First Sign of Spring

 

 

 

Oh little earthworm

long and sleek –

crawling through the dirt – you peek.

 

Where am I now

you wander so –

you’ve traveled far – but gone so slow.

 

Coming up, from underground

carefully to steal a look -
 

beware the pokey fishing hook.

 

Beware dear worm

as you do peek –

 

 

Oops!

a snapping Robin’s beak.

 

 

Oh little worm

how does it feel

to find you’re someone else’s meal -

 

To be the cause of someone’s burp

 

in-between

 

a morning's chirp -

 

 

 

to be the reason

 

 

 

Robins sing

 

 

 

 

to let us know

 

 

 

 

 

it now is...

 

 

 

 

Oops -

 

 

 

 

 

the cat did SPRING.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



An Odd Beet

 

 

            Fine tuning a hammer is more of an art than a science.  To the pedestrian it appears a simple percussion instrument not lending much to the wind section and for the most part completely unrelated to strings.  But upon closer scrutiny one discovers the significant influence of Handel. 

 

            Before I get into all of that, however, I thought I would go out to the kitchen for some ice cream or Schubert.   Much to my surprise - a madman had run amuck over by the butcher block.  He looked to be a real Mahler.

 

            I didn’t panic I just looked at him and said,  “Not to be Mendelssohn but what are you doing in my kitchen?”

 

            He got a sudden look of panic about him and grabbed a knife.  Waving it at me he said, “Get Bach.”

 

            Then he grunted and looked up at the portrait I had on the wall of Larry and Curly.  He asked,  “Whose is that?”

 

            I explained that it wasn’t mine, but it was Mozart.

 

            Apparently he didn’t like my humor.  With the knife still in his hand he began to whack the top of the butcher-block.

 

            “What are you doing?” I asked.

 

            “Chopin.” He replied.

 

 

            I’m not sure what caused it but a beet suddenly rolled off of the counter and landed on the floor just behind the madman. 

 

            Startled, he spun around to see who was behind him.  As he did I grabbed the hammer from the junk drawer and smacked him on the back of his head. 

 

 

             As he lay there on the kitchen floor I looked down at him and said,   “B-flat.”

 

 

 

(Nobody said they'd all be good)

 

 

 

A Frosted Mug

 

 

I wasn’t Irish but I knew the tune –

my winter coat I shed -

for it was neigh the 10^th of June

at least so in my head.

 

I’d shut off thoughts of winter squalls -

several months too soon -

now I.V. drips through sterile halls

here in the month of June.

 

It’s where I died of coughing fits

they dug the Earth unfroze -

and wedged me in a long pine box

so slight it pinched my toes.

 

I wasn’t Irish but had the flair

to tip a pint of Stout -

and knew my Pals would after dark

show up to dig me out.

 

For pickled all these many years

one foot upon the rail –

no snivel gets the best of me

while still a pint of Ale.

 

I rose and shook this death away

and with my Pals did flee -

for though I am not Irish

the tune it knows of me.

 

 

 

Zobostic Corwin

 

 

 

Wish Bones

 

               They say that if you tell what your wish was it won’t come true.  I don’t believe that.  I believe our wishes waft out into the universe and because there are so many of everyone’s out there, they can’t help but bump into each other.   Some of the more gooey wishes stick to others and ultimately form huge globs of wishes.  I’m talking massive; like creating their own gravitational fields that draw in the less gooey and even light-hearted wishes.

 

               I believe it is these Jupiter sized wish globs that never get answered.  Only the wishes that manage to escape these force fields stand half a chance.  There may be some formula that will slip a wish past all of this, but I have never known what it is.  Just know that the expression, wishing your life away, is also a myth.  Don’t worry about it.  The more you put out there the better chance you’re going to have of getting one answered.

 

               Just as orbits eventually decay, so do massive wish globs.  The adhesion of the gooey wishes begins to fail and small sections as well as large chunks break off and fall away, sort of like pieces of iceberg.  Unfortunately, this does not free-up independent wishes.  Those, over time, fall victim to light particles and as we all know, in the light of day things always look differently.  This applies to wishes as well.  A good example of the effect time has on them would be to examine what you wished for when you were 10 years old and compare that to one of yesterdays wishes.  Not even close, are they?

 

               I’m guessing that in the future, space archeologists* will uncover old wish bones and attempt to reconstruct exactly what it was that was just so darn important to us.

 

 

*              2017 is when Space Archeology becomes a recognized and respected profession.  Mankind, after saturating the Earth with cultural debris for multiple lifetimes, turns to the vastness of space for the disposal of his refuse.  In 3035 it is the exploration of this debris that ultimately leads to the hit series, Space Pickers.  It is the story of two guys, buddies since space camp, who set out to search uncontaminated space dumpsters; searching for the coveted wall clock, the one matching the constellation Felinea.  (Felinea, seen only in the deep southern hemisphere - on clear nights, is an alignment of stars resembling a cat whose swishing tail and syncopated eyes have forever mesmerized space trolley riders.)  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here Comes Trouble

 

 

            I just finished a book called, “One more thing.”  It is a book of life stories by Peter Falk, A.K.A. Colombo.

 

            He has had an interesting life, but nothing I would care for.  By book’s end I had a pretty good idea what the man was like.

 

            Having just said that, it made me wonder what ideas and opinions are formed about me, based solely upon my writings.  My goodness, just thinking back over my ramblings and some of the topics I have selected, I’d tag me as someone walking about with lose bandages and frayed wires.

 

            Then again, with assessments based entirely upon literary blatherings, one could read Jabberwocky and demand Lewis Carol be shot and his widow charged for the ammunition. 

 

            My latest plunge is into a book called, The Other Shulman, by Alan Zweibel.  Too soon for any opinions, but I am sorry I read the Internet reviews first.  I’ll avoid doing that in the future.  It’s one thing to form an opinion about someone I’ve never met, but to color it with pedestrian assessments from the Internet…   How tacky is that?

 

            Cutting to the chase, the topic of this Sunday Morning, as you may have guessed, is impressions, first or otherwise.

 

            I walked into the Rochester Hills Public Library armed with the little note I had written to myself.  That note was the name of the book, The Other Shulman, and the correct spelling of the author’s name, Alan Zweibel.

 

            To get to the Reference Desk I had to walk through the main lobby to the stairs leading to the second level.  As I started to climb the stairs I noticed immediately to my right, a tall, well-dressed lady staring blankly into the window of the gift shop.    Yes, the library has a gift shop.  I don’t understand it either.

 

            Anyway, something told me that this lady was not checking out anything in the window but was just trying hard to look as if she was, but I could see her looking out of the corner of her eye at me ascending the steps.  A couple more stairs and the thought had left my mind.

 

 

            Once at the Reference Desk I held my note out and asked where I might find this book.  The Reference Librarian looked it up and then stood up.  She handed my note back to me and explained that the books were organized according to the author’s last name.  “Because his last name starts with a Z, she said, this book would be in the very last row, against the far back wall and would probably be along the bottom shelf.  If the carpet looks brand new you’re in the right spot.”

 

            Obviously not a well-traveled aisle.  I headed towards my destination, looking forward to finding The Other Shulman.  Much to my surprise, as I was scanning the bottom shelf, the tall lady from the gift shop window came walking around the far end of the same aisle.

 

            I was a bit startled thinking how strange is that?  I mean, what are the odds that someone else at the very same moment, someone who made sure I had seen her moments ago down stairs would also be going to the most remote corner of the library?   If she was some kind of nut-job, then getting away from her as fast as I could was in order.

 

            I found Mr. Shulman, grabbed his jacket and headed for the stairs, thinking now that just maybe I was the one being scrutinized and assessed.  It’s all together possible that I looked shifty, or suspicious, and if this lady was with the library police then keeping a close watch on me was the right thing to do.

 

            One more thing, when I finish this book I have to return it to the library.  In the event I am abducted, accused, placed in a line-up or simply disappear without a trace, I expect the readership of this blog to form a posse, raise funds and falling short of vouching for my character, simply assume my innocence. And remember; be generous when writing Internet reviews.

 

Note:  The above was written several years ago and I can’t remember what the book was all about, however, if you are looking for a great book, search for; Here Comes Trouble, by Michael Moore.

           

 

           

 

 

                       

Never-more...

 

          It was during my last clothes shopping excursion that I happened upon what appeared to be a good deal; it was an entire bag of white sweat socks for $4.00. 

 

          Like the Raven I am drawn to small, shiny objects and somehow the blinding lure of this $4.00 price tag triggered something in me and without even considering it to be an ambush I reached out and tossed them into my shopping cart.

 

          I’d like to interrupt this story for a moment and tell you about the battery business.  Some years ago Walter held the distinguished position of Vice President at a company that marketed batteries.  There was everything from jumbo RV batteries to small motorcycle batteries.  Over years of hearing the office chatter I picked up on the battery jargon.   One of the terms often bandied about was blem, short for blemish. 

 

          A blem could have been anything from a slight defect in the casing to a torn label.  It was something that caused the battery company to sell the product at a reduced price.  Obviously blems are not restricted to the world of batteries.  All manufacturers everywhere produce their share of blems.  Now a torn label on an automobile battery isn’t going to adversely affect that cars performance, however, grab a bag of white sweat socks that have been sewn in such a way as to produce 43 knots all wadded up at the toes and try and walk a straight line.

 

          It was in fact an ambush.  Blem Socks Incorporated has unloaded their misshapen and distorted footwear onto an unsuspecting public. 

 

          The real issue of course isn’t car batteries or socks.  The real challenge is how to identify, ahead of time, Corporate Blems.  How can we train ourselves to know a bad Corporation when we see one?  Any conscious decision to go ahead and sell that which you know to be wrong suggests that your mental capacity, and/ or social and moral compass is somehow amiss. 

 

          The only thing in our favor is that they all seem to have “Tells”;  those little indicators that, if you stay alert and watch for them, will flash at you just as brightly as that small, shiny bobble that lured you in to begin with.

 

          I’m thinking that perhaps I shouldn’t frequent clothing stores that employ the use of shopping carts.

 

  

 

         

R & R

 

We both need to get away for a while, you know – come up for air.  We have been working way too hard while knowing that each day we are seeing tick past is one we'll never get back.  Now is the time.  We simply have to go for it.

 

We put in for vacation and began scheduling our trip; first trying to get plane reservations that weren’t going to land us in the poor house.  So we kept watching the prices, checking back and comparing, knowing full well the moment we locked in our tickets the fares would drop.

 

Then comes the dance around the suitcase; what to pack, what will travel well, what not to bring and what we’re not allowed to pack based on the TSA rules.  No fingernail clippers, hand lotion, toothpaste, peanut butter, and heaven forbid you have a bottle of water with you.  Knitting needles?  No problem.

 

Oh, by the way - you better weigh that suitcase before you leave the house…  Forget about being blown-up or sky-jacked, the thing you need to worry about is how much more they're going to charge if you are a pound over.

Okay, what are the chances the airline is going to juggle our seats around so we're not sitting together?  They did it the last time.

 

The rental car industry has somehow added multiple variations to the size of vehicles. The auto industry manufactures small, medium and large, but the rental car people have divided up each of those categories into eighteen sizes, each a little more expensive than the next.

"No.  There is no GPS with this one.  We want you to drive around aimlessly, using up the gas and return it to us empty.  That's where we make our real money."

I think the last time we ended up with a sub-compact SUV, but that’s only because we had a coupon for a double upgrade.

 

Next comes the hotel rooms…  Where to stay?  Down by the beach was priced way out of our budget and yet too far out of town would leave us spending our vacation time on the freeway every day driving back and forth between our affordable hotel in the sticks and the restaurants and clubs back in the city.

 

The location of the room in the hotel is also very important; not next to the elevators that ding all night long with people coming and going and not next to the vending machines or ice machine.  We certainly don’t want to be under or over the pool, dance floor, bar or night club and never on the bottom floor with people stomping about in the room overhead with big convict shoes.  But not on the top floor in case there is a fire.

It must be No Pets Allowed and don’t forget to check for bed bugs.

 

Are we having fun yet?

 

 

 

 

We are glad to be back home.

 

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Crumby Side of Toast

          We buy S. Rosen's thin sliced – Dill Rye bread.  Not only is it fresh and flavorful but it is only half as thick as a normal slice of bread.  It makes a great sandwich but with half the carbohydrates and calories.

          Of course there is a down side.  Unfortunately I’m talking about duck down, like the water fowl.  These light-weight slices spring out of the toaster like frightened ducks suddenly taking to the air.  And it’s not just one of them either.  Right out of the wrapper they seem to mate for life, flying together high above the appliances the moment the toaster sets them free.  They are up and out and making their way across the kitchen.

          Then, before your reflexes can get a bead on them they’re sticking their feet out in front - spreading their wings preparing to land on the kitchen floor, just like ducks gliding in and skidding across a pond, until they slow enough to settle in with the dust bunnies and cat hair that makes up the surface tension of the hard-wood floor.

          So here’s where the problem comes in.  With respect to the 3 second rule… 


        Does the time start immediately at touchdown or does it begin when they finally come to rest, sinking to a comfortable floating level, amidst the crumbs, follicles and shoe droppings?

         

         

            

    

         

The Rise & Fall of Otis

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Even if you can’t see me you know where I am –

 

 

 

 

 

Surely you can hear me coming –

 

 

 

 

 

It’s no big secret –

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



A Trusting Soul

 

 

 

 

 

          I initially took this photo because I thought it was rather artsy.  It had a certain feel to it and a quality that just seemed pleasant.

 

            It wasn’t until much later - when I looked at the picture a little closer with the intent of using it on this blog that I realized the owner of the bicycle doesn’t lock it;

 

       not because they are trusting but because they have taken the seat into work with them.

 

 

 

 

 

 



Newborn

 

 

 

Mother & Child

 

On the Lamb...

 

 

 

 

Where is my Lamb Chop?

unraveled somewhere?

Stuck in a lint trap -

with old underwear?

 

Statler & Waldorf

reported you ran

with someone named Oscar

who lived in a can.

 

Kermit and Fozzie

and even Miss Pig –

said you lay on a plate

with a green little sprig.

 

Gonzo and Big Bird

Kukla and Fran

all want you back –

they just need a hand.

 

Come back to us Lamb Chop

with your cute fuzzy belly –

but not on a plate

with a little mint jelly. 

 

 Ha!