February 9, 2018
(Click image to enlarge.)
(This is a re-post from 2017.)
This poetic Valentine’s Day card was postmarked Perry Ill., 4 p.m., Feb. 13, 1911. The man who mailed it could expect that his beloved, “Birdie,” would have it in her hand the very next day—Feb. 14, Valentine’s Day. In those days, first-class mail was delivered morning and afternoon and postcards required only a one-cent postage stamp. Note also that in this case the card was mailed and delivered sans street name or number. Small town—everyone knows everyone else—therefore, no street address required. What ever happened to that wonderful postal system? Well, for one thing, Time happened.
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Posted by Jim
October 14, 2016
The Physics of Pumpkins
By Florence Newman
“The top’s too heavy, too much space below,”
my neighbor says. “’Spect she’ll start sagging soon.”
He’d lugged the massive thing out front for me.
I realize with horror that he’s right.
I’d carved my share of pumpkins through the years,
protected them from predatory squirrels,
from Mischief Night marauders: hubris had
at last undone me. A slightly wider grin,
an extra tooth or two—I should have known
the plan was flawed, the architecture tenuous.
Before too long the carriage will collapse,
sides slump, rind pit and wrinkle, pulp dissolve
and putrify. The oblique eyes, the arching brows,
isosceles nose are doomed to droop and molder.
Look on those overweening teeth, ye mighty,
and descry their graying edges fold and sear,
like the striate skin of a stitched cadaver.
Now soon a press of princesses, pop stars,
pirates, pixies, vampires, ninjas, sprites,
enchanters, supermen, and bumblebees
will throng the street, importunate to take
their turn, while my poor jack-o-lantern, claimed
by gravity, sits rotting at the door
before I’ve even got the candle lit.
Copyright © 2016, Florence Newman
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Posted by Jim
December 30, 2015
“Whoever tied the Mylar birthday balloon to the dead squirrel on Main Street thinks big.“
Jennifer L. Knox
Days of Shame & Failure, Bloof Books
Note: I rarely buy poetry, but I like to read about poets—especially one who writes a poem titled “Iowa Plates,” with a first line that would make a great caption-less gag cartoon. I just received the collection in the mail; the poem plus the book title alone is well worth $15 . . .
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Posted by Jim
October 1, 2014
Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1841-1935
Cacoëthes Scribendi
(An itch for scribbling.)
If all the trees in all the woods were men,
And each and every blade of grass a pen;
If every leaf on every shrub and tree
Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea
Were changed to ink, and all earth’s living tribes
Had nothing else to do but act as scribes,
And for ten thousand ages, day and night,
The human race should write, and write, and write,
Till all the pens and paper were used up,
And the huge inkstand was an empty cup,
Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink
Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.
Oliver Wendell Holmes
—The Oxford Book of Comic Verse
Edited by John Gross
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Posted by Jim
September 14, 2014
Gavin Ewart, 1916-1995
The Black Box
As well as these poor poems
I am writing some wonderful ones.
They are all being filed separately,
nobody sees them.
When I die they will be buried
in a big black tin box.
In fifty years’ time
they must be dug up,
for so my will provides.
This is to confound the critics
and teach everybody
a valuable lesson.
‘It’s Hard to Dislike Ewart’
—New Review critic
I always try to dislike my poets,
it’s good for them, they get so uppity otherwise,
going around thinking they’re little geniuses—
but sometimes I find it hard. They’re so pathetic
in their efforts to be liked.
When we’re all out walking on the cliffs
it’s always pulling my coat with ‘Sir! Oh, Sir!’
and ‘May I walk with you, Sir?’—
I sort them out harshly with my stick.
If I push a few over the edge, that only
encourages the others. In the places of preferment
there is room for just so many.
The rest must simply lump it.
There’s too much sucking up and trying to be clever.
They must all learn they’ll never get round me—
Merit has nothing to do with it. There’s no way
to pull the wool over my eyes, no way,
no way . . .
By Gavin Ewart
—The Oxford Book of Comic Verse
Edited by John Gross
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Posted by Jim
July 6, 2014
I’ve been going through what seems like a ton of old letters, plus the drafts of my replies; the idea being to get rid of most of that stuff so my kids and/or grandkids won’t have to deal with it when—as the saying goes— “the time comes.” During this recent purge, I came across a scrawled attempt at comic verse that I had mailed to my younger brother some years ago in Virginia for his 69th birthday. Here it is:
Ernie
A man named Ernie
Lived by the tracks,
Ate little kids
Instead of snacks.
He was so mean
It was often said,
He’d never die
Just stay in bed.
He lived so long
(In the hundred-threes),
Then he finally did go
With brand new knees!
I know it sounds a bit like one of those “Burma Shave” series of “poetry” signs on the side of the road that I used to love to read as I whizzed past. His 75th birthday is coming up later this month and I’ll call him, as usual, and I plan to recite the verse to Ernie when I do. This year, I want to see if he remembers it, and if he does, I’ll ask him to remind me what he thinks of it. I have the feeling I’ll have to once again justify myself by saying, “Hey, it’s the thought that counts.”
Copyright © 2014, Jim Sizemore.
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Posted by Jim
Doodlemeister's Weblog 