Archive # 17



Faded memories.
Two men on a Summer’s Day.
indulge a wife’s whim.
A wedge of cheddar
a slice of apple pie and
things are lookin’ up.
Wistful reminders
of what you once meant to me,
shoved under my bed.
A sprig of parsley,
delicately placed on plate,
makes a nice garnish.
fine fettles of fish,
fancily filleted, feed five.
flounders feast filling.
The kitten struggles;
its head’s stuck in a box of
Meow Mix. Purrr-fect.
(alternate 3rd line: ‘Meow Mix.  Chex mate.’)
I yearn to be young,
not for obvious reasons,
but to have more time.
tanka haiku:  Bittersweet choc’late
then morose maple syrup,
where does it all end?
  With comatose caramels?
  The Domino Sugar theory.
Whispering willows,
drive the other trees crazy.
Why can’t they speak up?
Seriously, where
do we find all the time to
play games on Facebook?
In some dark cellar,
last year’s Christmas ornaments,
still wait patiently.
Comic books, candies,
walnuts and an orange, filled
his Christmas stocking.
Lithe and lovely, she
floats and flitters ’round the stage,
seducing us all.
A large rubber band
was the only thing keeping
his Life together.
Each Saturday morn,
young ladies with laundry bags,
wish for a washer.
This is the Future
that you dreamed about while you
sat in Study Hall.
Good God, she’s naked!!
He wasn’t often flummoxed,
but this … well … gee whiz!
The worker began
rummaging through his tool-box,
looking for pliers.
Those blue serge suits aren’t
getting better. The truth is,
they’ve gotten worsted.
tanka haiku: Sweetened lemonade
poured in paper cups and sold
to thirsty neighbors,
   seldom makes your children rich,
   but teaches squeezing lemons.
Shuttered cottages.
Dust settles on empty chairs.
Sunlight peeks through shades,
Would hammy actors
in the Yiddish Theater be
considered Kosher?
Word plays are funny
biz-ness; sometimes they work and
sometimes they don’t play.
Personal items,
given little thought today, are
future mementos.
A white handkerchief,
that belonged to his father,
found in a blue box.
Wondering whether
what you believe is the truth,
diminishes faith.
He ordered flowers
to be sent to his girlfriend
for he knew she knew.
Simple Simon met
a pie-man who’d sold his pies,
Simon sez “Hands up!”
Chatting with strangers,
finding commonalities,
makes the world smaller.
(double haiku): Writers, by nature,
Do not live in the Present,
They’re mining the Past.

But, some may protest,
‘What about Sci-Fi?’ Simple,
It’s Anti-Past … Ohhhh.

I was looking for something on my office computer and found this poem added onto the end of another document. I vaguely remember writing it about 5 or 6 years ago, but I don’t remember the specific impetus for it.  For some reason, I cut and pasted it into an office file and promptly forgot about it: 


They’re painting the walls of my little world grey,
All of the colors are fading away,

We drain ourselves dry so we match one-to-one,
Nobody argues, so nobody’s won,

But when nothing is wrong and everyone’s right,
It’s like trying to see, when you’ve turned out the light,

I’m afraid this is where our dull path has led,
I yearn for Magenta and Violet and Red,

All beliefs valid, nothing thought twice,
It may be perfection, but at too high a price,

Tolerance a virtue? Yes undeniably so,
But it must go two ways to continue to flow,

They’re painting the walls of our little world grey,
And if we allow it, we won’t have much to say,

The world doesn’t linger in the grey of the night,
It pauses there briefly, while it waits for the light,

Cheer the emergence of the morning sunrise,
It brings back the colors which melt away lies. 

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