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)
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)
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.
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.
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)
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.
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.
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)
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
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.
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.
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
A Wise Man travelled
From Orient-are
Upon his arrival
He stopped in a bar.
On the stool beside him
Sat a Young Fool,
Short on knowledge of life,
If an expert in school.
The Fool talked a lot
Once their chat began,
He told the Wise Man
Of His “Full Proof Life Plan.”
“It may not be that easy,”
the smiling Wise Man said,
“Just do your best.
And you’ll have no cause to dread.”
“Of course I won’t, man!
This Plan is the best.
Feel free to borrow it.
Go ahead, be my guest!”
They went back and forth
And soon it was clear
To the Wise Man that this
Debate could go on years.
And that was a bummer
That no matter how wise
He was he couldn’t open
This poor Young Fool’s eyes.
But then in the course
Of tuning him out
The Wise Man detected
Some sweet music about.
The harmony keys
At first drew him in
Then he heard the lyrics
And they made him grin.
Their message was timely
And an inspiration
To a man full of wisdom
But not beyond frustration:
“What a Fool believes
a Wise Man has no power
to reason away.”
It made sweetness from sour.
This genius musician
His magical words.
The wisest thing, maybe,
The Wise Man had ever heard.
The song lifted his mood,
Made him feel alright.
From then on he didn’t care
If the Fool babbled all night.
No more was there pressure
To change his silly views.
“What this Fool believes,” he thought,
“That’s on him. Not you.
You’re a Wise Man with no
More power to reason
With this Fool than you have
To alter the seasons.”
This lesson from an
Invisible pop star
Was one he took home
That night from the bar:
What a Fool believes?
Not your problem, don’t fret.
There’s no reasoning with him.
At least, there’s never been yet.
*Both McDonald and Kenny Loggins have the songwriting credit on the Doobie Brothers classic linked above that inspired this story. The assist goes to Gaspar, Balthasar, and Melchior, Kings though not Doobies.
Mom by accident
I put your make-up on.
Accidentally I moved the plunger
in the car from in the john.
By accident I got turpentine
on the ceiling fan.
Somehow I found a way
to melt papayas in the van.
How all of this happened
I wish I could tell you more
But I can’t escape my room,
there’s gobs of gum in the lock on the door.
Why yes, you’re right it happened
accidentally, of course!
It’s Christmas Eve Eve
it’s time to decide
On which side of “Naughty or Nice”
You reside.
I’ve minded the ledger
for three-sixty-three
to know which stockings to fill
and which to leave empty.
By today for most people
it’s perfectly clear,
but for some tomorrow
will decide their whole year.
For those still “TBD”
(and you know who you are)
perhaps take this last chance
to shine like a star,
To be grateful and generous
thoughtful and kind,
more orange-soda-sweet
than old-lemon-rind.
You say it’s too late?
Rest assured that’s not true.
Each tomorrow’s a new chance
To make a better you.
So on Day Three-Six-Four of this year,
here’s the trick:
Be nice. Tip the scales. You’ll be glad.
Signed, St. Nick.
This, one of my favorite Norman Rockwell covers was published on December 16, 1939.
For more of Rockwell’s classic Christmas images, click here.
For a doctor,
For a bus,
If a junkyard,
then for rust.
For a letter,
For a sign,
Several times a week,
in line.
It may take minutes,
It may take months,
But the only unbeaten
wait lifter is patience.
One time Sinatra laughed so hard
He fell right off his chair,
Then looked up at the gathered crowd,
and said, “Ringy dingy, I don’t care
If your whole rooty tooty friends and family
See me here ;
Pop your cameras, if you please,
And keep a snapshot of my cheer.
Just be warned of one thing,
From Ol’ Blue Eyes on this deck,
If you’re nearby orchestrating
How you’ll tap dance on my neck:
Don’t yews guys get wise and think,
‘Hey look, he’s down, we’ve scored.
Finally an opportune time to
Go do something untoward!’
Rest assured that even laughing
On my back flat as a board
I can hold my own from here and be
The Chairman of the Floored.”
For more inspiring photos from @HistoryInPics where I found this one, click above on the image of floored Frank.
Dad says what we got’s magic snow,
That somehow made our driveway grow,
That somehow made him say words that
He swears he doesn’t really know.
Dad says that each new inch that falls
Lengthens the driveway by ten feet,
That if we left right now, perhaps,
Some time next year we’d reach the street.
Dad says the thing we need most now
Is a summer-style-sun,
To melt some of this magic snow
And make our driveway a walkable one.
Mom says that sounds great but while we wait
A pass with the shovel may be in order.
Dad hears and looks nervous before blurting out,
“But I can’t! Don’t you know? I’m a magic snow hoarder!”
Working so hard
That his days had no end
Dear old Alex Zandle
Burned his candle at both ends.
He worked in his shop
Then outside he toiled
He used hammers, and griddles
And extractors for boils.
In every subject
He mastered his lessons,
Well, all except one,
The Subject of Expressions.
We learned that one day
When the poor chap looked tired
And after his physical state
We inquired.
“What say you, Alex,
Are you feeling alright?
Your breathing sounds sniffly
And your steps don’t look light.”
“Why thank you for asking!”
Said dear Alex Zandle,
“It seems this time I’ve
Burnt myself down the candle.
But you know what they say:
Drown a cold, parch a fever,
And soon you’ll be purring
Like a Golden Retriever.”
On his head cold, soon after,
He did get a handle
But a grip on Expressions
Still eludes Alex Zandle.
Don’t wear a cute suit
if you go to Mulch Gulch,
wear the filthiest clothes that you own.
And don’t call for help
because friends never answer,
when calls from there light up their phone.
Bring a pitchfork for heavin’
and plan to be leavin’
wearing dirt from your ears to your feet.
Because down in the Gulch,
named after its Mulch,
the Dirtiness cannot be beat.
ZOINKS! – Scooby-Doo (above) wisely armors himself in a protective Mystery Machine-issue Hazmat suit while investigating the Notorious F.I.L.T.H. of Mulch Gulch. (Photo: PaC)
Whatever you are, be a good one,
Unless you’re a cottonhead,
Unless you’re a Q-Tip.
One day we were driving
When Sister yelled, “Potty!”
So off-road Dad drove,
Then Sis whispered, “Nah. Sorry.”
One day Sis cried, “Potty!”
So Mom hit the brakes.
At the next gas station,
Sister giggled, “Nope. My mistake.”
Then one day Sis screamed, “Potty!”
This time Mom and Dad both said, no.
Only that time, we soon learned,
Sister really did have to go.
Andy asked Angie
nicely one day,
“Would you mind
if I borrowed a book?”
Angie replied,
“Of course you may.
Here’s my library shelf.
Go ahead. Take a look.”
Andy chose a volume
and inquired
“Have you read this?
How’s this one?”
Angie answered,
“I’ve read it but
won’t spoil it ‘cause
Spoilin’s no fun.”
So Andy borrowed
the book and began it
But he didn’t want
to spoil it either.
So when his head
wasn’t stuck in that book,
Andy stored it in
the Refrigereader.
When she brought home
my new kid sister
Mom said,
“Say hello to Carrie.”
I thought that’s what Mom said,
but am I certain?
Well, no.
Not very.
Because Dad calls the kid
“L’il Chicken”
or
“Queen of Sheba-Geneeba Sleuth.”
While Mom says to her,
“Just look at you,
My Sweet Precious Little
Houndstooth!”
Gramma sings
“Hi Boo-ga-loo,”
while strolling baby
‘round the block.
Grampa asks Dad
for pictures of
“My favorite l’il
Cuckoo Clock.”
Me?
I’ve learned:
forgetful silly tongued grownups
can be scary.
Lucky for my sister
I for one
will be sticking with her real name:
Carrie.
Scooter Scutter, scribble junkie
drew lions, tigers, bears and monkeys,
speedboats, tractors, unicycles,
Sallys, Stevies, Mindys, Michaels,
In pens and ink, paint and charcoal,
marker, crayon, colored pencil,
on paper, plastic, ceilings, walls,
cereal box tops, basketballs.
His friends asked once, “What is it, Scoo
about drawing that soooo grips you?
The lines, the shapes, the shades, the faces?
The capturing of things and places?”
Listening, Scoo kept his eyes on his pad,
his tireless stylus moving like mad.
He said, “Not sure I have an answer for you,
‘cept I draws ‘cuz not drawin’
colors me blue.”
Tweed Typewriter 