It does no good
To just look good
When real good you could achieve
Because doing can rarely be misconstrued
While appearances
Often deceive.
That’s why the straightest, strongest, tallest
“KEEP OUT” sign there is
Will always be more askew than
The crookedest “WELCOME” sign in the biz.
(Photo: PaC)
There are dentists everywhere
But not the kind I’d like to be,
That’s the kind who earns a living
Mending broken zipper teeth.
‘Cause as far as I can tell
Right now there’s no doc you can see
Who can take a fly or jacket that
Won’t move and set it free.
So the Earth’s first zipper dentist
Is what I would like it to be:
The foremost expert on the planet’s
Mechanical metal teeth.
Not because you have enough of them to flaunt,
but when they’re what they want
are eggs the ideal gift.
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?
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.
When I woke up this morning
The weather was hot.
But where were my flip-flops?
Did I know? I did not.
All through the long winter
All we wore was boots
Then suddenly the
Flipping trees had flopped fruit.
So in my bare feet
With nerves that were fraying
I searched for my flops
While I shoulda’ been playing.
Being flipflopless
Was terribly scary,
‘Till the moment I found’em –
That flipped on my merry.
‘Cause nothing says good times
Like flops on your feet
Not inside the house
But out on the warm street.
“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.”
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.
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
If you need to make
breakfast go far,
put a banana and a bagel
on the roof of your car.
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!”
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)
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!”
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.
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.
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.
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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)
Tweed Typewriter 