Pleasure

Monday’s Rune: The Value of Time

 

When Dad’s a Dick

I returned to your place of business, like I said I would.
A clown-man there told two jokes. At first,
I glared at him to the silent end. The other
I interrupted so I could give you my coffee order.
I allowed him to finish. I again stared
before telling him his joke was unfunny and that his
comedic skills were woefully lacking behind his
overflowing obnoxiousness. Was he your father?

You would not take my money. He paid.
I sat quietly, typed my poem, drank the
Americano and chewed the muffin.
Now I wish I hadn’t. You
did not look at me or say another word. Then,
you left.

Sorry. Henceforth, the city library
has much more to offer and
better silence, too. No jokes.
Is Divinely Beautiful your real name?
Tell your father that my low opinion
of him has declined and my vote
is not for sale.

No apology necessary.

Look both ways but think on your feet.
Mind the gaps of silence when the wind passes.

Expect the unexpected, they say. How?

 

Sammi’s Weekender #276 (bandage)

Click the graphic for Sammi’s blog and more bandaged 61-worded wonders.

Keepin’ Safe

‘hello-‘ello! C’mere, lad.
I hope you’ll be keepin’ well.

It happens every year
after a wee bit, a donnybrook
somewhere near here,
sorry now, so
me shillelagh’s swingin,
callin’ fer bacon.

Not well then are ye?
wackin’ the cod,
wi’ narry a nod, nor a bandage
or pad to be had.

T’ank you for feelin’
brave to go, smart to not.

Look both ways on whisky drinkin’ festival days.
Mind the gaps at the tube and lads at the pub.

The annual Donnybrook Fair near Dublin included fiddlers and dancers, but it was best-known for the frequent eruption of whiskey-fueled fighting – often involving heavy clubs known as shillelaghs. “Bacon” is Irish slang for police and “cod’ for fool.

Sammi’s Weekender #274 (opera)

Click this opera thingy to find links to more operatic writings

For Opera’s Sake

Poets find inspiration in
music
I do,
not opera
or classical,
Whitman did.
Likewise Nazim Hikmet,
Dickenson, Bishop, Doty,
and the barstool bard,
Charles Bukowski
who wrote,
“To The Whore Who
Took My Poems,” and
said, “opera sickened me.”

A romantic, Hank was,
by some accounting,
a perv, drunk, dreamer,
a dirty old man
and misogynist
(he claimed not)—a lover
of women and classical
music.
Buk’s been saluted by
diversity like
U2, Red Hot Chili Peppers,
Nirvana, Bush, the Cars,
and Concrete Blonde.

I’ve been
accused
of being mused by
Bukowski
and his oeuvre.

Look both ways for the sin of admiring the imperfect,
the toil of the briar patch, the desire for love and passion.
Mind the gaps lest we stumble into the First Self-righteous Church.

This is the poem, “To The Whore Who Took My Poems” … done operatically (a bit risqué). My apologies if this youtube does not work for you.

Friday Fictioneers for August 19th, 2022

Mistress Rochelle has returned to her castle from her annual August quest, and she is enticing us with her own painting of shells in a glass. I kind of did a hard left leaning twisty turn on the prompt (coz TMI) to flesh out my 100-word limited story whilst weaving in some suggestive erotica, playing around, and the results of binge-watching too much Grey’s Anatomy.

My tongue-in-cheek apologies for rubbing-in an R-rated Friday Fictioneers (fantasy) story. If you think you might do better, it’s on! Click on Mistress’s fantabulous watercolour ((winks at Brits and Canucks)) to jump on my bike and wheel on over to Rochelle’s purple pleasure posts to get your ticket to ride.

Click a shell to hop on over to see Rochelle.

Genre: Allman Erotic Fiction
Title: Polyamorous Holiday
Word count: 100

***

The lady was an artiste, a trooper. She did it all. When she climbed on behind me, I sang out.
We gotta run to keep from hidin.’ I don’t own the clothes I’m wearin’.

Then she sang.
“Not gonna let ‘em catch us, Midnight Riders.”

She grabbed my crotch and yelled in my ear.
“Ten-day vaycay, Babe. Let’s go before I do you here.”

I sang.
I’ve passed the point of caring. I’ve one more silver dollar.

She squeezed hard.

We crashed.

Ten delightfully romantic days in the hospital. Each day we sang.

“Same old bed we both are sharing.”

***

Look both ways during those special summer days.
Mind the gaps unless that’s where your hand lays and stays.

***

 

Click the chick-pic for more marvelous myth, memoir, and mendacity.

I bogarted and messed around with the lyrics to the song. If you don’t recognize it, here goes… I shudda picked a shorter one, but hey, meh likes it.

Monday’s Rune: Special Times

Photo by and © Dale Rogerson

Candlelight Creates Memories.

It happens
like this
it all comes together
too seldom,
so brief
but when
it comes,
we feel it
forever.
It’s more
than love,
family,
sisterhood;
life has enough
pain and suffering
and sadness.

Forget that—
remember this—
time always was
always will be
just because when
it’s like this
it’s cosmic.

No
everyday thing.
That wouldn’t work.

The right people,
the right time and place
discovering high levels
of special happiness.

We need to do that
more often—
again soon.

One bottle passed through
snifters near dripping candles
lighting empty chairs
reflections
light and dark
happy and sad
yin and yang
simultaneous synergy
of family energy.

Look both ways to find soul in family.
Mind the gaps. Set the stage. Live the love.

Monday’s Rune: Working for Money

At the car wash
busy with trucks and SUVs
but few cars.

I spy a young HR lady
as she
explains personnel things
to a few male employees
who look confidently confused.

They pay “up to” twelve dollars per hour
there—
so says the help wanted sign.

It’s a hundred degrees Fahrenheit
again today, outside, at the car wash
for not enough dinero to live on.

A customer—tall skinny guy wearing
starched, ironed Wranglers with
a big wide belt holding up a bigger
shiny rodeo belt buckle, in
black cowboy boots
boasting bright diamond earrings,
under a big black felt
unairconditioned cowboy hat with

a long wallet jutting up from
his tight right back pocket
and chained to his belt,
and his big-ass cell phone in the other,
all in his stiff, creased, ironed
cowboy blue jeans while

Mansplaining to his nicely wigged

lady friend—he even told me when
my car was ready (it wasn’t)—she nodded and smiled—
people waiting for their clean and polished rides—

one rest (wash) room for all. With
a mercifully short waiting line,

I see no ‘young’ customers, but
one old man wore his ballooning
starched & ironed loud pink, long-sleeved shirt with
pearl buttons in this noisy, busy business

somewhere in the middle of Texas
where dressing to subculture
ignores realities like sun and heat

except for the guys making top
dollar, one every five minutes,
at the car wash. Plus, a tip from me
in my worn Phish tee and shorts, ball cap
and old gym shoes. My subculture.
At the car wash.

Look both ways at the car wash.
Take notes on the sights and write ‘em up: prose or poetry to get you through the day.
Mind the gaps unless you pay the upcharge for a greater job, done by hand, details.

 

If you’re unfamiliar with the mid-seventies song and movie, here is a youtube trailer version.

Monday’s Rune: I

 

me

sometimes
it’s like this—
I breathe
and just
be—me

nothing more
nothing less
nothing else

I’m
not complaining
I like to be me—
just me

no problem
to solve,
nothing
to write
or to see
or feel
or read
or hear
or to understand

just to breathe
and
feel my heart
beat—
if I itch
then
I scratch

I survive
I’m alive
and that’s
good enough
no zen
or yoga
just me
and
eternity

and now you

Look both ways and mind the gaps,
but also remember to just be, sometimes,
and let go of it all,
whenever you can.

Sammi’s Weekender #266 (flippant)

Click to flip over to Sammi’s blog and more 74-word wonders.

Was it something I said?

Many things I’ve done and not done
which brought me much self-inflicted grief;
like transfers or removals from jobs,

I’ve sat smiling at wrong times,
adulted too young, or the drink I tasted
when I got more than a little bit wasted,
‘twas most often my spectacular speech
that others appreciated the least.

I’m gifted this flippantly waggish tongue
emitting my intently presented voice
speaking a cutting language, exposing
my cantankerously lighthearted snarkastic choice.

Look both ways when words fly like the breath of buzzards.
Mind the gaps and if your gunna do it, go all the way.

Monday’s Rune: Pride Month Poetry

Looking Both Ways

There’s tragedy in America
and over the world today.
One that has always been there
brewing trouble bubbling,
either hidden or ignored.

Without love, honor, and respect
inside and out,
sans pity and pride, compassion, and sacrifice,
we are doomed
to be less than
the best of humanity’s history.

Let nature and nurture battle on,
let knowledge
and wisdom wrestle
with feeling and emotion.

Nature’s questions asked without fear,
safe for all, with courage
to face battles between
sweet dreams of hope
and nightmares of reality.

Ally with truth, with
compassion, without weakness or fear,
with hope to continue
standing with universal rightness.

Look both ways and try, try, try to understand, it’s not magic, man.
Mind the gaps in the human condition as you embrace its diversity.

Note: I will be reading this poem (and others) at the Lark & Owl Booksellers in Georgetown, TX, 30 June 2022 @ 7:30 PM.

Sammi’s Weekender #264 (Picturesque)

Click on the graphic for more 54-word wonders and Sammi’s blog page.

Damn Reality

Here I go again reading
Bukowski’s clear vision voice
poems lacking picturesque pastoral principles,
with plainly different aesthetic dispositions
of attitude nobody loves.

We know that deep inside,
his way is part of us;
part of him, hides in us.
How many ways
can we paint the same picture,
or tell the same story.

Look both ways reading anyone’s poems.
Mind the gaps hiding deep within when writing your own.