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Merry Month of May
A look back at the Muse
I keep copies of my old poems in a binder next to my old albums. Once in a blue moon, I'll put “Surf's Up” on the turnstile and look back on the moldy muse. I shake my head a lot and urge myself to freshen them up someday.
“Someday” was last Thursday. Since then, I've separated the wheat from the chaff on 113 pieces. I didn't seek to alter the intent of the poems;they mostly just try to amuse or twist a benign point. I did tighten up the line structure a great deal;in my younger days, I just wrote it down and moved on.
Most of the stuff is very brief,seeking a quick chuckle or nod of the head then poof..These days, I tend to write in a longer narrative-essay style so it was interesting to re-live the good old quick-hit days:
Elvis and the Last Supper
He’s the third one from the left,
Green tunic, hands gesturing towards Jesus,
A peanut butter and banana sandwich on unleavened bread,
Just blessed on his plate.
Macarena
I am unilaterally opposed to dances
Where I have to touch my own
Ass.
A “Freudian” Sandwich
“I build submarines for a living,” boasts the man sitting on the bar-stool next to my wife while I’m in the restroom.
“Oh, you work for D’Angelo’s,” my wife replies. “I just love your steak & cheese!”
Back in the time, I'd shovel the snow off the driveway and walk ten miles to the 5&10cent-store to buy a yellow pad to write on. Every situation and person of interest tickled my quilt and was material for a poem .Just ask my wife and kids who dreaded innocent mishaps or family weekends because the “poet” was taking notes:
My Wife’s Ass
I)
My wife fell on the ice in our driveway,
Bruising her left cheek.
It’s an oval hematoma,
Purple on the inside,
Blue around the edges,
Like an M&M with peanuts.
The area doesn’t hurt as much as an unblemished region above and a little to the left.
“Right here?” I jab in my best St. Thomas imitation.
“Son of a bitch!” my wife replies.
II)
My wife fell on the ice yesterday.
The first bruise is now 100% purple,
Like a grape tattoo.
The second area is blue in the middle,
Green around the edges,
Both hurt like hell.
“How bad?” I squeeze in my best Marquis de Sade imitation.
“You son of a bitch!” my wife replies.
III)
My wife fell two days ago.
Her left cheek is a splattering of greens, purples, yellows, and blues,
Like a Jackson Pollock painting.
“Somewhere over the rainbow,” I hum in my best Judy Garland imitation.
“You crazy son of a bitch!” my wife replies.
IV)
My wife fell.
She won’t let me peek at her cheek anymore.
“Poem’s over,” she grins in her best Jack Nicholson imitation.
“Son of a bitch,” I reply.
The Art Gallery
There’s shit on the bottom of my sneaker at The Art Gallery.
My wife notices it when we sit down on the bench in front of the photograph “Three Brooms.”
The shit is stuck between the heel and sole of my black designer model in one of those grooves that make you run faster, jump higher, and look very cool.
We don’t know if it’s really shit or just plain mud because I’m not flexible enough to put my sneaker to my nose, you can’t take your sneaker off at The Art Gallery, and my wife refuses to play CSI with a Popsicle stick.
In front of the painting “Watering Can with Flowers,” I stamp my sneaker hard against the Oriental rug,dislodging the alleged fecal material.
It remains there until a silver-haired gentleman with wire-rimmed glasses in a tuxedo jacket stops to admire the painting.
We exchange knowing glances.
I'm a wise-ass. It's my nature. My first response to most situations is mild sarcasm then a search for irony. A lot of my early stuff is quasi-introspective—Who am I? What is my Poetry about ? I miss that curiosity at times:
Getting to Know Me
I find the less people know me, the more they like me.
It’s the person who sees me infrequently... hears me
toss out a sarcastic aside, crack a wise-ass rejoinder,
recite a silly poem, that really appreciates my essence.
When someone wants to talk, “really talk”, and get to
know the “real”me, that's when the trouble begins.
In short order, they discover I’m non-political, amoral
and very ,very shallow. Their eyes start darting around the room, they hold their breath till it’s their turn to interrupt, they suddenly can’t hold their urine.
It’s the person who’s forced by circumstances to spend
quality-time with me that has the biggest cross to bear:
My daughter lights up a crack-pipe & downs a shot of tequila
while I list the temptations of college life. When I lecture my Dad about his funeral & burial preparations, he pretends to die in his hospital bed. My psychiatrist watches television during our 45 minutes. During pillow-talk, my wife tries to smother me.
So , I talk in short sentences, write short hopefully
amusing poems, move from table-to-table.
Sometimes, I feel bad about being so shallow and
ask God for some depth.
“ You are what you are, Joe”, He replies.
“Pray something funny!”
“The Lord’s Prayer”
Dear God
Please don’t let my poems force people to close their
Eyes to fully appreciate their meaning.
Eyes shut evoke images of depth & darkness.
Let their eyes remain wide-open
Images bright & fleeting.
Dear God
Please don’t let my poems force people to nod their
Heads at their haughty significance.
One’s karma shouldn’t depend on my scribblings.
Let them shake their heads in amazement better yet
Amusement at my petty offerings.
Dear God
Though my poems don't rhyme or sometimes even reason
Let them flow like the polluted Lake Quinsigamond.
Let them be sometimes naughty, sometimes nice.
Let them leave people with a smile, a smirk, maybe even a
Freakin’ guffaw!
And, finally, Dear God
If I could somehow become rich & famous from this silly endeavor
Your will be done.
For you are notorious for playing a good joke on mankind,
Now & then.
And what better way to really crush some peoples’ stones
Then have them wake up and, over their cinnamon cappuccino,
Read that “Joe’s Poems” made The New York Times’ Best-Sellers list.
You did it for Rod McKuen, Lord, and he wasn't even
Catholic.
Amen
As I dusted off these scribblings, I felt a twinge of nostalgia for the younger, lighter lad who truly enjoyed penning them. Not to sound too melodramatic, but life became rather heavy in '04 and increased in density again in '07. Technically, I'm a better writer now but the ideas come too infrequently and it's tough to find mirth. I'll leave you now with one of my favorites about a day with the family at old Cape Cod:
Chatham
A short man walks his large dog on the beach at dusk.
He’s a year-rounder who likes to chat with tourists about Chatham.
“Your dog looks like a coyote,” my wife tells him.
“He’s 1/2 coyote,” the short man replies.
Our children climb the empty lifeguard-chair then Geronimo into the sand.
“What’s his name,” I ask.
“Bundy,” the year-rounder replies.
“Like Al on ‘Married with Children?’”
“No, like the serial killer.”
We grab the children and hurry back to the cottage, locking the windows, pulling a heavy desk behind the front door.
The night is star-less and silent except for an occasional shout from the beach:
“Here, Ted. Here, Ted.”
Like a worried road-runner, I sleep with one eye open,
Waiting for the wily coyote to strike.
Submitted by bardofaisle9 on Saturday, May 03, 2008 (01:31:53) (1042 reads)
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Re: Merry Month of May
by Anonymous on Monday, May 05, 2008 (08:15:44) |
Nice to see some of your old stuff again. And I'm still happy to know you as little as possible...  Tommywart
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Re: Merry Month of May
(Score: 1 )
by InonI on Monday, May 05, 2008 (23:01:50) |
yes, the less i know about you the more i like your work. i especially like the one about your wife's bruise. very witty lol
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Re: Merry Month of May
(Score: 1 )
by Zbird on Thursday, May 15, 2008 (20:55:10) |
still laughing over your wife's ass. well, that didn't sound quite right... still laughing about your wife's ass...no, no, that's not right either...sorry about your wife's ass...oh, never mind your wife's ass, but the poem was hysterical!
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Re: Merry Month of May
by Anonymous on Tuesday, May 20, 2008 (10:21:46) |
good stuff!!!! i really enjoyed all of the poems this month!!! joe does a great job with humor!
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