Happiness

Friday Fictioneers for April 15th 2022

Once again, the lovely Rochelle, Maven of artistic fact and fiction, and Dale, ingenious photographer to the ethereal and adroit crafter of masterful tales, have conspired to extract mid-April narratives from the noggins and minds of Friday Fictioneer followers.

My song-related reportage maxed out at the 100-word limit and follows Dale’s visual. Click on the chair to write your story if you dare.

Click on the photo to ride on over to Rochelle’s page to read all about it.

Genre: Senior Gonzo Fiction
Title: Concealed Carry
Word Count: 100

***

We limped in. Kris needed his cane. The music sucked, but our old table was available. We sat and waited.

A young man approached.

He said, “You need to leave. We don’t want your kind in here. Now get out.”

I glared at him for a minute. “Two waters, coffee with cream, and menus, please.” His anger was visible as he moved closer. Kris placed his pistol on the table.

“Listen motherfucker, I’m Bobby McGee. We’ve nothing left to lose. You do. Repeat the order, fetch it with a smile or say ‘goodbye.’ We ain’t leaving alive. We’ll await Janis.”

Look both ways but remember the seventies if you can.
Mind the gaps for Glocks and dead grumpy waiters.

Give a Glock Click HERE to find more great stories. And for your happy entertainment, four of the finest good ol’ boys.

NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 3)

Since it’s Sunday, (I’ve no idea why that matters to Maureen Thorson [Napo creator and prompt director], but I acknowledge that most folks who work do so on approximately five of the other six days) so today’s NaPo prompt is (she said “a bit”) complex. I’m to write a poem in a Spanish form called glosa (or glose). Glosa explains or responds to another poem or part of one. Until today, I was unfamiliar with this form, but now I am intrigued by it.

THE GLOSA OR GLOSE requires:

  1. a) A cabeza (or motto) – the quatrain borrowed from another poet, whose authorship must be acknowledged.
  2. b) Four 10-line stanzas, each ending with one of the lines in sequence from the cabeza.
  3. c) A rhyme-scheme requirement that lines 6 and 9 rhyme with the final word of line 10.

It seems challenging, but “The point of any formal (poem) constraint is primarily to put you under pressure to write a little differently from your default style, and in the case of the glosa, you’re forced to participate quite explicitly in the work of another poet, many new possibilities for writing differently can be magically released.

“There’s great scope for playing with this form, by varying the constraints. You could choose a different stanza length, write in free verse, in a metre of your choice, or in syllabics; dispense with rhyme or increase the amount of rhyme; use a different length of cabeza, or introduce the lines of the cabeza in different positions in your stanza.” ~ John Wheway, “How to write a Glosa.” (https://www.johnwheway.com/?p=4)

I did the prompt and followed the form as closely as I could, except for one rhyme. Who cares, right?

The most difficult part of this was browsing through my favorite poets to find the perfect quatrain, then to cull that dozen down to one.

I could feel the day offering itself to me
and I wanted nothing more
than to be in the moment—but which moment?
Not that one, or that one, or that one,

From the book, The Trouble with Poetry (and other poems): “In the Moment,” by Billy Collins.

Life’s Moments

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
they’d ask, “Do you have a girl friend?
I needed answers. Also, “How was school today?”
I grew up without ever knowing
what it was I wanted to be.
I married young and that stopped
all questions about any girlfriend,
and then one day I woke on up.
The value of school I started to see
I could feel the day offering itself to me.

One day at a time, moment by moment
I lived my life, and I slowly learned
what I wanted to do, he who I wanted to be
even though, before, I didn’t know or want
to be the he who was evolving into me.
Each day of my life I opened another door.
The important people in my life called me
Bill or Dad or Opa, not sir or major.
I finally had my feet on the floor
and I wanted nothing more.

Forty million moments later I knew
the answers to so many of their questions
but I can’t tell them now, not that they
ever really cared, like everyone does
after they’ve grown up (if they do),
they’re all gone now to find others to torment.
So little I remember, the work I did,
the people I loved (and those I did not)
I think about my future, I want nothing more
than to be in the moment—but which moment?

I wish I could tell them now
what I didn’t know then, what I’ve become,
and how I made my way, and what
I have to say. I never liked school,
a necessary evil at best,
but that’s all long over and done.
I’ve paid my dues. Didn’t always give my best
even when life was some questioning test.
I try moments and memories I could’ve become,
Not that one, or that one, or that one, …

Look both ways to the future and the past
but live every moment like it might be your last.
Mind the gaps and the questions, but live long into the answers.

Thursday’s Rune: 3 3 22

Ode to Sexy GCS

Saying it’s iconic is a trite, ubiquitous
marketing cliché to honor nouns.

Yet, certain foods deserve menu pride of place
for meaningful simplicity,

for memories, taste, and community pleasure;
for ingredient brevity, seldom seeking savory mystery.

I salivate composing a poem
to the American grilled cheese sandwich.

GCSs have been around more ‘n a hundred years,
frequent fare served at fun food venues,

including my house, where casual is key
and kiss is a simple, honorable principle.

Why many recipes? Bread, cheese, butter,
and heat. It’s American. Add more and

it’s a melt. If that’s what you want, well fine!
Let Brits have their toasties, jaffles for Aussies,

panini is Italian and bless the French
for le croque monsieur. Nice. But none of that is GCS.

Done right, fried golden crisp with a shell’s
shades of black to yellow-brown, either square or round.

Cut squares diagonally, two isosceles right triangles
for proper holding, touching, and eating (warm to hot).

And kissing if you want. See the colors and shape,
the moist but firm surface.

Pick up with clean dry fingers, opposite the
triangle’s hypotenuse, gently between two legs.

At the right-angle corner, hold it between your
index and middle fingers, and thumb, gently lift

its moist crisp oiliness to your face. Allow it
to touch, to be felt on your skin and lips.

Holding near your nose and mouth, invite
sensual fragrance to enter your nose, slide

it gently between your lips, barely touching,
before being taken into the mouth.

Gently bite it. Feel your teeth crunch through the crust
into the warm melted cheese. Chew slowly, thoroughly.

Swallow the bite while planning the next. No rush.
Eye the stack and plan your next attack.

Look both ways.
Food and sex are both pleasures.
Enjoy.
Mind the gaps, the dips, and company.
Bond with the world.

Thursday’s Rune: The Intern

I really don’t understand this retirement gig. I never worked this damn hard when I was (over) paid for what I did.

I know. All those years of experience, knowing and rarely telling where the bodies were buried. They paid me with hush money and free coffee.

Now I work for the worst slave driver of my life: relentless me. And I am not giving myself a good review or a raise.

Too many goals I’ve missed by miles, shabby work posted for the world to see. No pay, no benefits, but staff meetings are mercifully short. Praise social programs and media.

Art supplies going dry. Travel bennies unused. Zoom training ignored in favor of you tubes and naps in the afternoon.

The sexual harassment policy, while mild is embarrassing, even though nobody knows how it all goes. Breaks lead to fun honey-dos I often prefer.

Don’t get me wrong. I love retirement. The highlight of some days is wasting time in erotically creative ways. I love to say that tired cliché, “been there and done that.” Experience never gets old.

When I look both ways, seeing more past than future, it’s telling.
I mind the gaps as best I can, and I still hope for a happy ending to my wildly romantic life.

***

I shall allow Robert Anthony De Niro Jr. (as old Ben) show me the way.

Sammi’s Weekender #246 (saunter)

Give a little click on ‘saunter’ to fly on over to Sammi’s blog and read more words of wonder.

Now Dance

I can almost see in my memory
when mother was proud of me
for those first sobering steps,
my cheerful run. Later,
I saw and heard mine;
Billy, then Steven, finally
Julie taking first frantic steps of life,
another charge without
casual saunter. We learn
to run, then we slow down.

Look both ways as we walk, run, or saunter through life.
Mind the gaps, do the best you can, and have fun.
It’s a one-way ticket.

***

And now, a 1980s fun rock as Dire Straits teaches us about the “Walk Of Life.” (Hilarious)

Thursday’s Rune: There is no…

New Day Travel Ban

It can be a bit pejorative
to say about a person
that she or he wakes up
in a new world every day.

Not woke
like in social awareness,
but more like unaware
of reality and conditions where
lessons learned are lost or useless.

But don’t we all want that?
Who wants it the same old way?
That was cynical Groundhog Day.
Let’s go and see

what today’s new world has
to offer, to challenge, to feel,
and to be. Not because
someday we won’t, but

let’s jump into every day
like it’s something new
giving us one more
breath, another love, another chance to…

Let’s look both ways as we wake to different days.
Mind the gaps for a trip or two,
just don’t fall for whatever normal is supposed to be.

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.

Sammi’s Weekender #242 (goodnight)

Click on the graphic image to be transported to Sammi’s page and other ‘goodnight’ works.

 

Ginny-Ginny is Forever

I wish we were again
She, her; I, me, when
Somehow two were one,
All days and nights were special
When bedtime was large
with Daddy’s love.

I kissed her neck, repeating
Goodnight, g’night so fast, ginny-ginny
became our special time,
She’d laugh, then sleep.

Look both ways at special bonds of love,
for wanting to be better than we were,
for past moments that will never be forgotten.
Mind the gaps of imperfection in humanity.

***

“A daughter is the happy memories of the past, the joyful moments of the present, and the hope and promise of the future.” ~ Unknown

“Watching your daughter being collected by her date feels like handing over a million-dollar Stradivarius to a gorilla.” ~ Jim Bishop

Happy New Year, Dewey (Julie). ~ Me

Thursday’s Rune: Candles in Darkness

Thanks to Dale for the photo.

Candles in Darkness (Time to go home)

The streetlight was
outside my second-floor bedroom window,
about sixty feet away,
kiddy corner from me,
but right across from Packy’s Bar.
At night, it dimly lit my bedroom.

(I didn’t like the pull-chain single bulb
that hung from a chain in the middle of the room.)

There was another light
a block farther up on Main Street,
and another was down on Washington
where a traffic signal clicked
when it changed to another color (all night long).
It had to be late and quiet to hear.

I didn’t care.
When I pushed my bed next to the window,
I could feel and smell smoke-free night air.
I saw and heard street and sidewalk sounds,
I watched the glorious night rain,
and sometimes people who were quieter at night.
Summertime I could see bugs flying around the light
as I listened to the raucous people up at Packy’s.

The light was near enough
to work with my mind adding drama to boredom
as the nearby maple-tree limbs and leaves
silhouetted diabolical shapes and shadows.

That’s how I saw them.
Frightening then. Old friends now.
Along with rain, the streetlight showed me
falling snow or eerie fog on dark nights.

Streetlights comforted me.
Now, when I get up before sunrise, I look out
to see another lonely, bored streetlight father away
on a much quieter street with no bars (just houses with old people).
I recall the days when I looked out for the light to tell me things.

I still do.

Look both ways to see the light.
Mind the gaps, the bars, and the interesting shadows.
Watch people.

Friday Fictioneers 12/31/2021

Another fine photo prompt as FF Mistress Rochelle and Darling Dale team up yet again to prompt me into some foolish fiction for the final 2021 Friday fib.

Click on Dale’s photo to flash over to Rochelle’s blog in case you want to learn more about writing to a photographer’s photo. The prompt pic and my yarn follow.

Click on the PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson to be carried on over to Rochelle’s blog page.

Genre: Biographical Fiction
Title: Dale’s Candid Camera
Word Count: 100

Are you sure we got the right one, Maggie? We’ll never get away with this. We’re gunna get caught. Who cops trees at Christmas time?

It’ll be fine Ralphie boy. Once we get past this hotel, we’ll have a free tree, Eh?

Who’s that?

Who is what?

That lady over there is taking our fucking picture. Quick, hide your faces. Everybody has a freaking camera these days. It’s almost enough to make me stop stealing things.

Do you think we’ll be published? Maybe she wants to make us famous.

Just keep moving and hope… Oh shit Maggie. I think that’s Dale.

Look both ways, everyone is camera ready these days.
Mind the gaps and check the trees for varmints and critters.
Smile, you’re in the blogosphere.

Click on Jack and Sarah (Tony Danza & Lea Thompson) in “Stealing Christmas” to read more soon to-be-famous micro-fiction.