Give a woman a potted plant
no matter how beautiful or rare
and you’ve given her
another responsibility
something else to nurture
Give a woman cut flowers
no matter how plain or common
and you’ve taken on
the responsibility
of replacing them
I stop at the 7-11
and buy a doghouse rose
I carry the dying bloom
dreading my arrival home
while rushing to get there
Swallowing a simile
like a gum drop
i had a smile
that tasted of cherry lip gloss
and kisses in the rain
I met her for
a metaphor
and a euphemism
or two
or three
Green eyes dazzled me
and laughter
echoes
in my brain
Fred winced involuntarily from the pain as he reached across the small folding table. He handed a paper plate to each of his guests. Then he passed the food around. It was hardly traditional holiday fare — ravioli and yellow corn, both from cans — but everything in his life was different now.
The year before he had awakened on that cool, crisp Thanksgiving Day blissfully entwined with his beloved wife Ginger. The birth of their daughter Vera the previous week had precluded any traveling, but they looked forward to starting new traditions with their new little family. Vera’s demands were nearly constant but they had been preparing a small feast in the moments they could manage over the last couple of days.
Fred kissed Ginger lightly, hoping she would get a few more minutes of sleep. Then he slid out of bed and leaned over Vera’s crib. He was briefly overcome. All his senses registered — angelic face, rhythmic breathing, baby powder, the incredible softness of her cheek as he brought his lips close. He had thought he knew how powerful love could be when he had married Ginger, but his love for this child was all-consuming.
He stopped in the kitchen to put coffee on the stove and then stepped outside. He picked the newspaper up from the porch and looked eastward. The sun was just a glow on the horizon and he stood there shivering to watch it rise. It was silly, he thought, but he had made it a point to watch the sun rise every day since Vera was born. Silently he said a prayer of thanks as he breathed in the autumn morning. Mostly it was the smell of the leaves scattered across the ground. And then… smoke!
He rushed inside to find the house full of dense, black smoke and the kitchen ablaze. He shouted Ginger’s name and crawled toward the bedroom. He never made it that far. He awoke days later in the burn ward and began a long slow recovery.
When he finally got to visit the graves of his wife and daughter, he fell into an unconsolable sobbing heap. The painful rehab dragged on for months. His business closed and his insurance was about to run out. He was already a month behind on the rent for the small room in which Chuck and Dave, two other long-term patients at the rehab center, now joined him for the holiday meal.
Any summary of his life at this point would conclude that in a year he had lost everything — his family, home, business, and health. The only thing he had not lost was his faith. So he clasped his withered hands, bowed his head, and said, “Let us give thanks.”
[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim 6 Dec 2009]
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Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.
This is an update of a post from 25 April 2006
I like shorter forms of poetry and I like that haiku traditionally has themes related to nature. A really good poem, in my opinion, distills a moment or an idea into a small crystal. It is clear and compact. At a glance you might exclaim, “Yes! Oh my god, that’s it exactly!” And then you spend an eternity examining the facets and the infinite truth reflected there.
Poetry, and Asian poetry in particular, suffers in translation into another language. Still, there are gems to be found here. My favorite haiku in my recent reading is from Haiku: Seasons of Japanese Poetry edited by Johanna Brownell:
These butterflies of ours –
If they could speak, what pretty dreams
We’d hear about the flowers.
Call me a simpleton, but I get lost inside those words. How different would the world appear if we could see it through the eyes of a butterfly? This poem also reminds me of a well-known parable attributed to the Chinese philosopher Zhuangzi. The Complete Idiot’s Guide to to Taoism has this translation:
Once Zhuangzi dreamt he was a butterfly, fluttering buoyantly; a butterfly fully content being himself. He knew of no Zhuangzi! Suddenly, he awakened. And plain-old Zhuangzi doesn’t know if he’s Zhuangzi who just dreamt a butterfly or the butterfly dreaming he was Zhuangzi.
Taoist parables are full of paradoxes. How do we decide what is reality? And, for whatever reason, this reminds me of Edgar Allen Poe, the favorite of my maudlin teen years.
A Dream Within A Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
This much let me avow
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep – while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Is it important that he makes a statement at the end of the first section that is a question at the end of the second? [Bonus: What horror movie used those last two lines in the opening credits?] Hmmm, some days I think too much. And I seem to have wandered far from where I started. But that is the way with poetry and me — I wander.
Once I had a lover who would put her head on my shoulder while I read poetry to her. [Actually, twice, but that sentence didn't sound quite right when I wrote it that way....] Poetry, I’ve heard it said, should be read out loud. And reading it out loud, but softly, to an ear that was right there, caressed by the words, was a lovely place to wander. And a heavenly place to be lost.
I often jot down ideas for posts with every intention of fleshing them out later. Recently I was looking over my notes and, honestly, I don’t know what the heck I was thinking on some of these. [Most of them I remember, I just think they're funny.]
So, which post are you most looking forward to?
Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?….
Ginger felt like a fool and worse, a cliche’, sitting on the couch in T-shirt and sweatpants, holding a half-empty carton of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy™ ice cream with The Notebook playing on the TV. When the phone rang she read the caller ID, muted the movie, and took a deep breath before answering.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Nothing, just… got home from a date.”
“Yeah. Internet-boy, uh, Fred. That was tonight.” As if you didn’t remember! she wanted to say but, of course, did not.
“Well, I think I can say I’ve been on the world’s most expensive first date. He flew here from Tuscon, rented a limo, brought me a bouquet of daisies, took me to Le Province for dinner….”
“Of course not, Mom. He’s at a hotel. He flies home in the morning.”
“Yes, I know what you told me. Meeting someone in person that you met on line is — Mom! He’s not an ax murderer or anything like that!”
“I don’t know, it was… awkward….”
“Mom, can we talk about this tomorrow?” Or even better, never again? Why couldn’t she just say that to her mother?
“Okay. I love you too. Bye”
Another spoonful of ice cream melted down her throat while a tear traced a path down her cheek. She turned the volume back up in time to hear Duke say, “I’ve loved another with all my heart and soul and for me that has always been enough.” Then her tears flowed freely.
Ginger had lied about the flowers. She was sure Fred knew that daisies are her favorite, but he arrived empty-handed. And she would never tell her mother she had paid for everything — the plane ticket, the car, the fancy restaurant, the hotel. But it wasn’t the money that made this date so expensive. Ginger was giving up hope that she would meet someone to love with all her heart and soul.
[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim 6 Dec 2009]
Last week Estrella suggested I warn you if you might need tissues, but I just couldn’t bring myself to put a warning at the top of the story. Feel free to take one now if you need it….
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Can you musically connect Tin Pan Alley (New York City) to Montreux, Switzerland to the San Fernando Valley in California? How about connecting piano and big band to heavy metal to art rock?
Here’s my answer:
In 1933 pianist Peter DeRose published a composition called Deep Purple. He worked in Tin Pan Alley and broadcast on NBC. It became a popular big band hit for Paul Whiteman. Lyricist Mitchell Parrish [also lyricist on Star Dust, Stars Fell on Alabama, Moonlight Serenade, and many others] added lyrics in 1938:
When the deep purple falls over sleepy garden walls
And the stars begin to twinkle in the sky—
In the mist of a memory you wander back to me
Breathing my name with a sigh…
The song was recorded by several artists over the years. The version I know best was by brother-and-sister act Nino Tempo & April Stevens in 1963.
The song [I don't know which version] was a favorite of the grandmother of guitarist Ritchie Blackmore. After she kept asking if his band would play the song he named his band Deep Purple. One of that band’s biggest hits is Smoke on the Water. The lyrics in that song refer to a fire that burned down a casino in Montreux during a concert by Frank Zappa and the Mothers. [Someone in the audience fired a flair gun at the ceiling!] Deep Purple was in Montreux at the time for a recording session on Machine Head, their best-selling album.
Frank Zappa was an eclectic artist that wrote rock, jazz, electronic, and orchestral music. One of his best-known songs [about which, he apparently was not happy] is Valley Girl. In that song his daughter, Moon Unit, provided “Valspeak” from California’s San Fernando Valley and made the slang more popular and wide-spread than ever.
Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.
This is an update of a post from 9 February 2005
Herman’s Head was a sitcom that ran for three seasons (’91-’94) on the FOX TV network. Four actors played parts of Herman’s psyche (sensitivity, lust, anxiety, intellect) that observed, commented on, and argued about how he should respond to the events in his life. The voices in his head were much more clearly defined, and funnier, than mine are. [If I had them, which I said yesterday I don't, so anyway....] But I remembered this show when I began working on something I expect to post soon. [And what I posted yesterday.] I was surprised to find there are several websites with info and I’ll post a few links below. Many people found it as innovative and funny as I did but, apparently, not enough of us for FOX to continue production. They sited poor ratings as the reason for cancellation.
Featured on the show were:
William Ragsdale as Herman, several other TV series and TV movies on his bio.
Hank Azaria as Herman’s best friend Jay, does several voices for The Simpsons and, in my opinion, one of the best comic voice and character actors ever.
Jane Sibbett as the gorgeous (knows it and uses it) coworker Heddy, tons of acting, producing, and TV guest appearance credits including as one of the actresses to play Ross’ ex-wife on Friends.
Yeardley Smith as the sweet and innocent coworker Louise, probably best known now as the voice of Lisa Simpson.
Jason Bernard as the know-it-all boss, Mr. Bracken, passed away in 1996 so anything you might have seen him in was probably before this show.
Molly Hagan as Angel (sensitivity), lots of movie rolls and TV guest appearances.
Ken Hudson Campbell as Animal (lust), lots of acting and voice credits.
Rick Lawless as Wimp (anxiety), only a couple other credits listed.
Peter Mackenzie as Genius (intellect), lots of movie and TV credits.
Please note: I am not really a crazy man, but I sometimes write crazy things like this. I have only ever had one voice in my head. It sometimes says bad things and sometimes spews gibberish and sometimes mumbles. [Something tells me this is not strengthening my case for not being crazy....] But it never encourages me to do harm to myself or others.
The voices in my head
They talk talk non-stop they jibber jabber gabbing crabbing like a knife is stabbing stabbing at my ears my ears are bleeding I am needing them to stop stop the talk talk so I walk walk but nowhere to go without the voices in my head always there so unaware or just don’t care I pull my hair out by the roots I stand there with a bloody hank and thankfully there is a moment
of
silence….
Ginger blinked into the bright sunlight and cleared her throat.
“Death occurs in an instant,” she began. “So in a way, losing Fred took virtually no time at all. But loss… and grief… are not instantaneous. Grief is moment upon endless moment. I am continually losing Fred. I will be losing Fred forever. He is gone, but he will never be gone.”
She felt her throat tighten and tears well up in her eyes. “The last words I said to Fred were angry words. We were having an argument. That will haunt me forever. In fact, I fully expect Fred to haunt me. It would be just like him.” She paused, hoping to draw a little laughter into the somber occasion. Fred would like that — and he would hate everything else about this ceremony. But she met only silence from the crowd broken by the sound of a siren approaching.
“Fred and I liked to hold hands,” she pressed on. “Even now I can feel our fingers intertwined. My thumb strokes the back of his hand.” The siren was louder still and a brief murmur arose. “I…” Ginger gulped at the air. “I… I’m sorry.” The sun shrank to a bright point that began flashing red and blue.
The police officer approached the vehicle wrapped around the large oak tree. He didn’t expect to find any survivors. He was half right. “Ma’am! Can you hear me? Can you unlock the door? I’m going to get you out of there. Just hold on.” With grim irony he noticed that she held tightly to the hand of the vehicle’s driver — almost the only part of him that wasn’t crushed beyond recognition.
[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim 6 Dec 2009]
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