Author Archives: Paul Camarata

BE RINDFUL

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One small boy
can handle an apple,
A peach, a pear,
the largest strawberry.

One girl can devour
an orange, a fig,
a pile of dates
or even blueberries.

Between two pals
A giant grapefruit
or a big bunch of grapes
won’t very long last.

Among a few people
a bowlful of raisins
Or a pound of cherries
will be gone fast.

But above the rest
is one social fruit
That can only be consumed
by a large group that’s gelling,

Because like a village
raising a child
It takes a whole team
to eat one watermelon.

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BIG BREAK

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Half way through October
Columbus is my best friend
For his famous trip that led us to
A three day-long weekend.

The next month comes the long weekend
When three days turn to four:
When we say, “Thanks, Thanksgiving,
For serving us that much more!”

There’s the great week-long weekends in
December and the spring,
They make me smile, yes,
But only one weekend makes me sing:

It begins the day that school lets out
Sending fun into high gear:
It’s the biggest best break ever,
The Longest Weekend of the Year.

At the start of it the end of it
Looks way further away
Than the New World looked from Europe
On an explorer’s set-sail day.

On this magical most-long weekend
That lasts a quarter year
You don’t need navigation,
It’s permissible to veer

From late nights to slow mornings,
There’s no brakes on this big break:
The Longest Weekend of the Year
Means having and eating your cake.

And when sadly in late August
The Longest Weekend ends
You’ll appreciate again Columbus,
Our three-day-gifting friend.

RADIO QUESO

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On my Milwaukee Talkie
I can hear Racine,
And Green Bay and Kenosha,
And all the points between.

I can keep up on the Badgers,
The Brewers and the Pack,
And if for the 10000th time
Brett Favre is coming back.

On my Milwaukee Talkie
I love to talk up Pabst,
And how I don’t like the first name
Of Minnesota Fats.

The Bucks, Laverne and Shirley,
Alice Cooper, Happy Days,
have made the world talk about
Dear old Mill-ee-waugh-kay.

But if it’s not enough for you
To only hear about it,
If you need a special way
To celebrate and tout it

Then get and keep your own
Milwaukee Talkie by your bed
And before you sleep each night
Tune in to Channel Cheesehead.

Artist rendering of a Milwalky-Talky, produced by SONY subsidiary WISCONY.

Artist rendering of a Milwalky-Talky, produced by SONY subsidiary WISCONY.

A SWEET SITUATION

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Don’t make me eat these donuts
Because I will, I swear
It may be almost dinnertime
But I don’t even care.

I’ll take down the powdered sugars,
All the crullers and old-fashioneds
With no concern how it offends
Those potatoes that you’re mashing

‘Cause I feel a little nuts and
Upsetting spuds won’t hold me back
From irrationally ingesting
A giant donut stack.

Will my appetite be ruined?
Let’s just say I’ll take that chance.
In this game of donut chicken
Try and push me and we’ll dance.

Click on the photo of JFK - here, stopping for donuts at a West Virginia store in 1960 - for more great HistoryinPics. (Photo: HistoryinPics)

Click on the photo of JFK – here, stopping for donuts at a West Virginia store in 1960 – for more great HistoryinPics. (Photo: HistoryinPics)

STRING DANCER

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I want to run away
You can think me a fool
I want to leave this place and join
An elite Yo-Yo School,

I want the finger magic
The skill to twirl and flick
How making disk and string obey me
Would be plain epic,

The Walk the Dogs
And Elevators
Eiffel Towers
Alligators
Cradled Cats
And Rounded Corners
Twinkled Toes
And Jolly Mourners,

Imagine all these parlor shows
That will reside in my elbows,
Wrist and palm and thumb combos
Yos flying high, yos digging low,

For the knowledge I will need
For the lessons that I crave
For a mastery of Yo
I will gladly be a slave,

Years of study it may take
Perhaps a decade, that’s a fact
But like a yo
After I go
If I do right
I will be back.

EIGHN’T THAT THE TRUTH

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Mom’s a driver, hand on the van
Mom’s a cook, hand on the pan
Mom’s a shopper, hand on the bread
Mom’s a tailor, hand on the thread
Mom’s a scrubber, hand on the towel
Mom’s a builder, hand on the trowel
Mom’s a math whiz, hand on the bills
Mom’s a doctor, hand on the pills.
It all proves that
Mom’s part octopus:
At least eight-handed
Looking after us.

ROUND AND ROUND

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My sister’s dance recycle was held this afternoon
The open was a fresh take on the classic “Brigadoon.”
The ballerinas stole Act II updating “Claire de Loon”,
Next came a Modern version of “The Ballad of Rocky Raccoon.”
Throughout it all I snacked on extra crunchy Lorna Doones,
Which the Tap Dance Troop’s clicks covered to a new “Angelina, Zooma-Zoom.”

From where this event got its name,
at first I had no clue:
There were no boogeying bottles or can-canning cans.
But after seeing the old songs
rethunk, reduced, and reused
“Dance Recycle” is now a name I understand.

recycle_edit

PADIDDLE AND SKEDADDLE

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Skedaddle whistles
To move along Padiddle
Who cannot decipher
The Hurry-Up Riddle

of faster, quicker,
sooner, more,
of pick up your feet
and get out the door.

When Skedaddle says
Hurry!
Padiddle says
Don’t worry.

If Padiddle wonders,
Why rush?
Skedaddle says,
Hush!

When Skedaddle asks
How should we go?
Padiddle answers,
Definitely Slow.

If Padiddle refuses
to move fast
Skedaddle’s expression
becomes aghast.

If they were horses
Skedaddle’d be at the battle
while Padiddle lagged back
fixing his saddle.

The Airship Padiddle
would relax at the gate
while Skedaddle soared off
from the chance to be late.

Though their names sound alike
Padiddle
Skedaddle
they work no more the same
than a fiddle and rattle.

THE LIGHT

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If life were like a grotto
There would be no score
If the lighter of a candle
Had been rich or a poor

Or boy or girl
Or black or white
Or young or old
Or left or right

Or what had brought’em there
Or how many lights they’d lit
Or if they liked to stand in back
Or kneel alone or sit

No one keeps track of how to spell
The candle lighters’ names
At a grotto time is better spent
Reflecting on their flames

And when the spirit moves,
Passing the light along,
With no thought that the candle
You’re sharing from is wrong

If life were like a grotto
Every light that we discover
Would warm and guide and give itself
To freely spark another.

ROBERTO CLEMENTE BENIGNI MUSSOLINI KENNEDY’S QUANDARY

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Danish, Denmark, Netherlands,
Dutch, Flanders
Flemish.

France, Wales, Britannia
Scotland, Irish
English.

Peruvian,
Bermudian,
Australian,
Toboggan,

How will I ever fit the great big world inside my noggin?

Roberto's Globe

GLOBERTO

Screen Shot 2016-02-21 at 10.11.42 AM

Click on the “book cover” image above to see this poem presented as a #StellerStory.

THE DOOR TO NOWHERE

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Today I will be busy
Though I have no to-do list,
Just lots of stuff ahead of me
That nobody should miss.

All of it is out there
In one easy to find place
That has no walls or ceiling
But endless open space.

The directions there are simple:
Walk right out the Door
To the magic land of Nowhere,
It’s the greatest to explore.

All it takes is curiosity
And every trip Nowhere will prove
That no matter what you’ve heard
Nowhere is someplace too.

A view from the beneath the roof over the Door to Nowhere

The view from beneath the roof over the Door to Nowhere (Photo: PaC)

See Timothy Egan’s column in The Old Gray Lady for more on the value of minds that go Nowhere — John Lennon’s, for instance.

THE SCOWL SO-sigh-ETY

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Charter Members, The Scowl So-Sigh-ety

The Scowl So-sigh-ety
meets way back in Angry Alley,
Deep in the heart of Distasteville
across Disgruntled Valley.

If you’ve never met them
I suggest you stay away,
unless, of course,
you love looking for clouds on sunny days.

If so, run to their next meeting,
frowning’s the sole entry fee,
So show a grumpy face, complain,
and join the Scowl So-Sigh-ety.

To see The Scowl So-Sigh-Ety as a #StellerStory, click the image below.

Screen Shot 2016-01-20 at 10.18.28 PM

MAN’S BEST FRIENDS’ BEST FRIEND

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Has his old broken down Honda
got your dog into a jam?
Did your goldfish back his Ford
into an unsuspecting lamb?

Then come pay us a visit
– now don’t delay or stop! –
Yes, come see Sam Cram’s world renowned
Pet Automotive Shop.

We’ve got gaskets, gears and wipers
for every pets’ cars’ needs:
from the Jaguar racing horse
whose vintage Pinto’s lacking speed

to the calico who’s preference is
whitewalls on his Tacoma
and the ferret who wants front seats
reeking of Vanillaroma.

Yes, old Sam Cram the Pet Car Man
makes driving dreams come true
for domesticated motorists
and biped owners, too.

SEA-SONA-NON-GRATA

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Be gone Old Man Winter,
You’ve had your prance.
I’ve already put away
all my corduroy pants.

April is half gone now,
the green grass is showing,
so much that I can hear
folks down the street mowing.

Baseball has returned,
we’re all thinking spring
nobody has interest
in one last icy fling.

You’re in this year’s rear view
as we head forward,
away from you Winter,
and the hot summer toward.

After the long, drab winter, popped lilacs are like purple pyrotechnics. (Photo: PaC)

After the long, drab winter, popped lilacs are like purple pyrotechnics. (Photo: PaC)

A BASKET CASE

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UPDATED 3-26-16: To read this poem as a STELLER STORY, click on the photo below.

Screen Shot 2016-04-02 at 11.18.07 PM

Last year’s Easter egg hunt
was in the old cornfield.
Now it seems that day
not every egg was revealed

and that from those left back
are this year being born
acres and acres of stalks
sprouting tiny eggcorns.

Nature’s packaged each one
in a shell in a husk,
so cracking the eggcorns
is a rusty padlock fuss.

But once their outer layers
are opened up and clean
the cob yolks deep inside
are like nothing that you’ve seen:

Purple, pink, and yellow,
orange, blue, and jade,
all the prettiest pastels,
every springtime shade.

Just how nature made this magic
Science is still figuring,
but one thing learned so far:
is mighty omelets
from the tiny eggcorns spring.

AN EASTER EGG RAINBOW

Eggcorns are the kernel of a colorful Easter breakfast. (Photo: PaC)  

GREEN HAIR SOLUTION

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In a pinch? In a bind?
Have an out of style flip?
That’s dampened your spirits?
Put a dip in your zip?

Well no messy hair doll
has reason to fret
who knows the old Ballad
of the Green Barrette.

It’s a song that licks cowlicks
and marches past bed-head,
that makes crooked parts
straight as new tire tread.

So to tune up your coif,
it may be your best bet
to sing that ol’ pea-colored clip classic,
The Ballad of the Green Barrette.

"SIGHT READING IS TOUGH, PILGRIM!" - An artist rendering of the original score from "The Ballad of the Green Barrette"

“SIGHT READING IS TOUGH, PILGRIM!” – An artist rendering of the original score from “The Ballad of the Green Barrette” (Photo: PaC)

DEAR TOOTH FAIRY

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Dear Tooth Fairy,
Wherever you might be,
Take one good guess
Who it’s time to come see.

If you are not near by
My apologies
I know sometimes your work
Takes you overseas

Or maybe this is your week
To be on holiday
Either way, with all respect,
There’s no more time to play.

Because another tooth
At eight-oh-four this morning
Leaped out of my mouth
Without any warning.

Now I’m sure that no one knows
The tooth business like you
Or appreciates how teeth can
Fall out out of the blue.

And while unexpected calls
Must make your life tricky
Just imagine how they help
Spur the economy!

Just what would happen if
No one ever called?
Think of the horror: poor you!
At home, watching the walls!

But at least for one more day
There’s no danger of that.
So stop what you’re doing, check my address,
And this evening, be here, stat!

AN ARTIST RENDERING OF THE TOOTH FAIRY ON VACATION - Seen here (silhouette, at center), riding her Vespa in Cinque Terra.

AN ARTIST RENDERING OF THE TOOTH FAIRY ON VACATION – Seen here (in silhouette, at center), riding her Vespa in Cinque Terra.