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Hark!
Posted by Ali zonak - 12-23-19 17:41 - 0 comments
* Hark!

A Christmas Story

In the year 1958 my life stunk like the part of the big city that smelled of stale beer or worse—the constant odor of yeast. Times were hard for this student. Across the street, the neighborhood tavern’s broken sign flickered drunkenly, Sch~itz Beer; one letter, the "L" had gone AWOL, but what boozer would care, as long as the watering hole was open for business?

Shadows dance in the flickering neon light; the mood’s almost perfect—for slashing my wrist. No, really, I should buy a light bulb for a dump that my stingy landlady rents out as a “studio.” But the ex-flapper girl turned landlady—I nicknamed her “Red”— doesn’t permit anything over 40 watts. Now and then, she will draw attention to her still impressive breasts, but I wish she’d offer me a 60-watt light bulb instead. It’s so dark in here, roaming roaches collide on my linoleum-covered kitchen floor.

Yucky? Not really; they clean up every unwashed cup and bowl. Why fight them? They’ve been here since Adam and Eve set up housekeeping in this place. One small thing: ask not how I can stand this kitchen’s odors. These are trifles when one lives in this city’s brewery district; trust me, I have seen my roaches heave at the stench of brewer’s yeast. It permeates the house, clings to clothes, and ferments the brain.

Tonight, by the twinkling of that neon sign, I watch the mother of all roaches lift the linoleum’s upturned corner. Crunch. Something inside me snaps. All right! I give up, and gather my belongings; I’ll humble myself before my parents, and they’ll forgive me. After all, it’s Christmas and I know, Jimmy Stewart will have softened them up by now. “It’s a Wonderful Life” will do it.

But here is the big question: Will my landlady let me pass? I owe her rent. Through her open apartment door I hear Bing and Catherine Crosby croon— I tiptoe down the hall. The old TV flickers worse than that Sch~itz sign across the street . . . . But—foiled again; my landlady can sense an escaping rent check. Nothing escapes her sharp eyes and finely-tuned ears. Caught!

Then, to my surprise, she gently speaks, “Come right in.” And then she said, “Merry Christmas, young fellow; now close your eyes.” I feel a motherly kiss on my cheek, “This is my gift to you; and never mind the rent,” and with that, she sends me on my way. See? Christmas does soften the heart—even that of a stingy landlady. Or was it because she realized that one can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip . . . me?
Read 86 times - make a comment   

Messages
Posted by Psyche - 12-18-19 12:43 - 2 comments
Hi Jerry, I hope you're back from the hospital and spinal tap was succesful and comforting. Also the tests. Bad luck about the cataracts. I suppose there's no way to fix that?
I'll take a look at the poem later on. I'm going out for a walk and shopping. Always Christmas presents to be purchased.A lot!
My grandson and his girl will be arriving Monday week. Fortunately, they'll stay at a friends house, so we'll see them and have fun whenever everybody pleases.
I don't know whether I told you that two of my young sons died. The youngest of ALS, aged 29 years. The other of Schizophrenia, he had visions and voices that told him he was a bad person and deserved to die. He committed suicide aged 21 years. Those were horrible times, especially as I was also having a bad time with my first husband, whom I later divorced after 25 years together. He was a psychopath and I married him at 19 and he was 33. I was highly innocent and stupid.
Fortunately, at 45 I married a second time to a physician. He was a clinician as well as a psychologist. He also spoke excellent English just thru' watching foreign movies. He was of Italian and Swiss ancestry. We got along very well but he had 3 major heart surgeries and after the last one, with 5 hours anaesthetic, he came out with manic dementia. With medications he calmed down, but after 7 years I had to put him in a geriatric home. That was because I came down with Fibromyalgia, which is a very painful condition of all one's muscles.
Over the years I became vegetarian, which has had contributed to far better health and less pain of the Fibromyalgia. Not a magic potion, nor instant, but I suggest it to whoever has health troubles.
Argentina has always had free health and education for everybody, even neighbouring countries, or anybody from abroad. I do hope this new government puts a stop to such generosity, especially as all countries charge us a lot. I have insurance for travelling, but it may not cover everything. We should only offer free services to our own citizens, and maybe on a scaling system. Let the rich pay when they use the state services.
Geez, I've written too much. Hope you feel better for the festivities. Greetings to Lynda and all your family. xmaswindow.gif GroupHug.gif


PS: Everybody can now read messages. I have no problem with that, but otherwise you'd have to give me your e.mail. Mine is silviaevelina@gmail.com Bye and sorry about this, I don't know, but I tried 3 times with PM's.
Read 87 times - last comment by Psyche   

New Challenge
Posted by Psyche - 12-18-19 10:54 - 59 comments

SENTIMENTS
Read 591 times - last comment by Psyche   

Baby Pond
Posted by Ali zonak - 12-16-19 14:13 - 4 comments
The Baby Pond
(a poem for inquisitive children and adults)

A stork flew over hill and dale
To bring these words from lands beyond;
Of birds and bees is not this tale,
But little babies in a pond.

It is the womb of unborn babies.
This fertile pool gives life to man;
The stork takes one—or more—to ladies,
Who then must do the best they can.

I learned, by way of lengthy talk,
This feathered, stilt-legged, flying friend
Brings babes to folks with pleasant squawk,
And runs his errands without end.

Cute babies sleep on water lilies;
(They care not about egg or sperm—)
Attended by three fairy dillies
Who want to see them reach full term.

Pretty, Dawn, and Awful are their names.
It’s up to them who leaves the pool
(No one to blame but those three dames,
Should you be parent of a fool).

Pretty and Dawn are sweet and lithe;
Beneath their feet fresh flowers grow,
But fungus trails that Awful sprite—
Each boot conceals one extra toe.

“Awful” she’s called, and so she feels.
An apple makes her mean, at best,
But like a maddened boar she squeals—
When she bears grudges in her chest.

The first two glide along the pond,
But Awful—she just clumps along.
Now Dawn scoops up the cutest blond,
Without a flaw, plain nothing wrong.

While Pretty and Dawn have gifts prepared
With which they’ll send the girl away,
That Awful sprite is love-impaired—
She chomps her apple for the day.

“I have a gift for you,” said Pretty.
“A life that’s rich in love and beauty . . . .”
(“A slap,” so growled the awful biddy,
“Nothing more; we’ve done our duty!”)

She told that babe, fresh off her patch,
“I hate to be the raining cloud,
But beauty? That, I will not match;
With all ten toes—you’re well endowed!”

Her apple splashed into the pool—
She shook the babe and yelled out loud,
“You made me drop it, little fool;
I wish it were stuck in your mouth!”

This was the fairy’s curse, and—lo,
The girl was ‘dressed’ in roast pig fashion;
But Dawn cast forth some fairy glow
And spoke with fervent passion:

“Now hear me, Awful, let me speak:
Cursed apple, leave that mouth—right NOW!
It is my wish that you should seek
The snout of a well-roasted sow.”

Dawn wrapped that bundle of sweet joy,
Tied it with ribbons, a pink bow
(Yes, pink; ‘cause blue goes with a boy).
The stork was ready, set to go.

His wings were strained, but not the will;
He shivered, but stayed true on course
Across the lands in wintry chill—
Oh, it was cold, but sleet is worse.

Through frosted window he could see
A quite old pair (she at the stove).
The stork hailed them and smiled with glee—
Behind the couch that couple dove.

Though tired, the stork still would not rest.
“Madam, has there been dilatation?”
(That is his one maternity test;
He knows nothing about gestation.)

“What? What!” she asked the feathered guest,
Her wailing bringing down the wall.
The man called out, “Is this a jest?
We haven’t planned for this at all!”

“Well,” said the stork, “this babe must stay!
You think I froze my tail for fun?
It’s yours; take care, I’m on my way.
Farewell, good luck, what’s dun is dun.”
Read 128 times - last comment by JustDaniel   

Unimpeachable
Posted by JustDaniel - 12-16-19 11:49 - 5 comments
Unimpeachable

Yes, our President Trump is a sleaze,
just as Clinton, recall, if you please,
but he doesn't have suave
to apply as a salve
so impeaching him's done with a breeze

not because we've uncovered some facts
but from digging out dirt from the cracks:
repeat, "crimes, misdemeanors"
with stiffened demeanor
feeding media's daily attacks.

Clinton, Kennedy, Trump low on morals
yet each of them's earned many laurels
'cause each presidency
helped to set many free
and has hundreds of choirs singing chorals.

Since they'll not vote him out, clear the slate
will they next pay to kill him with hate?

© MLee Dickens’son 15 Dec 2019
Daniel J Ricketts


My arbitrary designation "Limerick Sonnet" is a three-limerick series followed by a limerick-cadence couplet.
Read 126 times - last comment by Psyche   

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