GREMLINS LIVE HERE

I don’t know, how it is with you. Here at our house, people seem to be losing things, if not losing them, at least misplacing them. I attribute that to having too much stuff, too much work, being stressed and getting panicky. Wonder whether you can relate to this, or is it different at your house?

Here is a little ditty you might enjoy. At least, I hope so.

GREMLINS LIVE HERE

In this battered old house
We have seen the odd mouse.
They are not the only ones here.
There are gremlins too, I fear.

Mom, have you seen my silk tie?
I’ve looked low and up high.
Where did you put that darn thing?
Or must I do with some old string?

Son, if you looked after your own stuff
You wouldn’t bark at me with such huff.
Must I baby you even now?
You’re twenty. Pull your own plow.

Dear. I lost those glasses again.
Huh. You should put them on a chain.
I’m sure I put them on that chair.
Now they’re gone and not there.

There must be gremlins in this house
I do think the best of my son and spouse.
Some MUST take and hide their stuff.
I know their panic is no bluff.

Confession too is well in place.
Of losing things I too did taste.
Comfort is, they will appear.
When stress subsides and mind is clear.

The problem is, we collect much stuff
With room that is not quite enough.
On top of this, too little time
To work, then think of “what is mine”.

It’s best to let the gremlins work
Far better than to go berserk.
In time they’ll return the goods so lost
With amusing smile, but at no cost.

VP – April 22, 2008 All rights reserved

GARLIC OR ARMPITS, WHAT IS WORSE? YOU TELL ME.

Retirees are a wily bunch. They can sniff out a bargain from miles away. In our town we have a fish and chips establishment where on Tuesdays you can eat all you want. My wife, a teacher, had been under stress. With the spring weather the children had become rather unruly. So I thought to treat her(of course, always calculating, with the special in mind). There were other considerations as well. Since she works and “I don’t”, I am responsible for the suppers. Treat my wife, no cooking, no dish cleanups, save the costs of a couple of pounds of fish, the few extra bucks was, in my mind, well worthwile. Now I must explain about the wrinkle.

As a senior I have become quite health conscious. If I can add a few more years to these 75 year old bones I should do it. So, I have my greens, my fruit, and the fiber ( I don’t have to explain that one). For some time I have added garlic( Oh, the stinky bulb is so good for you). Ideally I should take a couple of cloves(little ones) each day, but that would absolutely ruin a forty year marriage. So I have become accustomed to take my garlic (“just a couple more little ones) at the beginning of the week. My wife always does as if she is about to throw up .I’m not sure if she is faking but she surely doesn’t like it. I always try to reassure her that by the weeked, when she has a bit more time to be intimate that it will have worn off. It’s a small miracle that we still sleep in the same bed. However, she will turn her head to the foot of the bed. I still haven’t been able to determine whether she does that to avoid the garlic smell or to get back at me and have me smell her feet.

Well, this time I outsmarted myself. Had totally forgotten about the fish and chip outing. “What, you’ve been into the garlic again. How can you do that? We supposed to go out.” I had to think fast. “Huh. It’s just a working class joint. With the special you get all those factory and construction dudes. After a hot day their armpits smell a heck of a lot worse then my garlic.” She was quick to reply: ” If you can find an armpit that smells worse then your garlic I’ll give you five bucks.” Usually I am quick to take the up challenge, especially when somebody offers me money. But neither she nor me were quite prepared to have people lift their arms and sniff about. So, we are at a stalemate. How can we resolve the disupte?

This is what I’ll do. We need a third party. So we will lay our case before my readers. I know that each of you will give us fair judgment. If possible I still would like to win that five bucks.

IMPULSIVE ACT OF SHAME

We are products of our upbringing. When I grew up my parents wouldn’t even discusss that tacky subject of the birds and the bees. Sex was such a forbidden and mysterious matter. Whatever we learned later we received from the street or library books. Today some insists that even children of kindergarten age should be informed. A little early I would say. I also disagree with much of the vulgarity we see today. It cheapens the beautiful gift of sex. Where precisely the border must be drawn is a matter of dispute. Much of it depends on our own upbringing and disposition. Here is a humorous look from one who still posseses a modicum of modesty.

IMPULSIVE ACT OF SHAME

Rode my ten speed in the country,
To enjoy the day of God’s bounty.
Sunshine, flowers and honey bees,
And chirping birds among the trees.

Rode my bike over hill and dale,
Then stopped to drink some Adam’s ale.
I looked and saw a grassy knoll,
So inviting, I took a little stroll.

Was more tired than I thought at first,
Had another drink to quench my thirst.
Why not lay down for a quiet rest?
When you’re tired, that’s the best.

How heavenly, to enjoy Gods’ creation,
Especially by me, of humble station.
God’s gifts can be enjoyed by all,
If men are open to hear His call.

Threw down my hat, took off my shirt.
Pants off too, I said with some mirth.
Looked at my arms, so nicely browned.
My legs? So ghastly pale I found.

My chest? The pallor of a dead man
That too needs a darn good tan!
Finally laid down with arms stretched out,
Boy, those sunrays did have some clout.

A sudden impulse hit me fast,
The thought, “Wouldn’t that be a blast?”
Took off my shorts, threw them away,
Let mother nature have full sway.

Some enjoy full body tattoo,
For me? Such a body tan too.
No sooner said, the thought occurred.
Can’t be seen like this. Must keep alert.

The sun caressed my naked glory.
If found out, wouldn’t that make a story?
I felt such guilt, amidst such pleasure.
The sun shone on without measure.

What is that tinkling that I hear?
That sounds like cowbells drawing near.
Oh no! Cows are coming my way,
Driven by a girl as fair as day.

I panicked. My shorts I could not find.
Where did I throw them? Was I blind?
Then woke up, for what I heard,
Was the clock’s ringing on the hearth.

Couldn’t tell my wife nor a friend.
No one could possibly understand,
That a retired man of the cloth,
Had indulged in such shameful thought.

If stark naked Adam and Eve
Could walk in that Garden so free.
What changed ,that such shame I should feel,
When I, in a dream, my shorts did peel?

VP June 2, 2006- All rights reserved

LENNY AND ANNIE

Sometimes we make choices that don’t quite pan out. When this happens mature people take note, make adjustments and find that life presents many options that make living worthwhile. Unfortunately, there are other people who let a setback so hamper them that they never again recover. They will buck authority, refuse to accept wise counsel or hone their skills. Some even lose their zest for life. Many a time the pattern appears at an early age. Our hope is that it is not irretrievably so.

Here is a little fun ditty. I wrote it, not without some compassion for poor Lenny. But, life is often brutal and we all must find a way to get over our disappointments.With more maturity, Lenny might too.

LENNY AND ANNIE

Lenny very much liked school.
Then one day he began to drool
Over pretty Annie Pool.
She, didn’t think him very cool.

Annie, I like your pretty bow.
Come with me to a picture show.
Oh, this too you ought to know.
I would so much love to be your beau.

Lenny, use your foolish head.
For me, you are way too fat.
Unless you want to have a spat.
Leave things, just where they’re at.

Lenny was angry at Annie Pool.
Now, didn’t like math nor Golden Rule.
He then dropped out of school
And proved to all he was a fool.

VP – Nov. 8, 2007 All rights reserved

THE GLEANERS

As reports of food riots reach our ears my heart goes out to the world poor. Shortages of grains have given rise to the doubling or tripling of food prices, which are now well beyond the reach of millions. Humanity has always had the poor in its midst. However, in times past the poor had a means of survival which they don’t have today.In earlier times many of the poor lived in rural areas where they were able to glean the fields and reap the fruits left from the main harvest. Today, mechanical harvesters pick the fields, and even orchards, totally clean. In more recent times, due to the effects of globalism, hundreds of thousands of small subsistence farmers, through debt, have been driven off the land and have joined the shanty town poor of the great metropolitan cities. These too must purchase their staple foods with their meager wages. To be poor is one thing. To be hungry is another.

Here is a poem which catches a glimpse of my own poverty stricken youth.

THOUGHTS ABOUT GLEANING

“The Gleaners” picture on our wall
Evokes events I still recall.
Of living by the sweat of brow,
Gleaning the fields with painful bow.

Millet’s painting appears idyllic;
So charmingly serene, almost angelic.
It was a painful chore, for hours to stoop
And hustle enough ,for sweat to droop.

I clearly recall the hours thus spent,
When sun grew hot and back was bent,
And hands were calloused and skin was cracked.
The thistles too had no pity. That’s a fact.

What prompts a child to do such chore?
It was a time as times before.
Poverty, fed by greed and war
Was cause to scrounge, to fill depleted store.

When famine raps on family’s door,
The children help as ne’er before.
They’ll glean with mother in the field
And wrest the last of all its yield.

From Moabite Ruth to present day
The poor have been with us to stay.
This was, is, will be, always so,
Unless the rich more generous grow.

There’s a dignity in Millet’s scene,
Found in the gleaning that is seen.
Hard and honest work, has much worth,
As does, each man, so bound to earth.

VP -March, 30, 2007 All rights reserved

Inspired by”The Gleaners” by Jean Francois Millet -1857

SPRING IS HERE

It has been a long, hard winter and spring has come none too soon. It never fails to amaze me how even a hint of spring can change the mood in people. Here is a lighthearted observation I hope you will enjoy.

WHEN SPRING IS HERE

When spring is here and grass is green
Bursting buds on trees are seen.
While songbirds sing and build their nest
Bees awake from winter’s rest.

With sunny days and balmy breeze
Hearts unfreeze and show more ease.
Folk readily smile, twitter to no end.
Prove to all, they can be content.

When billowy clouds waft their way
Children on their street will play.
Gaily laughter is overheard
So our hearts are strangely stirred.

When spring is here young men parade
While ogling girls behind dark shade.
Young women do understand that game
And dress to set desire aflame.

The spring time earth brings gardening craze
When families sow and plant for days.
With hope in heart they expect array
Of pretty flowers to display.

Springtime balm lure grannies out.
They soak up warmth . They trudge about.
They smile to all, with toothless grin
To strange alike and visiting kin.

Budding blooms on window sills
Revive lost hopes for chronic ills.
Cheery mood and a thankful heart
Help ease pain and depression part.

Spring has sprung. Nature sings its song,
Turning a page to forget all wrong.
Young and old make a joyous throng,
Where all feel good and get along.

VP -April 17, 2008 All rights reserved

TALE OF THE JILTED LOVER

The Tale of the Jilted Lover is a ballad about an event that took place in the early 1900s in the rural area of Holland, near the Belgium border. There is a Flemish rendition of this ballad that my mother used to sing to me when I was a child. Some of the details I can’t recall, but the circumstances, the motive and the subsequent calamitous conclusion are all true.

TALE OF THE JILTED LOVER

Big Josh was a bear of a man
Who earned his hire from farmer Stan.
He rose early with the morning dawn
And toiled till the day was far gone.

Josh idolized his sweetheart Suzanne.
He’d marry her. That was his plan.
She was so pretty and well endowed
That men would ogle, then were cowed.

One day, farmer Stan held a feast.
Even invited some who were least.
He said:”Josh come and bring a friend
To this very happy event.”

And Josh did come and brought Suzanne.
All took note, especially Dan.
Dan was the farmer’s only son.
His turn would come the farm to run.

Soon Josh wished he had not attended.
He even felt quite offended.
Dan had asked Suzanne for a dance
And ignored Josh, without a glance.

Their dance turned into two and more.
They drew closer as the evening wore.
Josh was about to burst his spleen,
But did not dare to make a scene.

Suzanne laid her head on Dan’s shoulder
He smooched a kiss and grew bolder.
Josh rushed into the dark of night.
“How did I get into such plight?”

“If I go back and make a scene
I’ll lose my job, and that right clean.
At first chance I’ll talk to Suzanne
And sort out this mess, if I can.”

Josh rose early with the morning dawn
And toiled till the day was far gone.
He heard from Suzanne no more.
Till a letter was brought to his door.

With quivering lips he read the script.
It was Suzanne’s. His stomach flipped.
What news was she to bring him now?
Was it good or bad? He wiped his brow.

“Dear Josh. You are such a good man.
You’d do for me the best you can.
Alas, your future looks not bright.
Your daily struggles give me fright.
Another suitor has come my way
With promise clipped to his bouquet.
I’ll be mistress of an estate.
Such destiny needs no debate.
I’ll remember you, always,
With fondness, as we part our ways.
Sorry. You deserve a better fate.
Suzanna, your long time school mate.”

“Is that what’s come down to? School mate?
We’d talked about our wedding date.
Suzanne…True love can not be bought!”
He sank down. He was that distraught.

The days went by. Despair took hold.
Then unrequited love grew cold.,
Flared again to hate, vengeance hot.
He’d kill both lovers on the spot.

He took a rusty ax from the shed.
Hid it stealthily under his bed.
At eve he honed the sharpest edge.
“I’ll do them in. That is my pledge.”

“That cheating wench deserves to die.
So does that woman-thieving guy.
My life is ruined beyond repair.
My anguish I can no longer bear.”

The time of the dreadful deed drew near.
The sky was black. Thunder struck fear.
A carriage groaned under heavy strain.
As strong winds swooped the driving rain.

The carriage traversed a country lane.
Suzanne peered through its window pane.
“Dan, this weather is getting worse.”
He slapped the reins, muttered a curse.

In the bush, drenched from head to foot
Crouched big Josh, like a spring-bent root.
The obedient steed plodded on
Until the carriage to the bush was drawn.

Swiftly Josh jumped up, took firm hold
Of the horse, swerved, the carriage rolled.
Deftly he cut the creature loose
Who ran for home without excuse.

Shrieks were heard. He uttered no word.
In he leaped, with vision blurred.
With his ax he slashed and hacked.
All grew silent. His nerves had cracked.

Word did spread. A rumpled man had fled
The scene, where much blood had been shed.
The man incoherent and deranged
Was placed in a padded cell, so arranged.

The local bard wrote a plaintive song
How a good man can still do wrong.
There is no stronger emotion
Then love lost, after so much devotion.

VP -Aug.26, 2007 All rights reserved

THE BALD MAN AND THE FLY

Sometimes it takes a half a life time to discover that most of our tiffs and fights are not worth the trouble. Most of these don’t accomplish anything. Both combatants think they are right and few are inclined to give ground. In the long run our misery far outweighs the importance of most issues. The ancients already understood this quite well. Aesop wrote his story of the Bald Man and the Fly to illustrate that point. Here is my own version which I have set to rhyme.

THE BALD MAN AND THE FLY

Morus was an ill tempered guy.
Who learned a lesson from a fly.
Though impossible that might seem
It was not inspired by a dream.

Always upset by the slightest thing
He’d even spasm when his wife did sing.
True. She couldn’t carry a tune.
Still no reason for conjugal ruin.

He would rant and rave to no end.
His wife in turn would take her stand.
He’d huff and puff like big bad wolf
As if that, would anything solve.

One day Morus again did puff.
Then stormed out of the house in a huff.
On the step he sat, all alone.
Pitied himself, fumed and groaned.

‘What’s that, buzzing around my head?
Scat, or I’ll smack. And you’ll be splat.
Nervy thing. Now you want to sting?
Smack! Ouch! That made my ears ring.

He had smacked himself on the head..
He was bald without a speck of fat.
It stung both hand and bald head.
The fly still buzzed and was not dead.

The fly enjoyed the sweaty dome
Where nothing stopped to freely roam.
Again, again, he landed there
To sting the dome that was so bare.

Furiously Morus smacked some more
Until both hand and head were sore.
He suddenly became a wiser man.
“I’m worse off than I first began.”

“ You only hurt yourself, that’s clear
When much inclined to interfere.
Dislikes are better to ignore
Then wage great battle with constant war.”

VP Feb. 15, 2008 All rights reserved
Inspired by Aesop’s Fable “The Bald Man and the Fly”

DOUBTING THOMAS

I live in the country side and, as the village peasant that I am, I am in the habit of turning my eyes to the sky to greet the early morning sun, that is, if it’s there. As others already have mentioned, these days the sky has taken on some strange hues at times. Perhaps you have noticed too. If not, make it a habit and see whether you notice someting amiss. And, of course, I’m not peddling anything (Can’t even make money here). You draw your own conclusions. I am just setting down my own observations about what I have seen, heard and read.

DOUBTING THOMAS

Thomas came for a morning chat
In the sun on the porch we sat.
We talked of old times and things new
Until our eyes to a strange sky drew.

What dudes are fouling up God’s sky?
Tracing trails as they fly up high?
Silently, stealthily, they streak
Portents of a future, growing bleak.

They’re merely contrails, my dear friend.
They’ll soon be gone. So be content.
Conspiracy of the internet
Where tall tales to you are fed.

Chem trails are tall tales you say?
Like WMDs of yesterday!!
Disproof sold as conspiracy.
A twisted lie now plain to see.

See those planes, flying overhead?
Those plumes, how they slowly spread?
Parallel streaks of eight or ten?
Then crisscrossed, like a grid, again.

That’s not your commercial overflight.
Something about that grid ain’t just right.
See how those trails together drift?
They hang together and do not lift.

The sunny sky turned to a misty haze.
The spread out trails had hid sun’s rays.
The foggy soup remained that day.
Thomas, will that sway, your preset way?

In minutes contrails vanish.
Chem trails, instead, longtime brandish.
Throughout the day they will prevail,
Causing slow death as we inhale.

In that soupy mist, some insist,
Particles exist, we can’t resist.
Aluminum, barium, bromide,
From which skin and lungs can not hide.

Are those chem trails spread, for our best?
Reductions of sunlight passed the test.
Who needs the healing sunshine’s warmth?
Not I, nor the world’s crops that mourned.

Welcome all, to our brave new world,
Where poisons float and bombs are hurled.
While fluff is shown on TV’s tube.
A deadly game is played, e’er so crude.

Where are the bright skies of my youth,
With billowy clouds? Tell the truth.
Ye are mum, ye Rulers of God’s earth!
Rule and trample, till earth yields dearth!

My friend Thomas was still confused.
He received his facts from world press news.
What he saw with his very own eyes
Was less convincing than printed lies.

VP – April 10, 2008 All right reserved

ODD FELLOW AND OLD YELLOW

Here is a little fun ditty I wrote some time ago. I laugh. You laugh. But as you will see, the odd fellow was not amused, nor was the dog.

ODD MAN AND OLD YELLOW

Once there was an odd fellow,
with a dog he called old yellow.
Old yellow could never sit still,
For the flea he just could not kill.

The flea made his home in old yellow.
It chagrined the odd old fellow.
The flea bit the poor old dog’s tail,
Giving vent to one awful dog’s wail.

The odd man was deprived of his rest,
As old yellow made search for the pest.
Old yellow gave chase to his own tail,
Running in circles to no avail.

Then the flea jumped on the dog’s head,
Driving old yellow to jump on the bed.
The odd fellow jumped on the floor,
Shouting, “I want to hear no more.”

The odd man grabbed his old slipper,
And whacked the dog on the sniffer.
Old yellow crawled under the bed.
Nothing more was heard or was said.

VP July 25, 2006 All rights reserved