There’s a foul stench with chickens
a smell that’s all their own,
Perhaps from being all cooped up -
except the ones who’ve flown.
A foulness that permeates
and gets within the shell –
Boil some and peel them,
what is that awful smell?
The Devil knows that evil pew
your house will surely reek,
Open up the windows
if it’s breathing that you seek.
Prop the doors wide open
jam them so they’ll stay,
Then get into your car and drive
so very far away.
For me, old bookstores also carry the heavy scent of
dust. The dust resting on the tops of
unread pages tends to waft about the store with only the slightest movement of
customers. It is history itself
traveling along the aisles, settling upon tabletops and into the fabric of
overstuffed chairs.
Collectively, it is a symphony of sights and sounds, of
stories and adventures tucked between covers designed to tempt you to extend
your hand, lift the book from the shelf and be carried off on someone else’s imagination.
Were I an artist, it would be old bookstores that I’d paint.
With muted colors filling the shelves, I would even hazard painting in the
squeaks from the worn floor planks, although never disrupting the soft
classical music drifting through the stretched canvas. Of course, I’d have to paint the tiny bell
over the door an annoying, disruptive color.
Maybe a dented brass color.
Hurricane preparations say
the wind will blow the other way
Boats in the harbor will bounce a bit
some will crash, a few will split
On whipping branches birds must cling
some might chirp but none will sing
With windows boarded, shops will close
where roofs end up nobody knows
It won’t affect the
but may warm up refrigerators
Market shelves will all be bare
no one has a square to spare
Weathermen, just somewhat tilted
reporting live, all wet and wilted.
The hand at the end of my sleeve
brings coffee to my lips
and should I get annoyed with you
it rests upon my hip,
it’s sometimes unfamiliar
with its fingers pointing out,
yet grabs the wheel when driving
and gets me there no doubt,
It combs my hair and ties my shoe
that I don’t trip on laces,
it scratches when I have an itch
in those hard to get at places,
It fluffs my pillow at end of day,
and holds my hand when praying,
but without a sleeve, cuz in the raw
never mind – that’s all I’m saying.
The drift was now more than halfway up my window and the
howling wind had not given up its struggle to find a way in. Door jambs and even the chimney sounded like
timber wolves snapping to get at my survival.
I couldn’t afford to lose power, for once that was gone it would only be
a matter of time before what little heat I did have would be replaced with a
stillness that only the dead of winter understood.
I desperately wanted to turn on the television to see what
was happening all around me, but the fear of the power draw on the system causing
it to fail was too great. For that
reason alone, I didn’t even flip on the radio.
I had my space heater and a few oil lamps going and that would have to do. If there were any neighbors alive out there,
they’d see my lights and pound on my door.
So far – there was nothing.
Nothing outside but a blinding blizzard and a distressing absence of
hope.
For just a moment I allowed my thoughts to wander out beyond
my current situation, to a place I knew in Florida. It was warm all year, every day. A person could just walk outside, no coat, no
gloves or scarf. I found myself smiling
at the thought of it, until a sudden rap upon my door startled me back to the
moment. Was someone truly there or had
my thoughts conjured up some passer-by, carrying with them a bowl of warm soup. Such a neighbor I had not known. In my shivering state I found it difficult to
remember just who my immediate neighbors were.
Had I ever met them?
Again, a pound upon my wooden door, loud and insistent but
who were they and what could they possibly want? Did they really expect me to unlock my
shelter, possibly allowing the wolves to gain access to my frozen fingers? And what about my feet? I had not felt them in some time. Could I even make my way to the door, leaving
the rest of me curled up here? Surely my
body warmth has taken up residence in these floorboards, keeping me from
drifting off again.
I should write this down, but I doubt the simple title of cold
would be adequate to express this drifting conscientious. I should dig much deeper into the alphabet,
maybe eight more letters down, where the K resides.
It is always dark and freezing at that depth, so spelling cold with a K
would be adequate warning to those pounding upon my door.
I think maybe first I'll have a little nap. I'm so tired..
It was a simple, little string. I bent down to pick it off of the carpet only
to find it was one end of a very long string.
As I gathered it up, I twisted it around the keys I happen to have in my
hand. In only a few steps I no longer
had to bend over but simply just walked through the house gathering up this long
piece of string. It eventually led me
out of the side door and down the walkway to the mailbox. By now, however, I couldn’t have used my keys
even if I wanted too. They were now inside
this growing clump of string.
This didn’t just appear.
Someone must have laid this out, but why? Was I going to discover a kite at the other
end of it? Well, apparently not, as I
could now see the string disappearing into my mailbox. I carefully opened the little door and inside
I saw the other end of the string was attached to a small package. This must be the prize at the end of this
little adventure, I thought to myself.
There was a note on the box that said, you’ll thank me
later. As it was my mailbox, I figured it must be for me, so I carefully
lifted it from the mailbox and pulled the string free from the small piece of tape
that held it to the mystery package. I
didn’t at all think it was dangerous, so I carried it back into the house and
set it on the kitchen table. By the
looks of it, all I was going to need was scissors and maybe a kitchen knife to
unwrap it.
This was exciting. Who
could have done this? None of my friends
could have gotten into my house to lay the string all around. Certainly, the postal worker didn’t know me
that well to be playing pranks on me.
This was quite perplexing. Ever so carefully I removed the tape from the
wrapping. As I pulled the paper away
from the package, I could see it was a small box with a tiny brass plaque affixed
to the top of it. The box was a rich mahogany
and looked to be hand made by someone quite skilled.
I turned the box
around so I could read the fancy scroll writing on the brass. It took a second but then I smiled. It said, A place for your string.
While I navigated between the jagged rocks
my ship questioned my every move
through her moans, creaks and anguished cracks.
Minor tears in her sails were growing quickly
into shredded rips, with much needed wind
now escaping through loud and annoying flutters.
My self-preservation was buckling at the knees,
blistered hands pleading for a rest.
Even I began to question my resolve, glancing
at the closeness of the rocks –
when suddenly the mighty ship stopped,
the metal safety bar lifted from our laps
and we exited to our left.
A Thursday Letter
Picture, if you will, an antique shop. Everything within the shop has been there a
while. Each item knows a little
something about the other items in the shop.
For example, that old Railroad lantern over there knows that table lamp
has kicked around the shop for some time now.
She has been looked at a few times, even picked up and examined a little
closer, but so far, she hasn’t sold. No
one has taken her home with them.
Absolutely everything in the shop has its own history, and it is that
shop history that the other items know about.
Rarely will an items complete history be known.
You and I are the same.
This time period is our antique shop.
We are traveling through it together.
We each know just a little about the other. We remember fondly those who have traveled
on. They are no longer here, traveling
with us. We are the items left. Some have left things behind, like
children. We will eventually leave this
time period but the things we have left behind will stay. They will be added to our history. Our personal story will expand.
As I do not leave any children behind, my history can be found in the bits and fragments of my writing. For while I am here in this antique shop, it remains my hobby that lays scattered about in the form of letters, books and blogs. They are the dust imprint left from where I once resided. My words become my footprint, so to speak. Not all gems, mind you, but none the less, a snapshot of an antique Zobostic.
This Thursday letter has, so far, avoided the elephant in
the room. It is the dreaded trip I have
scheduled to see the dentist.
I have no teeth issues but am simply establishing a
relationship with a dentist in the area, in the event I need one someday. I had a good dentist back in Michigan, but he
retired. Now I find myself surrounded by
Floridians and am now destined to be labeled and lumped into the “old”
category. No longer will I be Zobostic and
he be Doctor Sullivan. Those days are
over. Now I will be referred to as,
“Next.”
Here, in the back room of this antique shop, I will take my
place on the assembly line of patients, no more impressive than the glass
ashtray, who boasts that he has no chips, while ignoring completely that
smoking has fallen out of favor. Each of
us is here for a reason, passing the time, just waiting for the little bell
over the front door to tinkle. Will I be
carried out today? Is it my turn?
Nope. Looks like little
Miss Perfect lamp is being carried out.
Good. We were all just a little
tired of hearing how bright she is.
Zobostic Corwin
Looking forward to Friday.
Sent on 9-15-2022
The latest from Google – The App to Forget.
Now you can shorten the grieving process by 40 % with the
new App to Forget.
Have you recently lost a close friend or relative? Do you miss going places with them or simply hearing
their voice over the phone?
Did you recently hear a funny joke and instantly want to
share it with them? Fugetaboutit.
With Google’s App to Forget, all phone numbers, emails and
photos will be completely removed from your smart phone and with the handy electronic
wrist band, all traces of them will be erased from your memory.
No longer will you be pestered by something springing to mind. Those moments will be replaced with a blue dot and elevator music.
Eventually they will stop altogether. You’ll think you’re just having one of those
senior moments.
Order yours today.
Before you forget.
For as long as there are whiskers
and tires bumping curbs,
they’ll be windsocks in the cornfield
directing all my words,
Tie shoes on the dance floor
is music to my ears –
quarters for the Jukebox
with songs I’ve heard for years,
When at last there’s no more whiskers
and Good-Years all are flat,
The winds across the cornfield
won’t remember all of that,
You and I will smile –
knowing that we tried,
It’s then you'll point at me and say,
"Hey, your shoes untied."
It began in my early-morning dreams but was quickly rising
to the surface. What sounded to me like
the distant song of whales turned out to be the squeaky brakes of the trash
truck making its rounds through the neighborhood. Still groggy, I tried to remember if I had,
the night before, put the cans out at the curb.
As I lay there, I imagined myself feeding the whales, their appetite
enormous. Trash cans full of krill,
fish, zooplankton, algae, and phytoplankton being dumped into their awaiting
mouths. How was I to keep up? Each one fighting for the position right in
front of me. I could hear the empty cans
of whole kernel corn clinking as they fell.
The colorful wrappers catching the morning light, toothpaste tubes
squeezed beyond recognition, used Kleenex and cardboard rolls from toilet paper,
hamburger packaging, complete with cellophane and label wadded into the now dried
blood from a process I never cared to see.
Then I noticed I didn’t hear them anymore.
Their songs drifting with the current of the neighborhood streets. I rolled over, knowing there was a well fed
pod somewhere deep beyond the depths of my pillow.
2000 years from now some anthropologist will discover Elm trees grew in this region.
Then again, if that same a person were here today, they could just look at my garage floor.
