crusts, but everything else in the pies is 100% homemade. As much as such things can be homemade–I mean I didn’t grow the sugar cane, nor did I create the Karo Syrup–Mr. Karo must’ve done that. And I didn’t lay or collect the eggs; I’m kind of afraid of small farm animals, and I still haven’t learned the art of egg laying. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I didn’t mash up the vanilla beans for the extract, or grow and harvest the pecans, either.

In progress:

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I guess we can scratch the word scratch from that first sentence. All I did was assemble the ingredients, and from the smells emanating from my kitchen, I’d say these pies are done.

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White Gold

A beautiful nugget from this morning’s readings. Thanks poesypluspolemics.com for sharing this

Paul F. Lenzi's avatarPoesy plus Polemics

"Old Couple" Painting by Joan Breckwoldt From joanbreckwoldt.blogspot.com “Old Couple”
Painting by Joan Breckwoldt
From joanbreckwoldt.blogspot.com

precious alloy
made stronger
more durable
thanks to base
elements metals
of homelier cast
like the glorious
glow of a love
well annealed
with respect
mundane kindness
and gratitude

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Tantrum

Menopause
Brings out the best in me
She proclaimed sarcastically.
Hot, hot, hot
Flashes,
Night sweats to die for.
Dry–everything and everywhere.
No fair, dammit!
Just as she hit her stride:
Kids all grown, gone
Lives all their own.

Care to get frisky?
Sure!
But her body screams,
“Whoa there, little missy!
Not so fast.
Let’s add a few pounds,
Wrinkles in weird places
And configurations.
Boobs that weep
For their youthful
Buoyancy and shape
And by the way
Forget about sleep.”

Well, I’ve got your number
Ms. Men-o-pause!
I’m ignoring your
Anti-passion attacks
On my body, my life.
Intimacy is still on my
Top ten list.
Despite your best efforts.
In the words of Gloria Gaynor
I will survive!

The beautiful and talented Ms. Gaynor

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“I Will Survive”

First I was afraid
I was petrified
Kept thinking I could never live
Without you by my side
But then I spent so many nights
Thinking how you did me wrong
I grew strong
I learned how to get along

And so you’re back
From outer space
I just walked in to find you here
With that sad look upon your face
I should have changed that stupid lock
I should have made you leave your key
If I had known for just one second
You’d be back to bother me

Go on now go walk out the door
Just turn around now
‘Cause you’re not welcome anymore
Weren’t you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye
You think I’d crumble
You think I’d lay down and die

Oh no, not I
I will survive
As long as I know how to love
I know I will stay alive
I’ve got all my life to live
I’ve got all my love to give
And I’ll survive
I will survive (hey hey)

It took all the strength I had
Not to fall apart
Kept trying hard to mend
The pieces of my broken heart

And I spent oh so many nights
Just feeling sorry for myself
I used to cry
Now I hold my head up high
And you see me
Somebody new
I’m not that chained up little girl
Who fell in love with you
And so you felt like dropping in
And just expect me to be free
Now I’m saving all my loving
For someone who’s loving me
Go on now go walk out the door
Just turn around now
‘Cause you’re not welcome anymore

Weren’t you the one who tried to break me with goodbye
You think I’d crumble
You think I’d lay down and die
Oh no, not I
I will survive
As long as I know how to love
I know I will stay alive
I’ve got all my life to live
I’ve got all my love to give
And I’ll survive
I will survive (oh)

Go on now go walk out the door
Just turn around now
‘Cause you’re not welcome anymore
Weren’t you the one who tried to break me with goodbye
You think I’d crumble
You think I’d lay down and die
Oh no, not I
I will survive
As long as I know how to love
I know I will stay alive
I’ve got all my life to live
I’ve got all my love to give
And I’ll survive
I will survive
I will survive…!

Is Studly Actually a Famous Football Player? You Decide

Studly Doright believes with his whole heart that he and Brett Favre could be twins.

Studly:

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Brett:

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Now, if I squint, I might mistake Brett for Studly’s second cousin’s great uncle’s youngest son. Otherwise, I just don’t see the resemblance.

But, you can weigh in. If he gets enough “yes” votes I’ll get up and make his breakfast on Saturday morning.

But wait, Studly said I needed to use this photo of Brett:

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Personally, I think this view comes closest to resembling my guy:

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Uncomplicated

A Facebook friend challenged me to write a companion piece to his “Uncomplicated” poem. Here ‘s my take on it.

Uncomplicated

Old Ford truck, tailgate down
Levis and a faded chambray
Flip flops, goosebumps
Two Buck Chuck in a Dixie cup.
Fire pit in October
S’mores well done,
Sitting on the back porch,
Drowning in the stars.
Church on Sunday very last pew
Singing all the old hymns
I’ll fly away, oh glory,
Amazing Grace,
And you.

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Daddy and Christmas Trees

In my childhood, picking out a Christmas tree was a family affair, but everyone knew that the ultimate decision was made by Dad. He had this great ability to find the perfect tree every year. And decorating it was his thing.

We could help as long as we followed two basic rules:
1. Evenly space out the ornaments,
2. Make sure the various colors of ornaments were distributed appropriately (i.e. No two reds too close together)

Mom never approved of the way Dad tossed the icicles onto the tree, so he’d wait until she went into the kitchen and with a mischievous grin he’d fling a handful here, another there until it was to his liking. We never had an ugly tree. And, if the eggnog was flowing, the tree became a true work of art.

Perhaps this is why I pretty much spoiled the joy of tree decorating for my own family. So intent was I on trying to make the tree perfect, like Daddy did, that nothing short of perfection pleased me. All moms have regrets, this is one of my biggest: that my children never wanted to help decorate the tree because I had an unattainable image etched in my mind.

My apologies kids. Maybe this year we can have our laid back tree.

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You’d never know it by looking at him, but the man was a tree decorating genius. I miss him so much.

Scurvy

Shouldn’t the word scurvy
Be an adjective to describe
A delicate morsel so sweet
And tasty that other treats
Blanch in comparison?
Gosh, that dessert was scurvy!

Or a nubile brunette reclined
On a chaise lounge
in a slinky red gown
My goodness, she is scurvy
Or even scurvaceous.

Instead, scurvy is a noun;
A disease brought on by a
Lack of some critical vitamin
C or D or K
Or is that rickets?

Anyway, it’s a disease: scurvy.

Rickets, come to think of it
Sounds like it should be some
Kind of annoying insect that
Chirrups in the darkest
Corners of the bedroom.

Darned rickets.

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