YOU ASKED FOR IT! YOU GOT IT!

My last post featured poetry which one of you commented that you wanted more of. So, it is by popular demand (who am I to deny my adoring readers?) that my Fats friend and I are bound to reply:

The initials of that reader are mm. No, mistermuse isn’t the mm who asked for more. If you must know, it was magicmermaid, who I assume is a real person (not that mistermuse isn’t real — as real, at least, as magicmermaid….or as you, for that matter). You are real, aren’t you? — if not, just pretend you are, because mistermuse can use the reassurance.

THE FAUX PAS OF POSITIVE THINKING

“Doubt is not a pleasant mental state, but certainty is a ridiculous one.” –Voltaire

I can live with
Uncertainty and doubt —
It’s know-it-alls
I have my doubts about.

THE PETER PRINCIPLE

“I am not young enough to know everything.” –Sir James M. Barrie (author of the play subtitled The Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up)

Sorry that things didn’t quite Pan out
(except in Neverland….or thereabout).

HOW TO BETTER CULTIVATE KNOWLEDGE

“Scholars esteem knowledge not for its use in attaining other values, but as a value in itself.” –Max Eastman

Know,
Weigh,

Hoe
Say.

KNOW PROBLEM

“If reality wants to get in touch, it knows where I am.” –Phil Proctor

But if reality says,
“Hello there, it’s me” —
How would you know
Absent a show of real ID?

 

 

 

 

 

 

FOR THE TIME BEING

It’s been some time since I laid some poetry on you, but all good things must end (i.e., your luck has run out). What I’m getting at is, I’ve decided to resurrect a few old poems, as well as come up with a new one or two. If you object, you have the right to remain Soylent* because….

*Soylent: foodstuff made of soybeans and lentils

A POEM OF EXCEPTIONAL TASTE

Soybeans and lentils — what a treat!
I can think of nothing I’d rather eat!*
Just savor the flavor — they can’t be beat*….
But then, I’m a groundhog, so I don’t eat meat.

*except for watermelon: https://riversworld.live/2020/09/04/summer-means-watermelon/

I’LL TAKE A BRAINCHECK

“The difference between intelligence and wisdom is that intelligence is knowing half of what you hear or read is garbage, and wisdom is knowing which half.” –Seymour Fisher

From dilemmas of that class,
You’ll have to exempt me —
I’m still stuck on “Is the glass
Half full or half empty?”

WISE-ASS PLATITUDES

Utmost is the wisdom of the platitude —
But most, sadly, are lacking in latitude.
Is there never need for deviance?
I think I shall file a grieviance!
The grounds? Let’s just say they have an ATTITUDE.

LONG TIME, NO SEE

Youth is the stuff of time and place
The race of years cannot erase,
Seen through eyes too unwise to see
That all was not what it seemed to be.

Age is the stuff of hedging bets,
Of things undone and old regrets,
Seeing ourselves as others do,
Thinking “And so, what else is new?”

 

TRUMP IN A NUTSHELL

He can’t bother to feel his fellow man’s pain —
It means nothing to him, if there’s nothing to gain.

He has no need to keep track of his legion of lies —
Who can keep up with/swat down ceaseless swarms of flies?

He doesn’t believe that certain ‘difFerEnt’ people belong —
He doesn’t even see difference between right and wrong.

What does he believe? That’s easy to see —
He believes above all that “It’s all about ME.”

 

 

PRIME RHYME, NO FIB (AND THAT’S THE RIB)

How about something I’ve not done for some time:
Post a post so sublime, it don’t do nothing but rhyme.
If I chose prose that’s verbose — longer than a rose is not a nose —
What woes ‘twould expose, such that who knows how big it grows?

Thus I propose, pun in hand, to avoid overflows
And sink to new lows, to the confusion of my foes.
So, friends, meat my poems that may stop on a dime;
Just remember this tickler: not all ribs are prime.

I WILL ONLY STOOP SO LOW

I don’t do windows;
I don’t do lawns —
But when I doo-doo,
I do do johns.

AGE BE FOR BEAUTY

Bald is beautiful —
Or, so they say —
But my head is only
Bald half-way.

Thus, I look forward,
The more I age,
To looking better
At every stage.

POST MORT ‘EM

The world, it go to pot;
Life literate is shot.
O, woe is my bon mot….
Bon mort, and thanks a lot!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MAY DAYS

What do you say — may I interest you in the music of May? You see, I haven’t posted for a spell, but I don’t think I want to disturb a single brain cell — though I fear somewhere in my sphere the strain’s already rung a bell, as near I can tell. So, before I go too far, let’s get to the tunes, most of which may be before your time….but at least you won’t have to suffer (much) more of my rhyme.

I’ll start with two versions of my favorite May song, the first sung by the great Mel Tormé:

This second (and earlier) version is by British crooner Al Bowlly, who was tragically killed in a German air raid on London during WW II:

Now, let’s see — where are we? Oh, yes — we’re….

Let us say ‘fini’ appropriately:

LOWDOWN MONDAY MORNING BLUES

I don’t know how many jazz fans I have among my readers — or, for that matter, how many blues buffs I have among my jazz fans — but just between me and you (no matter how few), today I’m in a LOWDOWN and BLUE musical mood. To my non-jazz followers tried and true, you’re welcome to listen in too….with no apologies due if you decide to bid me adieu ’til my next post’s in view.

So, without further ado, here’s the LOWDOWN — BLUES, that is, played by a legendary New Orleans jazz man….and that’s no Bunk (I beg your pardon: it is Bunk) :

For my next selection this Monday morning, what else but the….

Some blues songs are a bit dirty, but I offer one that will leave you cleaner than a flushed toilet with a clogged drain….and, it’s conveniently in the same room:

Today is Easter Monday which, I’m sure you’re aware, is also DYNGUS DAY, which is big in Poland. Other than that, I don’t know a dang thingus about Dyngus, so I checked it out and found that it’s celebrated like St. Patrick’s Day is in Ireland, with drinking, parades, drinking, parties, drinking, dancing, and drinking. Of course, the Poles are open all night on Dyngus Day, so I’d like to close with a song apropos for the occasion — but unlike St. Patrick’s Day, I can’t show a Dyngus song because I don’t know a Dyngus song. Luckily, a melodious American opus will serve the purpose if we substitute DYNGUS for DUMAS:

Just between us, I thinkest that’s the dangest Dyngus/Dumas anyone could sing us to bring us to the finus. Thank goodness for Louis.

A HELLUVA WAY TO RUN A WORLD

“This is a helluva way to run a railroad.” –from a 1906 speech by Leonor F. Loree, railroad executive, to a committee of creditors who asked him to take charge of the Kansas City Southern Railroad, which was described as two streaks of rust; its engines lost steam; the men were disheartened; and the stations were shacks.

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Since first said in 1906, the above quote has famously become a catchphrase for the high-and-mighty mentality of any commercial, governmental, military, or other top-down entity operating in a fashion oblivious to SNAFU (Situation Normal, All Fucked Up). I (and maybe you too) have had occasion to view SNAFU close-up and personal, having served as a draftee in the military and as a 30-year “soldier” in the corporate milieu before retiring to savor domestic life anew (and rue honey-do). But at least I’m the boss of my own blog (though still at the mercy of invisible forces somewhere out there in the blogosphere).

Anyway, being of a philosophical bent, this got me to thinking about helluva railroads and SNAFU, writ LARGE –as in, dude: how did this whole woebegone world come to be so SNAFUed? Do we have a clue? Perhaps a few of us do.

It’s a story we can’t stop telling ourselves. Once, humans were benighted by superstition and irrationality, but then the Greeks invented reason. Later, the Enlightenment enshrined rationality as the supreme value. Discovering that reason is the defining feature of out species, we named ourselves the “rational animal.” But is this flattering story rational? From sex and music to religion and war, irrationality makes up the greater part of human life and history. –from a reference to IRRATIONALITY (subtitled A HISTORY OF THE DARK SIDE OF REASON), a book by Justin E. H. Smith, a professor of history and the philosophy of science.

Well, if that isn’t food for thought, I don’t know what is. The problem, of course, is what it has always been: those most in need of reflecting on and applying such appraisal to oneself wouldn’t be caught dead doing so. It’s Greek to them. The Trumps of the world live in their own little world where big money talks….and it speaks power.

Oh well. So much for funny money.

 

BALD AND FREE — HOW CAN THAT BE? (subtitle: The Bald And The Beautiful)

Nothing makes a woman feel as old as watching the bald spot increase on the top of her husband’s head. –Helen Rowland

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Oct. 7 is BALD AND FREE DAY, but personally, I’m not sure what one has to do with the other. I’m mostly bald, all right, but how free is a married man like me? Of course, I’m just kidding — my wife lets me out of my cage for an hour a week, even though I keep getting balder….and making her feel older. Maybe I shouldn’t be using that hour to get a haircut.

HEADLONG RETREAT

As the years go by, my barber
Takes less and less time with my hair
Which only serves to remind me
That there’s less and less of it there.

To be sure, I’m not the only one whose predicament may become a hair-raising experience:

That gave me a headache just watching it. If only I could trust the dubious ads that involve spending my moo-lah to get to the root of the problem, I might risk springing for mo-hair….but snake oil aside, there must be a less painful way to restore a Lost Hairy zone:

Hmm. I wonder whether that great humanit-hairian, Donald Trump, would mind parting with some of his spare hair if I could dig up some skullduggery by his political opponents? For example, much corruption has been reported in the Caribbean nation of Hairti — and it’s surely a lock that all of the Democratic Presidential contenders are involved. All I’d have to do is send my nosey friend, Fruity Giuliani, there on behalf of our Pres with a quid pro-boscis that the Pres of Hairti can’t ignore.

On second thought, if Agent Orange went to my head, my wife might think I’m losing it along with my hair. I might as well keep to my cage, skip my weekly trip to the clip joint, and try to console myself that, after all is said and done….

Now, if I can only convince my wife.

THE ART OF BAD POETRY

Oscar Wilde quote: “All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.” Maybe so, but you can’t blame a guy for trying.

A few days ago, in pondering the possibility of posting a post of putrid poetry for BAD POETRY DAY (August 18th), I took the precaution of reviewing a decade (my blog began in 2009) of August posts to make sure I hadn’t previously perpetrated poetic perfidy on unsuspecting readers on this day. Unluckily for you , I found that I’ve never posted a post on Aug. 18, so we’re good to go….make that, I’m good to go. Or bad to go. You have to stay, because if you don’t, you’ll break my poor art — and that wouldn’t be polite.

Perhaps you think that my calling bad poetry an art
doesn’t pass the smell test, like calling passing gas a fart.

Not to put you on the spot, but was that a bad-ass poem, or what?
Granted, it has a perfect rhyme, but is that such a crime?
As bad poetry, I still say it’s sublime….speaking of which, I’ll have you know there are actually high-class contests to determine how low a bad poem can get, such as:

With that behind us, it’s time we get back to sum-more of my cool august poetry:

CLOCKING OUT

Hickory, dickory, dock,
The doc ran up the rock.
The rock was more slippery
Than doc’s hickory dickory,
So down he fell, which cleaned his clock.

HAIR APPARENT

A Whig party wig
Is my saving grace —
It diverts your gaze
Away from my face.

I WILL ONLY STOOP SO LOW

I don’t do windows,
I don’t do lawns —
But when I doo-doo,
I do do johns.

And with that, I bid you a fond adieu-doo.

 

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: