Sammi’s Weekender #245 (widdershins)

Click to zip on over to Sammi’s blog with more info and other exactly 75-word prose or poems.

Science or The Anemoi

Navigators knew this before Magellan,
south of Polaris’ north star,
only north of Neptune’s equator,
sailors, worthy old salts,
aviators not spiraling
down, widdershins,

meteorologically,
that wind at my back,
meant low pressure
to my left.

By gods of cyclogenesis,
dancing to Coriolis,
or Thor’s twisted moods
of stormy anger and foul weather.

Counterclockwise wind
blows and grows around lows.

While tailwinds are fine for
cruising and sailings, they’re unwanted
blasts for takeoffs and landings.

Look both ways before you turn, either way. Mind the gaps for anyway the wind blows.

Gloss:

  • Widdershins means in a left-handed, wrong, contrary, or counterclockwise direction.
  • Cyclogenesis is the development or intensification of a cyclone or storm system.
  • Coriolis is the force caused by earth’s rotation that deflects moving objects to the right in the northern hemisphere and to the left in the southern hemisphere.
  • The Anemoi are the wind gods of Greek mythology: Boreas (North), Zephyrus (West), Notus (South) and Eurus (East).

 

Thursday’s Rune: My Friendly Reminder

I used to ponder the meaning
when an attractive young lady
(she could be 50 or 60 nowadays)
would cast a trusting smile
my way and say,
‘you remind me of my father.’

Was she calling me old (true ‘nuf),
a difficult, somewhat deaf defender
(also true), or childhood disciplinarian?
A boomer, for Christ’s sake.

Perhaps it’s my ego,
maybe just plain self-guilt,
conceivably a DSM diagnoses.
I don’t know. Anyways.

I’ve finally realized
she could pay me
no greater compliment,
no higher honor, than to say,

in whatever loving way,
(or not)
she thought of him. When
she looked into my eyes,

she saw him. The first man
she ever loved.

Look both ways to understand.
Try to see yourself as another sees you.
Mind the gaps for confusion and clear understanding.

***

Gloss: DSM refers to The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, the taxonomic and diagnostic tool published by the American Psychiatric Association.

Friday Fictioneers: January 21st, 2022

Endurance swimmer, Mistress Rochelle has placed me in the city library children’s section with a limit of one hundred of my own carefully crafted words with which I must contrive a suspenseful story of escape.

Click on the photo provided by Ted Strutz to buzz on over to Rochelle’s page where “Growing older is inevitable. Growing up is optional.” I considered those options when I wrote the photo-inspired story that follows.

Photo provided by Ted Strutz

Genre: Micro-fiction
Title: The Latte Librarian
Word count: 100

***

Passing through the library’s deserted children’s section, I turned toward the noisy coffee shop.

I set my chai latte and backpack on the counter nearest the women’s table, drank half the latte, then slipped the smoke bomb into the cup. From the men’s room, I called in the bomb threat.

When evacuation was announced, I set off the smoke bomb.

I returned to transfer valuables from each handbag or backpack into mine, then left through the side door just as fire trucks and police cars arrived. I removed the disguise in the car, kissed my partner, and we drove off.

Look both ways to be aware of surroundings.
Notice people and their trappings.
Mind the gaps of their absence.

***

Click on Alec Baldwin’s badge (from 2018 movie, “The Public”) for your library card to read other fine stories.

Poetry: well, shut my mouth. (Repost)

Reposting from Dispassionate Doubt.

My crank goal is to write
poetry banned
in Southern USA states,
especially mine,
a few up north;
Russia,
China,
and every country
in Islam.

Find me
on the Catholic Church
shit-list so only Bishops
and Cardinals may
read my magic without sin.
May they touch themselves
with impure thoughts. May I
make a Baptist want a martini.

I want the ghost of Spiro Agnew to
haunt my poems as blatant
anarchist propaganda that threatens
to sap our national strength,
(unlike criminal conspiracy,
bribery, extortion, and tax fraud).

I want priests, rabbis, and mullahs
to denounce my freedom
five times every day from
their pits of pull on up to
minareted gravelly loudspeakers.

Let me be the de Mello or Merton
of modern skeptical letters. Bless me
with the censorship of weak minded
control freaks. May the young
bogart tabooed copies of my posey
into secret unsanctioned rooms.

Damn me to literary dungeon-hood
till the cows come home
and the ravens
overtake Capistrano.

Let sweet Jesus find me
one toke over the line, sitting
in a downtown railway station,
eyes opened, hoping
the literal reality freight train
is on time.

Let them hate me
for my
country mile honesty
about reality.

Gloss: In the first line (title), Crank in the sense of having or expressing feelings of joy or triumph.
Agnew was investigated for those crimes (and subsequently resigned as VP of the USA), but that is essentially what he had to say about the song, One Toke Over the Line (which was also banned).

Shel Silverstein’s children’s book, “Where the Sidewalk Ends” was banned in several places.

***

Extra: Yeah, right. If you wanna hear from a couple old folk rockers (older then I), and the story of their one hit, the video is not high quality and about 7 minutes, but not bad. I watched the video of the Lawrence Welk Show number they mention being sung. The ironic humor is beyond great and they agree.

Sammi’s Weekender #244 (cave)

Click on graphic for Sammi’s blog.

Dig It

Destined to climb
cliffs, walls, grottos,
towers, trees, and poles.

Discovering, exploring
hidey hole caves,
abandoned mines; hunters of
excitement and danger.

Excavators, trail blazers;
spelunker boys still alive want
to climb the stairs.

Come closer to me.
Look both ways.
Explore the Universe while you can.
Mind the gaps in the grottos for hidden treasure: the mysteries of the past.

Thursday’s Rune: Poésie de l’escalier

I thought, he’s like Cousin Eddie.
He sat there,
smart in his mind,
middle-aged,
“right” minded,
then he asked me
(innocently enough).

“What do you do,”
he says to me,
“to keep busy?”

Busy?
Suddenly,
I had a moment!,
ya know?

Maybe
it weren’t his fault, but still.
I swallowed hard and
played nice by avoiding
my roar of revenge.
(Fuck you very much
for asking.)

I listened
as he bragged on
for hours
giving testimonial evidence
of his high holy wonderfulness,
and dogged dedication
to his personal
world of work.

I nodded and smiled. Bit my lip,
while slowly bleeding
feigned interest.

What do I do to keep busy?

For God’s sake, Bumpkin.
I waste my few remaining days
listening to friendly folks,
feeding on family fodder;
pleasingly holding my tongue,
and sitting on my hands.
Legs crossed.
I smile

like Hannibal Lecter
pondering…

mon ne pas savoir répliquer
sur le moment.

Look both ways. Dine well.
Choose friends from the menu, accept family from the stars.
Mind you, there are gaps.
Ponder politely the wellsprings of innocent idiocy and the moods of sensitive old lions.

***

Glos: In English, the title means staircase poetry. The last line translates as my not knowing how to reply at the moment. ‘Cousin Eddy’ is a character (Randy Quaid) from the National Lampoon Christmas Vacation movie. As for Hannibal, “Well, Clarice. Have the lambs stopped screaming?”

Friday Fictioneers: January 14, 2022

Once again, the lovely Mistress of Fiction, Rochelle, has orchestrated the launch of a photo prompt to inspire my story telling muse into a frenzy of guns and guitars, of love recalled, of romantic tension.

Click on the Bradly Harris photo to jet on over to Rochelle’s place for the big picture. My one-hundred-word micro-story, inspired by an old Abba song, follows.

PHOTO PROMPT © Bradley Harris

 

Genre: Literary Fiction
Title: Better Worlds
Word Count: 100

Maria whispered, “Do you remember, Fernando, when we last stood here? That night, long ago; a night of guns and guitars, of dreams and distant drums, of freedom, love, and fear?”

“Oh, Maria. We were so young and full of life. Revolution held many promises for a better world. I deeply miss it all: the guns, cannons, and cries of our love for liberty; for our people. I miss us, then. I want to go back. To that night, to make those feelings forever.”

“No regrets, Fernando. Let’s return to that night.”

Holding hands, they took their final steps back.

 

Look both ways, back to that night.
Seek the love of hopeless romantics, the glamor of disco days,
and never let your memories die.
Mind the gaps while turning pages in the book of life.

***

Click on Che to read more stories from the same picture prompt.

***

 

Enjoy this rendition of ‘Fernando’ by Cher and Andy Garcia from the movie, Mama Mia.

Sammi’s Weekender #243 (temerity)

Click on the graphic to land on Sammi’s blog page.

In First Place

I’ve heard,
hold my beer and watch this.
Said it myself.
Miraculously,
I survived
to tell you
of my teenage temerity,
disregarding risk,
contempt for danger.

Like others, I was certain I’d live
forever.
Also, like survivors,
I now know I will not.

I want to go out in a blaze of glory,
not drenched in tomfoolery. Therefore,
I shall decline all qualifying events
for next year’s Darwin Awards.

Look both ways for the consequences of your own confidence.
Mind the gaps for the parenthetical excuses of fools.

Thursday’s Rune: Porter or Stout?

Old Man Sugarfoot

At FUBAR’s bar on the Redneck Riviera, I ordered up.

“I’ll have a sarsaparilla with a dash of cherry.”

The young redhead tending bar gave me a look, “Who are you?”

“I’m Sugarfoot, Ma’am.” (Removing my hat)

(I could’ve said, “Will Rogers, Jr., Slim Pickens, or Sheb Wooley.”
She’d a remained clueless.)

I responded to her saucy look by asking,
“What’s your darkest beer?”

She said, “Shiner Bock. But try this instead.”
I agreed.

She put a glass of white-capped, watery, light-gold liquid on the bar.

I looked at Yolonda, then at the drink, at the bar tender, and back at the drink.
“Is this beer?” I asked.

With a catty smile and in a demanding tone, “Drink up old man.”

I downed the grog and slammed my glass back on the bar.

(I don’t know why men do such foolish things.)

She gave me a minute, then, “Well? What do you think, Mr. Foot?”

With my most honest, I been trick-fucked again look, I replied,
“Ma’am, I think your horse is diabetic.”

She cut me off, so we left.

Giggling as we walked out, Yolonda said, “You’re such a funny old fool. I’ll drive.”

Look both ways and across the bar. Mind the gaps and opinions of bartenders.

(Note: FUBAR is acronym for fucked up beyond all reason.)

Friday Fictioneers: January 7th, 2022

For the first time in 2022, our dear and lovely lady, the queen of Friday Fictionalism, Mistress Rochelle has joined forces with Brenda Cox to masterfully tempt me into yet another maddening moment of muse-some, mendacious micro-storytelling.

Click on the next photo for a free taxi ride over to Rochelle’s place where you may want to get smart about writing fibs to a photographer’s photo. My sad story follows the prompt pic.

PHOTO PROMPT © Brenda Cox (Click it!)

Genre: Gonzo Journalism
Title: Don’t Be Misunderstood
Word Count: 100

Cold and drunk as I might be, I stumbled into the artists den, desperately needing to pee.

Of a painting man I asked, “Where’s the restroom?” my slurred Texas accent sounded like I asked, boom-boom?

With a mean look he yelled at me, “Number ten. Boocoo dinky-dau drunk, american. Take money!”

Through a white curtain, I entered where several young ladies were sitting around laughing and pointing. One demanded money.

I got out my wallet. Then, I heard a loud crack.

Next thing I woke up, dead as you see me now, with wet pants and an empty wallet.

Look both ways in the house of the rising sun.
Mind the gaps, speak clearly, and reconsider the nearest bush.

Click on Jake or Elwood to check out our literary squares gallery and more magnificently moving micro make-believe.

A bonus, if you dare: —