ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOT TALK?

When I was young, I never thought about getting old (a stage of life known as having one foot in the grave — almost curtains). So, having two feet in the grave was the last thing on my mind. Now I’m a senior citizen, and I’m still not ready to kick the bucket, but my feet are killing me like I am about to kick bucket — or, with my luck it (this bucket) kicks me:

Foot cramps, ingrown toenails, fungus among-us, smelly feet (you know this from my last post) — it’s like I got my feet at the Bad Feet Store. You name it, my feet are treating me like a heel. Don’t laugh — someday you may walk in my shoes, and then you’ll know the agony of de feet and be the sole of remorse for not seeing fit to empathize. But I guess you’ll cross that footbridge when you come to it.

Having retired from a desk job, I didn’t spend most of my life upon my feet, so my tootsies aren’t letting me down because of being mistreated. Likewise, I’ve seldom, if ever, worn high heels (I may have BEEN a heel a time or two, but that’s a different story). I don’t know — maybe I’m finally footing the bill for writing such poems as this:

All humans have more than one foot,
Unless one has less than two.
One can trust I count two on me —
More or less, can one count on you?

Groan. I guess my days of being this are over:

 

 

LET US PRAY….

that the malaise of Donald Trump’s moral vacuity
doesn’t linger like a curse in oral (and worse) perpetuity
so when his term on his bully stage is o’er, we
see that our humanity (which his vanity tested sore-ly)
has withstood base attacks based on our credulity,
as we pray virtue is its own reward (virtus ipsa pretium sui).

A PASSING EXAMPLE OF ROAD SAGE

BUMPER STICKER:
TIME IS WHAT KEEPS EVERYTHING FROM HAPPENING AT ONCE

I hate to be
the one to tell you,
but everything IS
happeningatonce.

Such being the case, I am taking a few weeks off from blogging* to catch up on what happens when one gets behind from blogging. Be back some time in mid-to-late June. Meanwhile….

*other than replies to comments, & checking in on your blogs from time to time

 

LIAR, LIAR, RANTS ON FIRE

One of my readers, who is obviously a glutton for punishment, recently expressed disappointment that I haven’t posted more of my poems lately. At the risk of triggering that old axiom BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR, I thank her for having inspired me to address the deficiency thusly:

DECEIT DON’T STAND

As the twig is bent,
so grows the tree.
As the die is cast,
so shall it be.

If these be true,
why is it wise:
The Donald gets a pass
when he tells those lies?

Of course, I should also thank the President, without whose daily rants my inspiration for this poem would doubtless lie dormant. And now for a word from the truly wise about lies:

Carlyle said, “A lie cannot live”; it shows he did not know how to tell them. –Mark Twain

A man comes to believe in the end the lies he tells about himself to himself. –George Bernard Shaw

I admire liars, but surely not liars so clumsy they cannot fool even themselves. –H. L. Mencken

Pretending that you believe a lie is also a lie. –Arthur Schnitzler

If at first you’re not believed, lie, lie again. –Evan Esar

Not sure why the video is black. Maybe because the lies it laments aren’t white ones. But the sound is clear, and the voice shines through the darkness.

 

 

 

THE DEAD HAVE SPOKEN….

There are too many books I haven’t read, too many places I haven’t seen, too many memories I haven’t kept long enough. –Irwin Shaw, playwright, screenwriter, novelist and author of Bury The Dead

The dead have spoken….
but the living have moved on.
Hear their voices left in your mind,
keep their memories in the images
that are reborn in shared solitude.
Who among us has not known the haunting fear,
whispering we might not survive the silence?

JAZZ FOR LAUGHS (PART 02)

Part 02 is such sweet sorrow,
I could not wait till it be morrow
To bring to you 02 before
I bring to you Parts 03 and 04.
Beyond 04 I cannot see,
But two to one it won’t be 03.

It’s not every day you see a poem co-authored by Shakespeare and Mistermuse….or a post about a man (Fats Waller) who was born in May and died in December, three days after my previous post featured a man (Spike Jones) who was born in December and died in May. A bit odd, perhaps, but hardly more noteworthy than a May-December romance….so, just for laughs, let’s call it a May-December Much Ado About Nothing.

Thomas “Fats” Waller, for those whose knowledge of jazz history is thin, was born May 21, 1904 in NYC. His father, a minister, was strict and tried to restrict his son to church music, but Fats was more attracted to popular music, and after his mother died, he moved in with a man who befriended him, stride pianist James P. Johnson. At age 15, Waller was hired by the Lincoln Theatre as house organist, providing improvisational background music for silent movies. Thus began his career as one of the most beloved jazz musicians and prolific song writers of his time, ending with his premature death at age 39.

Perhaps Waller is best remembered (if at all) for is his jovial personality and humorous way with popular songs such as this….

….and this:

But Fats could do ’em straight, too, as with this 1936 classic:

It’s only fitting to close with his 1929 composition and most famous song, which he often performed tongue-in-cheek, but took (mostly) seriously here:

Until the next post in this series, behave yourself.