Messege from Julianne Heckert:
[pal-uh-nohd]
əˌnoʊdShe wrote me a poem
A long loving ode
But now she's recanted,
I'm wounded and lowed.
Will this be the last I
See that Pal I Know'd?*
8^P
* This is what we poets refer to as a 'horrendous groaner'.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Thursday, June 13, 2013
THE PLOY OF THE SWEATER DEBS
Two weekends ago was my 30th college reunion.
Latent dormant memories and experiences were remembered, refreshed and resurfaced.
Sometime the truth is even funnier than a well writ joke.
THE PLOY OF THE SWEATER DEBS
A sunny Saturday, and I’m walking out with a friend.
Across the college green there were coeds end to end.
Boys sitting under trees with books, girls sunning on the grass,
A pastoral late autumn day that shall too quickly pass.
“There’s talent on the quad today,” my friend then warmly said,
“And everywhere is tail in play, a good day to come out.”
As we passed by the all girls dorm, he stopped and gazed above,
And smiled almost pruriently as he peered up in love.
“Now I have heard,” he said to me, “Though maybe not first hand,
Of secret goings on in there, the tales I’ve heard are grand!
Some Senior girls, some Juniors too, will befriend Freshman girls,
Who naively, or knowingly, will fall for tricks they play.
And when the Senior girls have worked to gain a freshman’s trust,
They’ll make a move to reel her in, say,
‘Hey, come to my room.
My Freshman old School sweater’s shrunk,
But it should fit you well.
You look so thin, you’re so petite,
And no you’re not too drunk.’
It’s a game that they all play up there, to catch new girls undressing!
She’ll watch her change her sweater then, from one into the other,
And if she likes what she has seen, she’ll move in then to get her.
She’ll say like;
‘By the way, you’re cute,
And I like what I saw.
I’m lesbian and proud of it, and there’s no shame at all.’”
I interrupted “No!”
“Yes! I’m telling you. And then they totally put the moves on them.”
“Oh, no way, come on! You’re making that up!”
“You’re a freshman!”
“Yeah but really. No one, not even the dumbest freshman, would fall for a lame move like that!”
Then he said;
“There’s something in my room I need, come with me for a minute.”
We walked back to his dorm room just like guys will often do.
We smoked some righteous weed he had, and heard some Grateful Dead.
And when the joint was just a roach, all that was in my head was;
Girls!
Dorms! Filled with girls. And girls!
To tease, to please,
In need.
“I’ll go back there,” I dreamt.
My friend stood up and walked to where his closet had no door,
And held before me bespoke pants like I’d not seen before.
“I bought these at a charity thrift, but they’re too long for me,
But you’re a little taller, dude, I think they might fit you.”
“What, you want me to try on these pants?
“Don’t worry, it’s not like I’ve never seen tightey-whiteys before,
And then he turned around and said, “I will not look at you.”
So I stood up and I dropped trou, and stepped into his pants.
Unknowingly, yet trustingly, an innocent on view.
They seemed to fit.
I turned around.
“Now those look good on you.”
“Really,” I said, “They seem a little tight in the front.”
“I don’t mind. ”
Then he said, “Listen, I’m Gay, and I like what I saw.”
“Wait, what just happened?”
(June 2013)
Two weekends ago was my 30th college reunion.
Latent dormant memories and experiences were remembered, refreshed and resurfaced.
Sometime the truth is even funnier than a well writ joke.
THE PLOY OF THE SWEATER DEBS
A sunny Saturday, and I’m walking out with a friend.
Across the college green there were coeds end to end.
Boys sitting under trees with books, girls sunning on the grass,
A pastoral late autumn day that shall too quickly pass.
“There’s talent on the quad today,” my friend then warmly said,
“And everywhere is tail in play, a good day to come out.”
As we passed by the all girls dorm, he stopped and gazed above,
And smiled almost pruriently as he peered up in love.
“Now I have heard,” he said to me, “Though maybe not first hand,
Of secret goings on in there, the tales I’ve heard are grand!
Some Senior girls, some Juniors too, will befriend Freshman girls,
Who naively, or knowingly, will fall for tricks they play.
And when the Senior girls have worked to gain a freshman’s trust,They’ll make a move to reel her in, say,
‘Hey, come to my room.
My Freshman old School sweater’s shrunk,
But it should fit you well.
You look so thin, you’re so petite,
And no you’re not too drunk.’
It’s a game that they all play up there, to catch new girls undressing!
She’ll watch her change her sweater then, from one into the other,
And if she likes what she has seen, she’ll move in then to get her.
She’ll say like;
‘By the way, you’re cute,
And I like what I saw.
I’m lesbian and proud of it, and there’s no shame at all.’”
I interrupted “No!”
“Yes! I’m telling you. And then they totally put the moves on them.”
“Oh, no way, come on! You’re making that up!”
“You’re a freshman!”
“Yeah but really. No one, not even the dumbest freshman, would fall for a lame move like that!”
Then he said;
“There’s something in my room I need, come with me for a minute.”
We walked back to his dorm room just like guys will often do.
We smoked some righteous weed he had, and heard some Grateful Dead.
And when the joint was just a roach, all that was in my head was;
Girls!
Dorms! Filled with girls. And girls!
To tease, to please,
In need.
“I’ll go back there,” I dreamt.
My friend stood up and walked to where his closet had no door,
And held before me bespoke pants like I’d not seen before.
“I bought these at a charity thrift, but they’re too long for me,
But you’re a little taller, dude, I think they might fit you.”
“What, you want me to try on these pants?
“Don’t worry, it’s not like I’ve never seen tightey-whiteys before,
And then he turned around and said, “I will not look at you.”
So I stood up and I dropped trou, and stepped into his pants.
Unknowingly, yet trustingly, an innocent on view.
They seemed to fit.
I turned around.
“Now those look good on you.”
“Really,” I said, “They seem a little tight in the front.”
“I don’t mind. ”
Then he said, “Listen, I’m Gay, and I like what I saw.”
“Wait, what just happened?”
(June 2013)
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
THE SHOP MANAGER
Two weekends ago, I attended my 30th college reunion, my first college reunion EVER!. It was fun, except I tore my back earlier in the week and was virtually a constant cripple. But that by-the-way.
Regrettably, a friend of mine from my college days, a faculty member who was a character non-pariel, died last December.
30 years, and tragically I never connected with him again after graduation. I'm not always reall smart.
Also, I regret, I did not get the chance to memorialize while I was there. So instead I wrote this remembrance. I've since forwarded it to the Skidmore Theater Department Heads (Still the same ones 30 years later! Even Rip Van Winkle couldn't ask for better!) t in hopes it can be included in their next newsletter as a memoriam.
We shall see.
THE SHOP MANAGER(for Owen McGehee, in memoriam)
When I was at Skidmore I worked in the shop
Not the coffee or book shop, the Theater shop.
While others hung bright lights, with colors all ‘round,
We’d build all the sets, or we'd strike them all down.
On tuition assistance I needed the pay
Of 5 hours at minimum wage, on Friday.
On one certain workday we were between shows,
With no work to do, he just told me to go!
I said "I need money, I can stay until five."
He said "I’m the Shop Foreman, I’ll sign off your card."
"But Owen, I'm honest, and what if we’re caught?"
"Convenient! There’s one project "special" I’ve got."
"There's buckets of bolts here we have to sort through.
You reach in and take one, now here's what you do;
The bent up or bunged up with threads all stripped bare,
You put in this bucket, that's this one, right here.
But if they are clean, and all nice and pristine,
Then they go in this one, you see what I mean?"
"!"
"Ok, I’ll be back to check up on you later."
"Ok."
But for rioting tinnitus, the Shop sang no notes,
The deafening was quiet as I sorted bolts.
My wish was that he would be proud of my doing,
So next show I’d learn more, perhaps stapling or gluing.
I imagined Department Heads would compliment me
For my effort, my diligence, my thrift and economy.
The second hand swept while no others moved time.
I twice checked the good bolts I’d chose –
They’re still fine!
At a quarter to five I heard him re-arrive,
(And obviously not in condition to drive).
I think he'd been drinking some whiskey or beer,
He did not seem happy to have come back here.
He said "Wow! That’s good work there, look what you have done!
I bet you were just having a great loud of fun!"
Then he poured the good bolts in the bucket they’d come from
And did the same thing with the bent up old bunged ones.
He shook up that bucket and mixed all with glee,
Tossed it back on the shelf, then he turned round to me
And said;
"It's now five o'clock, will you ---king get out?!"
- Ken Johnson ’83, (June 2013)
http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/saratogian/obituary.aspx?pid=161623080#fbLoggedOut
Two weekends ago, I attended my 30th college reunion, my first college reunion EVER!. It was fun, except I tore my back earlier in the week and was virtually a constant cripple. But that by-the-way.
Regrettably, a friend of mine from my college days, a faculty member who was a character non-pariel, died last December.
30 years, and tragically I never connected with him again after graduation. I'm not always reall smart.
Also, I regret, I did not get the chance to memorialize while I was there. So instead I wrote this remembrance. I've since forwarded it to the Skidmore Theater Department Heads (Still the same ones 30 years later! Even Rip Van Winkle couldn't ask for better!) t in hopes it can be included in their next newsletter as a memoriam.
We shall see.
THE SHOP MANAGER(for Owen McGehee, in memoriam)
When I was at Skidmore I worked in the shop
Not the coffee or book shop, the Theater shop.
While others hung bright lights, with colors all ‘round,
We’d build all the sets, or we'd strike them all down.
On tuition assistance I needed the pay
Of 5 hours at minimum wage, on Friday.
On one certain workday we were between shows,
With no work to do, he just told me to go!
I said "I need money, I can stay until five."
He said "I’m the Shop Foreman, I’ll sign off your card."
"But Owen, I'm honest, and what if we’re caught?"
"Convenient! There’s one project "special" I’ve got."
"There's buckets of bolts here we have to sort through.
You reach in and take one, now here's what you do;
The bent up or bunged up with threads all stripped bare,
You put in this bucket, that's this one, right here.
But if they are clean, and all nice and pristine,
Then they go in this one, you see what I mean?"
"!"
"Ok, I’ll be back to check up on you later."
"Ok."
But for rioting tinnitus, the Shop sang no notes,
The deafening was quiet as I sorted bolts.
My wish was that he would be proud of my doing,
So next show I’d learn more, perhaps stapling or gluing.
I imagined Department Heads would compliment me
For my effort, my diligence, my thrift and economy.
The second hand swept while no others moved time.
I twice checked the good bolts I’d chose –
They’re still fine!
At a quarter to five I heard him re-arrive,
(And obviously not in condition to drive).
I think he'd been drinking some whiskey or beer,
He did not seem happy to have come back here.
He said "Wow! That’s good work there, look what you have done!
I bet you were just having a great loud of fun!"
Then he poured the good bolts in the bucket they’d come from
And did the same thing with the bent up old bunged ones.
He shook up that bucket and mixed all with glee,
Tossed it back on the shelf, then he turned round to me
And said;
"It's now five o'clock, will you ---king get out?!"
- Ken Johnson ’83, (June 2013)
http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/saratogian/obituary.aspx?pid=161623080#fbLoggedOutSunday, May 26, 2013
FOR SARA - During the past week our Church Rector Sara wrote an impromptu and posted it on FB from her mobile phone. I've since learned that she may have been in Denver when she wrote it.
I do confess that "re-writing" another's poem certainly is height of callous conceit.
Temptation. Guilty. Sorry.
I wonder, will she ever read this?
FOR SARA
New England Spring Rain
Just does not feel the same
To one who can just stand and listen
Of all these commuters
With Iphone computers
Just who's a young Rector to christen?
All await the same bus
and now most make a fuss
as into dry doorways they hasten
But you in the rain
are the only one sane
and baptized into Spring you do glisten
THE ANGLICAN ANGLER - the problem with Sundays is after church I have to clear out the echoes before I can write anything secular.
So today in addition to earworms of Proverb s and Hymn's in my head, in the WSJ (yesterday's) I read a review of a book called "The Compleat Angler", a sort of 17th century combination of poetry and fishing guide.
THE ANGLICAN ANGLER
The angular Anglican angles the angle
A place where 3 streams come to meet in a cross
Expertly drawing his line with no tangle
He whips and he whizzes and casts his fine floss
I ask cross the ford if, "Might I have a word?"
"Friend sure," what he said, and then pinched his fine halyard
"What need have you fisherman, for your basket has bread
What hunger now haunts you, is your spirit unfed?"
"I don't fish for me," was his modest compline
"Those like you, who've not heard, I must call with a line."
So today in addition to earworms of Proverb s and Hymn's in my head, in the WSJ (yesterday's) I read a review of a book called "The Compleat Angler", a sort of 17th century combination of poetry and fishing guide.
THE ANGLICAN ANGLER
The angular Anglican angles the angle
A place where 3 streams come to meet in a cross
Expertly drawing his line with no tangle
He whips and he whizzes and casts his fine floss
I ask cross the ford if, "Might I have a word?"
"Friend sure," what he said, and then pinched his fine halyard
"What need have you fisherman, for your basket has bread
What hunger now haunts you, is your spirit unfed?"
"I don't fish for me," was his modest compline
"Those like you, who've not heard, I must call with a line."
Thursday, May 23, 2013
TOUGH CAT
It's been a few weeks - so long I had to reset my password on Blogger.
I've been working on 2 longer poems, maybe I'll post them next week.
In the meantime, another one-off.
TOUGH CAT
Pink cut spots on my left hand
Like acne dots on a young man
With Max the cat, who can be tough
The fault is mine for playing rough
Yes his claws all need a trim
And surely I'll clip him again
But I don't think it any sin
To catlike grasp and claw at him
He grabs my hand and pulls clamped down
With back feet kicking all around
He makes a tough cat growling sound
As I don't mind he sinks claws in
It's been a few weeks - so long I had to reset my password on Blogger.
I've been working on 2 longer poems, maybe I'll post them next week.
In the meantime, another one-off.
TOUGH CAT
Pink cut spots on my left hand
Like acne dots on a young man
With Max the cat, who can be tough
The fault is mine for playing rough
Yes his claws all need a trim
And surely I'll clip him again
But I don't think it any sin
To catlike grasp and claw at him
He grabs my hand and pulls clamped down
With back feet kicking all around
He makes a tough cat growling sound
As I don't mind he sinks claws in
Monday, May 6, 2013
PANTS
I may have had too much to drink last night. Today was not a bad day, just one of those wherin nothing feels quite right.
Of note - when I googled "pants on the floor pic" to find a photo, it lead me to a a fingerpost poet, from whom I "borrowed" the pic. His/her work can be read here (but read mine first!)
http://damiensfingerpost.blogspot.com/2011/05/sometimes-life-seems-like-dream.html
PANTS
These pants are not the same ones that I wore just yesterday
And how I came to put them on I really can not say
No wallet in the pocket and no pens no pad no keys
Just remnants of a tissue from a long forgotten sneeze
This pair were too dirty so I left them on the floor
When yesterday I others wore and thought of these no more.
When I awoke this morning sleepily I took no care
And I stepped in footfirst into the first pair I saw there
But these are not the same pants that I wore yesterday
A momentary panic came as I did comprehend
Could someone else in my new pants all of my wallet spend?
Or break into my house or steal my car with my own keys?
I only knew that they'd not have what they'd need should they sneeze
Of course a moment later common sense dispelled that doom
As I recalled that last night I'd undressed in another room.
I may have had too much to drink last night. Today was not a bad day, just one of those wherin nothing feels quite right.
Of note - when I googled "pants on the floor pic" to find a photo, it lead me to a a fingerpost poet, from whom I "borrowed" the pic. His/her work can be read here (but read mine first!)
http://damiensfingerpost.blogspot.com/2011/05/sometimes-life-seems-like-dream.html
PANTS
These pants are not the same ones that I wore just yesterday
And how I came to put them on I really can not say
No wallet in the pocket and no pens no pad no keys
Just remnants of a tissue from a long forgotten sneeze
This pair were too dirty so I left them on the floor
When yesterday I others wore and thought of these no more.
When I awoke this morning sleepily I took no care
And I stepped in footfirst into the first pair I saw there
But these are not the same pants that I wore yesterday
A momentary panic came as I did comprehend
Could someone else in my new pants all of my wallet spend?
Or break into my house or steal my car with my own keys?
I only knew that they'd not have what they'd need should they sneeze
Of course a moment later common sense dispelled that doom
As I recalled that last night I'd undressed in another room.
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