Bar Code



Momentary Paws



The Funnies

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



The Incident

By the time I had arrived there was an entire crowd around him.  "What happened?" I inquired.  The stranger standing next to me turned and looked at me.  "Someone has taken his pulse."  I was shocked; something like this happening right here on the street.  What was this World coming to?

 

"Who would do such a thing?" I asked.  "Someone said it was a lady dressed as a Nurse."   I realized that I had asked too many questions, people were turning around and looking at me as if I might have something to do with all this.  Just then the stranger next to me asked, "Where you from, anyway?  I haven't seen you around here before."

 

"I'm from Smithereens."    He looked at me disbelieving.   "Well you must have been born there Pal.  Nobody goes there on purpose.   I was sorry I walked up to this crowd.  I wanted to slink away, go about my business.   Just then another voice - from my left asked,  "Hey, what's that you've got there?"

 

"It's an Inkling."   "Yea, well what are you doing with that?  Are you supposed to have that?"  Quickly the first stranger chimed in again but this time in a much louder voice.  "You can't have that out here.  What do you think you're doing?"  Now the entire crowd had turned and changed their focus from the man on the pavement to me.  "It's just an Inkling."   Then even the man lying on the pavement propped himself up onto one elbow and spoke up.  "I bet he has a Notion as well." 

 

I was beginning to panic.  I looked across the street and saw Peril Drugs.  I couldn't believe it.  I was in Peril.  I must have gotten onto the wrong bus.   I pulled the ticket stub from my shirt pocket.  SAVE THIS TICKET, was all it said.   "You got on the wrong bus, didn't you?"  I looked up.  It was a red-head in heavy make-up.  A smoking cigarette hanging from her lips bobbed up and down as she spoke.  "Yes."  I replied.  Holding up the ticket I said,  "This was supposed to be a one way ticket to Palookaville."

 

"What's your name, Honey?"  she asked.  "Chump.  My name is Chump." 

 

"Well Chump, I'm Floozy.  You can call me Ethel. Let's get you off the street."

 

"I could use a cup of Joe, Ethel." 

 

"You married, Chump?"

 

"No.  No I'm not.  You?"

 

"Divorced Honey.  I made really bad coffee.  But don't worry, we'll go to the Café ."

 

"Your husband divorced you because of your coffee?"

 

"That's right, Chump.   One sip and the Judge knew it was grounds for divorce."

 

I knew I was in Peril but I would follow this Floozy to the Café and have my cup of Joe.  Then I would work on this Inkling I had.  The only thing going for me was that fact that it was Friday.   

What could possibly go wrong on a Friday? 

 

 

 

Note: 

The above piece is simply me practicing, you know – if I played the  euphonium or oboe  I’d pick it up and play around with it.  Not everything would sound wonderful or in-tune.   Well it’s the same for writing.  These are just a few left over notes that I had bouncing about the room.  I’ll try not to do this too often.

The Farmer's Wife

 

Such a thick-skinned orange

it was unreal -

So small a fruit

with such a peel.

 

Hanging so quiet

bright orange and round -

till season's end

when it hit the ground.

 

It rolled down hill

to a small shady spot

where others had -

though some had not.

 

It bounced off rocks

as it did go -

it rolled up to the Farmer's toe.

 

Such a thick-skinned orange

at last report

bumped into vodka -

and became a snort.

 

The Farmer's Wife

 

The Farmer's Wife

had made a pie -

gathered the cows -

and milked em' dry.

 

The Farmer's Wife

with her unshaved legs -

had rousted the Chickens

and collected the eggs.

 

The Farmer's Wife

out in the dirt -

had sewn a tear

in the scarecrow's shirt.

 

She had mended the fence

before 'twas noon -

and had harvested crops -

by the middle of June.

 

She stirred and she cooked

by the wood-burning stove -

for the Farmer who worked

in the old orange grove.

 

The Farmer's Neighbor

had a bull named  Rose -

horns of steel,

and a ring in his nose.

 

An ornery cuss

known far and wide -

had the farmer's neighbor's

brand on its hide.

 

He had busted the fence

and kicked up the dirt -

he tore a big hole

in the scarecrow's shirt.

 

He'd have done a lot more

before he was through -

but the farmer's wife

turned him to Stew.

 

He's now just a legend

around the wood-burning stove -

and a faint memory

in the old orange grove.

 

The Farmer and the Cell Phone

 

He rode upon the tractor

a little farmer's song he'd sing -

not much of a distracter -

came this tiny little ring,

 

She was calling from the farmhouse

to say the stew was in the pot -

the farmer's neighbor in the field

but the neighbor's bull was not.

 

Rows of lettuce to his right

beets and chives were tended -

chickens cooped, cows were milked

the fences all were mended.

 

His tractor glistened in the Sun

as clods of dirt were flung -

he plowed and drove the tidy rows

while his little cell phone rung.

 

Tomorrow he would paint the barn

a job he had put off -

He'd bail the hay, haul it in

and toss it in the loft,

 

Wednesday he might go to town

look up that city jerk -

who sold his wife these little phones

that never seem to work,

 

but for now he would be turning back

park the tractor by the stalls -

as the farmer and his cell phone did

whenever Nature called.

 

The Story of Thorn

 

Old Thorn he was the farmer's dog

They were pals, why don't ya know -

He'd run and bark, n' dig up seeds -

the farmer's wife would sew.

 

He'd grab an orange from the grove

and jump and run, as if to say -

"Catch me, catch me, if you can."

How Thorn did love to play,

 

The farmer and the farmer's wife

off to buy a phone -

took the truck and drove to town

they left old Thorn alone,

 

With no one left at home to play

or so the story goes -

he crept up soft and from behind

took quite a nip at Rose,

 

The startled bull did jump and kick

apart the fence there came -

he charged the lonely scarecrow

'twas who he saw to blame,

 

Now no one's ever known the truth

just me and Thorn and you -

and Thorn, well he ain't talking

about the Rose that turned to Stew.

 

 

 

Medical History

 

          Between the ages of 6 and 13 I was told by various girls that I had Cooties.  I hadn't realized that I had Cooties and I never experienced or displayed any symptoms that I knew of.  I just had to take their word for it.

 

          When I was 7 years old I contracted my first case of Heebie-jeebies.  At that time there was no known cure.  Over the years I have found myself to be more susceptible to Heebie-jeebies than your average person.

 

          At 18 I got the Willies.  Not being familiar with the symptoms nor having any real point of reference as to the origin, I miss-diagnosed myself, believing I had come down with Malaria.   I took a long nap and was fine when I awoke.

 

          Over the last six months I have become addicted to placebos.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

        It's not funny.

 

Well Seasoned

 

          I see my working years as the fall of my life; time spent scurrying about, dashing off in odd directions, always towards someone else’s goal.  I was helping employers with advanced degrees in thinking build empires for themselves.  I was simply a temporary necessity, running a machine, folding a shirt or assembling some widget.  I was an employee with a timecard and a lunch bag.  I was just one more face perched upon a shop stool watching the clock; unaware that it was my life ticking away.

 

          It was a time I should have used to set a direction and billow my own sails.  But it is now my winter and I am out of wind.  The waters are icy and perilous.  No longer an employee, I stand on shore with memories of gusts that had blown me off course and fast talking pirates that promised treasures and better tomorrows.

 

          As the seasons come around again I see the landscape filled with new sailors; Captains of industry, bosuns’ mates and some ships quite unworthy to set sail.  I take no comfort in knowing the journey that lies before them but only in my own horizon’s stability.  Even the slightest rocking motion has stopped. 

 

          It remains somewhat unsettling knowing there will be no treasure.  All of my possible maps are gone or written in a new technology.   Being on the sidelines is a mental adjustment I’ve yet to make.  Barnacles have affixed themselves to my outlook skewing this new beginning into some dismal creature that snaps and bites at my every step.  

 

          This log is without the ocean spray or eerie quiet nights but stands as my lighthouse, illuminating the martini that splashes over the rocks; the olive floating and bobbing like some tasty channel marker - signaling me to a safe, albeit fabricated calm.

 

          “Everything will be alright in the end.  If it isn’t alright, then it is not yet the end.”