As they headed home from Nana’s house
late one clear, dark night,
Fred said to his Mom and Dad,
“See the moon there,
big and bright?
Could I pretty please this once
take it home with me?”
“Why, Fred,” his mother said,
“that idea sure is…….
lovely.
“And maybe you could,” she said,
“But how will you reach and get the moon?”
“How I get the kickball from the garage top shelf,”
Fred said,
“by knocking it down with the broom.”
“That sounds good,” said Fred’s Dad,
“but how’ll you catch it when it falls?”
“Easy,” said Fred,
“in Baby Jane’s old crib
where we keep all her dolls.”
“And just where would you keep the Moon,” Dad asked,
“once we got it to our place?”
“No problem,” Fred said,
“I’ll clear out my big wagon,
the red one, to make some space.
Then I can drive the moon around,
and show him our whole street.
The way he’s movin’ above the trees,
makes me think
he thinks seein’ stuff is neat.”
“Well that’s just it,” Fred’s Dad said
as their house came into sight.
“Here we are, back from Nana’s,
and the moon’s still with us,
big and bright.
That makes me think the moon loves traveling
just like you have guessed.”
“So, maybe,” Fred’s Mom said,
“leaving him to roam the sky
would be best.
And the next night that we’re out like this
and see the moon again,
I’ll bet he’ll hang out with us some more,
to prove, once more,
we’re friends.”
Fred gazed up at the sky and thought
about what his Mom and Dad had said.
“Yes, maybe you’re right,” he told them,
“I’m tired.
And the moon doesn’t quite look ready for bed.”
Mom got new rain boots
Red, rubber, and tall.
Dad asked, “How’d you choose’em?”
Mom said “They’re cool. That’s all.”
Now my Mom’s no liar
But I thought, nonetheless,
Let’s take those cool boots
And put’em to the test.
So when she was too busy
To stop my experiment
I took some cold milk
And in those boots it went.
Like a good scientist
I let my test tube be
And went off to play
For an hour or three.
Perhaps it was even longer
I lost track when Mom screamed,
The unexpected milk
In her boot had her steamed.
I said, “Wait one sec, Mom,
Take a breath, cool down.
Allow me to measure that
Milk puddle on the ground.”
Once I had I said, “Mom,
I’d be angry too!
This spilled milk is warm.
So those boots? Not so cool.”
The thing that they sold you
Is not what you bought.
It seems in some faux-thermo-
boot-scam you’re caught!”
Overcome with shock
Or maybe with grief
Like anyone who’s been
Taken by a thief
She said not a word
but just looked at me,
And I wondered perhaps
if deep down she felt glee
At her little scientist’s
new discovery.
Yes, I thought to myself,
pride must be what I see.
On the shortest day of the year
The sun takes an extra long lunch,
So long it doesn’t end until
Almost the next day’s brunch.
Head lights and night lights get lots of action
The day of the year that’s shortest.
While that day more than any other is for
golf clubs and lawn mowers the boredest.
It seems like it should be relaxing and yet
There’s always so much around you,
On the year’s shortest day, falling as it does,
Right about when the holidays do.
Still songs like “Oh, What a Night” or “Thank
the Lord for the Nighttime” spread cheer,
Of how happy folks get after early sunset
On the shortest day of the year.
Among everything else it is, the shortest day of the year is half a calendar away from its cousin the longest day of the year.
Want in on my Master Plan?
Come closer and listen to me.
Because the blueprint of it’s now taking shape
Oh so satisfactorally.
When’s it start, my Master Plan?
Well don’t worry it won’t be long now.
Just know by the end life will be so sweet
We’ll sweat candy bars from our brows.
Before that part, the Master Plan middle
Involves espionage and boats,
Action car chases, exotic horse races,
Fine jewelry, machine guns, fur coats.
What’s the Master Plan Step 1, you ask?
Simple: win the lottery. Huh?
Well….
…..guess what…
If you’re gonna’ roll on the floor laughing at it,
Then out of the Plan you can be.
At one time about baseball
There was little I didn’t know
From Tinker to Evers to Chance
To Cano.
But that knowledge has slipped
As I’ve watched the game less
Which I was ok with
‘Till my ignorance caused a mess:
One night I awoke
Suddenly from a crash
That sounded like a baseball
Coming through my window sash.
I squinted to gather
What it really was I saw
Sitting there resembling
A fluffy bear paw.
Sensing my fear it
Spoke first calling, “Child,
You need worry not
For my manner is mild.
At least to you it will be
For you’ve wronged me not.”
“Who are you?” I quaked.
“If we’ve met … I’ve forgot.”
“Some call me ‘Donnie Lipsmack’”
it laughed, “when I’m brash.
But most use my full name:
The Ghost of Don Mattingly’s Mustache.”
Hearing that I sat up and
Gave my eyes a wipe.
Sure enough the ‘stache had on
Number 23 in pinstripes.
Next I learned this apparition
Visiting that night
Had come on a mission
To make an old wrong right.
“I’ve come back,” said the Ghost,
“To settle a score
With the Ghost of Keith Hernandez’s Mustache,
That so-called hirsute legend of yore.
“Long ago we competed
For all the damsels fairest,
Who loved us most because
Our mustaches were the rarest.
And though many eyes then
Stuck to my upper lip
Hernandez’s was always
Considered more hip.”
“But I’m confused, Ghost,
Why come to see me?”
He motioned to the Keith poster up on my wall.
“‘Cause I thought you’d know where that ghost might be.”
“All I know, Ghost
Is Keith’s real mustache lives on.”
And the color drained from him.
“You’re telling me that thing isn’t gone?”
“Not last that I checked,
Though it’s been a while.”
“I was afraid of this,” he said,
through an upside down smile.
“I couldn’t beat it on Earth
and it won’t join me in the Sky.
The odds, for eternity,
That lip hair will defy.”
The good mood he’d arrived with
Had vanished in a flash.
Then Don’s whiskers’ specter
Began to sound rash.
“I’ll be second forever.
Know what that is? Lame!
Can I go on? How?!?
There’s no way!” he exclaimed.
“We should look it up, Ghost,
There’s a chance I’m not right.”
“M’boy,” he said, “I’m certain
that you’re too polite.
But there is no need
To go on pretending
the reign of Keith Hernandez’s mustache
Will have an ending.”
Like a wind-starved kite
With body language bad,
The Ghost of Don Mattingly’s Mustache
Was sad.
Slinking back to the window
At the spot he’d broken in,
The Ghost whimpered,
“Send my people a bill for the glass here, eh, cousin?”
Then like that: he jumped,
And I was by myself again.
When I heard a new voice say,
“Ol’ Lipsmack, aw hell, he was a great friend.”
Now with my blankets
Thrown over my head
I peeked at the Keith poster
Across from my bed
And saw there popping off
The image on the paper
Hernandez’s mustache,
But translucent, like a vapor.
“But how could you too
Be a ghost,” I inquired.
“When the real Keith’s real mustache
Has not yet expired?”
“Au contraire, my good friend,”
he said, “That’s not true.
Nowadays Keith’s as clean shaven
As the Mets wear orange and blue.
Google Image it if
You need confirmation,
Only now in this Ghostly form
Is the Hernanstache a sensation.”
“Well that means,” I said,
“Mattingly’s mustache’s ghost
Based on my bad info
Just made himself toast.”
“Oh don’t sweat it, pal,”
Keith’s ‘stache Ghost assured me
Things will work out fine for him.
Always do for a Yankee.”
“How can you be sure?
They’re not all in baseball heaven.”
Keith’s Mustache Ghost laughed:
“Because at title counting time,
they have 27.”
It was a good point,
And it was his last.
After that without more visitors
that haunted night passed.
Sometimes still I feel bad
Lipsmack’s Ghost met his Gillette,
Though I bet he’d choose death
Over life as a Met.
SANS ‘STACHE – Keith Hernandez today, with a clean upper lip. If only the Lapsed Mets Fan had known, perhaps the Ghost of Don Mattingly’s Mustache could have been saved. (Photo – Gary Gershoff)
The remarkable GROUNDS FOR SCULPTUREis like no place I’ve ever been. Part museum, part botanical gardens, this indoor/outdoor art gallery contains the realistic and abstract, the sublime and ridiculous. As remarkable as the space looked during my visit, I left thinking that I could probably enjoy entirely different experiences of it in the spring, summer, or fall ; in the early morning or by the light of the scattered lampposts and landscape lights. So large and diverse is the installation, that every trip there seems as though it would offer something unique.
On the afternoon I spent at this world class exhibition — tucked into a quiet, central New Jersey town between Trenton and Princeton — the plants on the snow covered landscape were still shivering, but doing so with their leaves turned optimistically toward the sun. The scenes produced by the intersection of the natural and man-made artwork on that Eve of Spring inspired my latest STELLER STORY, readable by clicking on the photo below.
Click the photo above to view scenes from the Grounds for Sculpture.
Tweed Typewriter 