I’m painting on our housebricks
even though I’m not allowed.
But I don’t think Mom or Dad will mind,
they’re gonna be so proud.
Why I do things like this sometimes
I guess I just don’t know.
But tell me, have you ever seen
a better brick rainbow?
Category Archives: Word Doodles Galore
EATEN UP INSIDE
The friendly Timmy Termite
has never been cool
in the eyes of the neighbors
or the children in school.
When they hear that name, ‘Termite,’
they wrinkle their noses,
when they see him they wilt
like ten year old roses.
Oh how sad it is
his mere hunger for wood
makes the entire world
judge someone no good.
The whole world but one:
a fish called Anchovy
who knows what its like
to never feel cozy
in the company of people
who don’t say it but think,
“Did he say his name is ‘Anchovy’?
Now I know what stinks!”
That’s why they each kinda’ get it,
This tiny fish and smaller bug,
Why the other is on
An endless quest for love.
ED-ITATION
“Ol’ Ed Reed starts with an Ed
And ends with an Ed….
Is that right, Fred?”
“That’s right,” said Fred.
“It’s why all his friends
Call him ‘Bookends’
As a nickname
Because his edges are the same.”
I asked him, “Ed
Whendja get it in yer head
Thatcha start with an Ed
And end with an Ed?”
He said, “’Twas plain to see
The first day I could read
The combo ‘E-D’
I had two of’em in me.”
“Well shucks, Golly!”
I said to Ed Reed,
“Lose that ‘R-E’
And you’ll be Tidy Ed Ed!”
He said, “No thank ye, sir,
I’d much prefer
To finish how I started:
Two ‘Eds’ by one ‘Re’ parted.”
APPLICABLE EVERYWHERE
The same code deciphers furniture making,
taxidermy, pastry baking,
the bassoon,
chemistry,
tumbling and
astronomy.
Yes, success in anything
from jumping rope
to mathematics,
is unlocked by the same
old three-word key:
Keep At It.
SHORT STORY
Dad said,
“Summer’s out of mothballs, kids!”
We said,
“What does that even mean?”
He laughed,
“Go check out the clothesline!”
We did,
And this is what we seen:
A parade of tan,
red and seersucker,
Madras, orange,
navy and plaid.
We can’t ever recall
a sign of summer
That’s made us kids
feel so sad.
MAN O’WARDROBE
THE ZEN HEN: On the Most Important Wheel of the Day
If you need to make
breakfast go far,
put a banana and a bagel
on the roof of your car.
Hhhooray!
H is a letter that sounds like a word
spelled a-t-c-h-e,
that looks like one rung on the alphabet ladder
that stretches from A to Z.
H can give a lift
even when h is small,
and resembles
a ladderback chair,
So when H appears
Instead of “Ho-hum,”
Think,
“A humble helping hero is here!”
REPEAT: THE QUESTION
Would Wood
Rob rob
chilly chili
in Inn
Four ‘fore
dear deer
paws’ pause
cause caws
cliques clicks
where ware
bare bear
steer steer
hare hair
to two
bored Board
Principals principles?
Or,
Might that stiff, Bob, steal frosty meat stew while attending Hotel Quattro before the ceased moving of precious hart feet prompts rhythmic ticking noise from crow-based social clubs in the same vicinity that surly, difficult longhorns short on merchandise guide rabbit fur in the direction of a couple disinterested governing school administrators fundamental beliefs?
Making of THE REDUN DANCE – Notes from the first draft, written March 8, 2012 – more than a year before any of this here tweed saw the light of day. (Photo: PaC)
BELLY, BELLY
Dad had many sayings:
By George!
By Jove!
Great Scott!
and
No matter what you think,
There is a lid for every pot!
But we knew we’d really boiled
His patience into jelly
When with wide eyes he whispered,
By Roosevelt’s horse’s belly!
We don’t know where it came from
We don’t know what it meant
Except it was time for our
Misbehaving to relent.
T.R., I bet, would dig the line
Most likely, too, his horse.
His horse’s belly would think it
Poetry, of course
Even better than the classic
One-worder of Ted’s, “Bully!”,
Its cousin, Dad’s much longer fave,
“By Roosevelt’s horse’s belly!”
Image
C: II
On July 3
We celebrate C,
Among the letters
None is better.
FOR MORE from the Tweed Typewriter’s Twisted Tour of Alphabetowne, click here.
SMALL DETAIL
Before Mama went out
she said to the sitter
“If you please, I’ll need you
to make the kids’ dinner.
They’ll eat anything
so it should be easy.
Oh, but try not to make
anything that’s too greasy.
Other than that, really,
anything will do.
But. . .things with strong smells
they’ll spit back with a Peeee-uuuuuu!
Otherwise, trust me,
it won’t be hard,
Juuust – don’t try to serve
food that comes from a jar.
And best not to try fooling,
their jar-dar is keen.
And if she senses any tricks
the little one gets mean.
But I mean it, they’ll eat whatever
And if they fuss, don’t take it.
Though should they ask for a thing you don’t know
I’d learn quickly how to make it.”
How fast that sitter could learn to cook
I guess we’ll never know
But out through an open window
We’re certain she could quickly go.
PRECISION MATTERS
It could be the space at the back of a car
It could be the spine of a tree,
It could contain a clog of elephant snot
or treasure lost under the sea.
Which proves that descriptions sometimes
Are all we have to not be sunk
Because on highways, in forests, in jungles, ‘neath oceans
A trunk’s not a trunk’s not a trunk.
SO WHICH IS IT: Monster Shadow or Shadow Monster? (Photo – PaC)
PUDDLE VISION
When storm clouds clear
And Mom lets us outside
There’s just one thing that I see,
I’ll confide:
Not rainbows, although,
They’re certainly pretty.
Not the fresh sunbeams
That are drying the city.
Not the wet worms
Not the drenched cars or trees,
Not the once again buzzing about
Birds or bees.
While all of that stuff
Might make others’ focus muddled,
After rainstorms I only
Have eyes for puddles.
And when I get home
None of me clean or dry
Mom shakes her head
And wonders why,
“Why is it in puddles
You must run with such glee?”
“I can’t help it,” I say,
“They’re all that I see.”
MERRY LITTLE PUDDLE JUMPER – Ocean City, NJ 2015 (Photo – PaC)
THE LOOKS AROUND
There are almost no places
Where there are no faces
Even in the cases
Of in-between spaces
Like the Frowning-Big Tree
His acting has no range
Which isn’t so strange:
Bark expressions don’t change.
Or the Tractor-Wheel Elf
While his view always spins
That strong rubber chin
Won’t let sickness set in.
Perry is the given name
of Snowy-House Face.
While the world to summer always wants to race
He for hot weather forever must brace.
Yes, even while you
sit at work thinking
The-Face-In-The-Drop-Ceiling-Tiles
is blinking.
Take it from me
the Garden-Stone Grump
I may look like a rock-headed chump
But I’ve gathered perspective here from my rump:
Ungaze from the obvious, like Mr. Moon,
Don’t let on the foreground your focus last
And slowly at first but before long fast
Will appear all the faces you used to rush past.
NOTE: To see this poem with photos in the STELLER STORY format in which it originally appeared, click here.
LID-DLE RIDDLE
Nothing causes more kitchen angst
Than Tupperwars,
Prompting battles for cupboards
And skirmishes for drawers,
They start out above
Then spill onto floors,
Hazards to those
Opening cabinet doors.
“There’s a bowl for every top”
is popular lore
but the day it comes true,
wild elephants will soar.
Till then the curse continues,
In kitchens rich and poor,
And all mankind must pray,
For an end to Tupperwars.
BOBBER
Dear old Johnny Corkforbrains
Was “Bobber” to his friends.
He loved to float ideas but
Didn’t always think through the ends.
He thought, “A Tin Man suit would shine
In a Halloween lightning storm!”
Thought he needed to speak French
To listen to French Horns.
Thought “Swap that sugar in for salt,
They both look the same!”
Thought “What could be so different
Between a wild horse and a tame?”
The meanings and looks of things and words
Into the Bobber never sunk
That’s why he claimed that chocolate chips
Were related to chipmunks.
But despite his errors, he was a nice fella’,
So nobody complained
About sweethearted simpleminded Bobber,
A.k.a., Johnny Corkforbrains.
“If there was a bottle, yo’, I’ll stop it.” – Mantra, J.C.f.B (Photo by PaC)
PRECORDED HISTORY
A caveman carved a photo
With a lens of stone:
Of a bubbling tar pit,
Of brontosaurus bones,
Of a running horse
In a French cave drawing,
Of a sabretooth with
His t-rex neighbor, jawing.
Then going “MOTION PICTURE”
He shot two glaciers racing,
The footage looked like still shots ;
Blame the racers pacing.
Capturing the land before time,
His stone Nikon in hand
A photog Missing Link he was
The Caveman Cameraman.
CLEMENTINE WHO
To the tune of
“O, My Darling,”
did a Mama sing sweetly,
to her girls,
Rose and Mary,
when they were just
one and three:
‘Sissy Ro-Ro,
Sissy Ro-Ro,
Sissy Ro-Ro,
Sissy Mare!
Sissy Mare-Mare,
Sissy Mare-Mare,
Sissy Mare-Mare,
Sissy Ro!’
As they grew up
Rose and Mary
Agreed Mama’s words were fine.
So not ‘till now in
this here story,
did they hear of
Clementine.
WALKY TALK
TO SEE THIS WALKOPHONOUS POEM & COLLAGE AS PART OF THE #STELLER STORY IN WHICH THEY WERE ORIGINALLY POSTED, CLICK HERE.
If my footsteps,
(Fall crunch: over leaves)
Were able to talk,
(Winter crisp: on snow)
The sound of their words,
(Spring slosh: through puddles)
Would depend when I walk.
(Summer scratch: sandy toes)
O. bOy
To be like
the letter O,
around and around
you must go.
Turn all day
but corners resist,
like a gyroscope-dreidel-top
let spinning persist.
Then when a donut
Is in your looking glass –
Holey Hula-hoop, you’ve made it! –
You’re an O at last.
Pan-O-Ramas, from Top:
The Boardwalk, Ocean City, NJ ;
The Palace Theater, Albany, NY ;
John Boyd Thatcher State Park ; Voorheesville, NY ;
Photos: PaC
In Visible Hands
There are at the centers of my palms
eyes,
They look all around when I wave
“Hi!”
So while it applies to folks
everywhere,
I find that it’s more true
for me:
That the times I reach out
to the world,
Are the times it’s the most
that I see.
METS BRAIN FEVER
Hey, Mets.
Go? Let’s.
Hit’em long,
Throw’em strong,
Leather, flash,
Bases dash,
Play ball,
All fall.
So Mr. Met
Must never fret,
Think magic numbers & old tricks,
Like Sixty-Nine & Eighty-Six.
If fortunes stray,
For miracles pray
When hope is nada,
Believe, ya’ gotta,
Yes, Mets.
Get it, let’s:
A pennant pretty,
New for Citi.
Then stay sound,
From the mound,
The rubber, toed,
The batters, mowed,
The flames dealt,
The lineups melt.
That’s how it’s been
When it’s amazin’:
Gems hurled,
To the Series, World,
Cool as Vlassic
In the Classic.
Show no quit
In the books, put it.
Not a bit of fade,
‘Till there’s a parade.
Woo-hoo,
Orange and blue,
Make a scene
Out in Queens
End our wait
To celebrate
Yo, Mets.
Go! Let’s!
STILL HAVE my David Cone autographed 8×10 glossy, purchased at a baseball card show (what are those?!?) circa 1990. I can recall hearing on the radio that he’d been traded to the Blue Jays in August ’92. I was crushed.
While I can’t express as eloquently as others have the emotional roller-coaster of being a former die-hard, I am very much in their tent when it comes to the New York Mets. They were my first irrational sports love, and since then, have remained one of the teams that occupies a permanent place inside me. Admittedly, and without shame, I’d call my Met fandom today a fraction of what it once was. Now when I cheer, out of respect for the every day, pavement pounding, orange-and-blue collar fans, I cheer quietly ; in the same way many Catholics describe their faith, I say I’m lapsed. But I also contend, as evidenced by the sporadic but unmistakeable ways that it surfaces every so often, that my Met-love won’t ever completely be gone. Which is why since they won the National League last night for the 3rd time in my lifetime, only their fifth pennant in 53 seasons, I’ve had Mets on the brain, dripping in bits and bursts into a notebook and then above. Somethings, when you learn them young enough, simply become a part of you. They might fade like the snapshots in Back to the Future (sorry, Cubs fans), but in time, the real stuff always returns.
THE PERFECT FOIL
How I love fall foilage,
How its colors are grand,
How they make a painting
How it revamps the land.
How I love fall foilage,
How it lights up the trees,
How it falls into piles,
How they reach my knees.
How I love the foilage,
How it scatters like sprinkles,
How it’s earth toned confetti,
How when crushed, it crinkles.
Oh, how I love foilage,
If it had its own song
I’d know every word
And get none of them wrong.
DAYS CRAZE
Some days I want a hammock
Some days I want a smock
Some days I can find all the keys
Some days I lose the lock.
Some days I’m good at sleeping
Some days I cannot rest
Some days I know the answers
Some, I forget the test.
Some days I’m dreaming big
Some days I read fine print
Some days my eyes are clear
Some, they have their own tint.
Some days feel different at the start
Some days feel much the same
Some days I take too seriously
Some too much like a game.
Some day I’ll reminisce about
Some days and how they were spent.
Some days I won’t recall by then,
When I’m wondering where all of’em went.
SUNSET – Shem Creek, SC
makE no mistakE
A-I-O and-U agree
in their eternal love for E,
that vitamin that helps the vowels
sound like who they be.
When a mat needs a mate
or a lobe comes from a lob,
when the slim become slime
that’s ol’ E on the job.
Who can make a rat rate?
can make a shin shine?
can make a hug huge?
or make a fin fine?
E looks like an afterthought
tacked there on the tail
but without E on occasion
the vowels self-esteem might fail.
So when tin must be a tine
When a lug must luge
When a pin need be pine
just one letter will do.
EvidEncE – Except in baseball, Es are tremendously helpful.
Tweed Typewriter 