Editorial Lines
The relevant portion of this text is the starting sentence and the next,
so I won’t add another verse, as it would only be that much worse.
Brevity is for Witless Souls
16
Tag Archives: silliness
They Don’t Make Western Movies Like They Used to Make ‘Em . . .
The End.
Those Big Death Scenes in Westerns
The slinger slung his monstrous gun
out of its well-oiled holster—
she tried to dart from the couch and run,
but he shot her through the bolster.
She tried to duck his second shot
and they got into a tussle—
it didn’t help her cause a lot:
he shot her in the bustle.
She staggered around; began to totter;
still the gunslinger came
relentlessly on and at last he got her—
right in the final frame.
Even though a cowboy’s socks can pretty much stand up on their own . . .
Something’s Afoot at the Fort
A Texas Ranger lost his boot
And all of us can feel
His pain at losing shaft and spur
And being down-at-heel
Without the custom stitching and
Tooled silver on the toe,
The steel shank inset and the vamp—
Where is a man to go
To get re-shod so perfectly
In style with stuff that wears
Like his cast-iron skillet, by
A boot-maker who cares
As deeply as the Ranger does
For quality and class?
I only hope the Ranger knows
That this pain, too, shall pass,
For down the street the Ponder shop
Has crocodile skin
And hand-tooled leather of all kinds
To tuck his tired hooves in,
And like a human’s farrier,
Will shoe him with perfection
In custom boots as soon as he
Gallops in that direction,
So go on, Texas Ranger, sir,
Get in and order boots
To save your poor hooves from their loss
In any style that suits,
From ostrich up to diamondback,
From white to black as soot,
And classy as a Cadillac
You wear upon your foot
Nothing can compare to the perfect boot . . .
Insisting on Persisting in Resisting
The more the situation calls for me to behave with gravity and proper decorum, the more I’m likely to drag my heels and stubbornly glue myself to being silly and irresponsible and to frustrate any attempts to make me act however is deemed suitable to my age. Those nearest and dearest to me have long since learned the futility of asking me to behave in any sort of adult-appropriate manner and they tolerate, or to varying degrees, enable this impossibly impish attitude on my part. No wonder I love them so.
. . . so I'll just keep lying around and looking at the pictures in the clouds . . .
Perpetuating Childhood
In all probability I’d be prone
to be an insufferable old crone,
a hag, a harridan, full of mold,
if I had to mature–grow up–get old–
because, in truth, the prospect’s grim
when responsible heart meets creaky limb,
and milky eye and baggy middle
drag joie-de-vivre down a little–
I’d rather, by far, annoy my peers
by being unfitted to my years,
guffawing, as boisterous as a sinner,
and eating six Popsicles for dinner;
skipping like a stone across the Square
and having wild grass seeds in my hair,
wearing skirts too short; taking much too long
to figure out what I’m doing wrong,
yet enjoying the doing things just the same,
since it’s all a bit like a great big game
anyway–this journey we call a life–
so why should we let it sour, be rife
with tedious, tiresome old-age gunk?
I’d rather go back to school and flunk
for excessive dreaming and foolish pranks.
Grow up? Grow old? Mature?
No, Thanks!
Can You Come over to My House and Play?
My big sister flew out and visited here for a couple of days last week. It was heavenly. Besides that I just get a big ol’ kick out of her company at any time, there are a number of reasons that time spent with her is a great treasure.
An early appearance of one of the most frightening of biker gangs ever to terrorize Ryan Street . . .
One, of course, is that having known her my entire life, I can happily be myself without any fear of shocking her. I can (and do) even revert to my most immature self and she never skips a beat but joins me at whatever level of silliness most promotes our laughing until our eyes turn into faucets and we choke on our drinks from our big snorting guffaws. I can, in the safety of my own kitchen, drink a few more of those drinks than I would do on my own, and be just as ridiculous as that makes me be. No repercussions. Well, she might tell Mom when she gets home. But it’s usually the duty of the younger sister to be the tattle-tale, right? So I should be safe for now.
When I get to be with my sister I can catch up on all that’s happening in her life, something that is not even remotely the same over the phone because it lacks the drama of the whole pantomime portion, not to mention all of my interruptions to ask what X or Q player in the story is currently doing. We can rant shamelessly about the current state of the world and everyone and everything that we know in it, and know that the Top Secret information and occasional swear-slippages need never leave the room. I can tell her my own life’s updates and make them seem as glamorous or pusillanimous as I wish, knowing that she will listen to it all with whatever sisterly sympathy or elder-sibling disgust is requisite in the event, just to help me sort out what’s believable and what’s merely my imagining.
I take it as not only excuse and permission but a virtual requirement that I eat any and all of the junky but deliriously tasty things I would normally consider inappropriate for regular dining, starting with chips and a big bowl of ice cream for lunch and not budging impressively far from that sort of menu for the duration. Now, granted, if the visit exceeds a week, I might be better behaved, but (a) this was a short visit (so there!) and (b) I probably wouldn’t be better behaved (so there!). Guess it’s just as well she didn’t test me on this. But it was a danged delicious few days, even if my body may take a while to recover.
And it’s certainly amazing how much my spirits recover from any time lost between visits, when I get just this one little dose of sisterly vitamins. Having three such stupendous sisters is probably an unfair advantage of mine, but I am not in the least apologizing for it. You have to admit, if it’s a selfish trait on my part to revel in such wealth, at least it’s one of the least of my offenses. She said, grinning just a little devilishly.
Equal-opportunity educator and sharer, my sister started early with the indoctrination of her three younger sisters (and our many cousins, like Mark with us here) in what a jaw-droppingly amazing world it is and all of the excitement we could find in it, even if we had to manufacture the excitement ourselves . . .
How are the Mighty Chopfallen!
“Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.” I like to think I have a healthy ego and positive self-image–but I do hope I’m not quite so full of hubris that I can’t admit when I’ve failed or fumbled or simply that I’m simply a silly buffoon, just like pretty much the whole rest of humanity. Yet maybe believing that is just another sample of my shallow vanity. I don’t expect you to accept my assessment, just that you’ll give me a bit of leeway, considering that there may not be a lot of room in my tiny mind for ordinary wisdom and classiness. Not really sure I can get a completely clear picture from my angle here on the floor. I’ve fallen, but I can get up!
To be Honest
It’s true that I have fallen down
more often than a chef’s soufflés
(or poor Pierre crashed into town
in air-ballooning’s early days,
before he noticed heat would crown
the heights but cold air caused malaise . . . )
Meanwhile, I stumble, flop and crash,
careening like a loosened wheel,
my dignity thrown out like trash–
but had I grace and nerves of steel,
I’d likely still keep this my fashion–
nothing better proves I’m real.
Narcissical
When man’s-man men find womankind
especially spectacular,
it often seems their taste’s opined
as front-ular or back-ular,
and chicks who eye them back with leers
and rudeness too vernacular,
also choose looks, though dudes’ hearts bite
as badly as though Dracula-r.
How can they stand their standards thus
and stoop to stupid gravity
that pulls them down to lower lows
of foolishness, depravity
and such devotion to slick looks
that any cranial cavity‘s
acceptable, as long as ‘hot’
and needs no jot of suavity?
Must we accept only the slinky,
cute, or babe-a-licious?
Such flimsy taste is quite a waste,
and creepingly pernicious
when all the future of mankind
becomes so superstitious
as to attach to looks and limbs
values so shallow? Vicious!
Whether Discomposed or Decomposing
Pardon My Snoring
My lead-lined eyelids will insist it’s time to go to sleep,
So don’t be too insulted if I leave to count some sheep;
I find you fascinating and quite scintillating too,
So please don’t take it wrong if I should conk right out on you.
Your dazzling personality and brilliance are so bright
It pains me to, but go I must, and bid a fond Good-Night!
Pay no attention to the way I’m backing out the door,
And know your super-excellence could never be a bore.
I sigh, I yawn! But, for all that, it can’t be you that tires:
I’m sure it seldom happens that your audience expires!
Dollar Signs on My Mind
While I am busy preparing to open an online store to offer some of my creative output for sale as prints, T-shirts, book material, and so forth, naturally my brain is calculating how many itty bitty royalty payments it will take to, say, pay off an eensy-weensy portion of the hours-days-years spent producing said items. Fortunately for me, y’all know I’m a terrible mathematician, so there’s obviously no point in delving so very far or seriously into that topic or tragedy will surely ensue. I’m not fishing for compliments here, just stating the cold hard facts of the rarity of cold hard cash when it comes to art. Many of you friends of mine are fellow artists, so I know that you know just what I mean. Nothing particularly fishy about it. So instead of whimpering needlessly, I will just share one of my silly little verses with you and call it a day. A much cheerier way to close St. Patrick’s Day than worrying about the Bankin’ o’ the Green. Goodnight, my fine friends! Smooth sailing ahead for all of us!
The Gifts of True Love
In lieu of parties, holidays
And feasts and fests, vacation days
And celebrations—rather, heck,
Than all together—send a cheque!
A party lasts mere days or hours
And Wilts like last September’s flowers–
Festive events and gifts all fade—
No joy compares to getting paid!
So if you want to be recalled
And loved as one who has enthralled,
Forget the cakes, balloons and flash—
Just send me some heartwarming cash!
It’s All Downhill from Here
Ghoulish Delight
I rustle my hands in taloned glee
Because the deadly recipe
From neither pots nor spoons nor pans
But sort of cauldron-cooked began
To boil and burble, burn and bake
And make a horrid bellyache
In which I openly rejoice
From the bottom of my heart at the top of my voice
Since it eats at the spot whence woe betides
I mean, my enemy’s insides
I hate to admit that it drives me nuts
How I loathe the cretin’s creepy guts
So I will make like a fleet of moles
And bore them full of a flock of holes
Filling me full of ironic glee
And comeuppance for him who so bores me
Since that’s why I really stayed in school
To grow up and be a bad little ghoul
And lest you forget yourself, sneer or scoff
Be nice to me or I’ll bump you off
So Soon Begins the End
Upon my word! This is a fix
I never thought to find me in–
at least not find for five or six
more decades, when my hair’d grown thin
and belly fat, and joints grown weak
and brain grown mushier than it had
been yet, but I age as we speak–
so rapidly–why, this is Bad!
I never dreamed that I would age
before a hundred years or so,
and then, at most, to turn more sage;
oh, this is a grubby way to go!
The Inexplicable Explained
Why She Does It
The able cataloguer’ll
Produce the worst of doggerel
Because strict order suits her taste,
The free or random seeming waste
To such refined and organized
Beliefs. Add that it’s hypnotized
Her not into the orthodox
Approach to meter; no, what shocks
Us is that rather than to hone
The wealth of poems to a bone-
Sharp, artful edge, she deigns to vent
Her verse as tidy excrement.
Thing that Does Things
There is a wonderful machine that’s spiffy, neat, and super-keen
Because its functions are so grand and great, but on the other hand,
It’s hard to fix when it’s abuzz, malfunctioning, or conked, because
It is so arcane, intricate and complicated, that we get
Bamboozled trying to describe what’s wrong, and end in diatribe,
For truthfully, we’ve not a clue just what this fine machine can do,
Or what its actual functions are, for it’s so complex and bizarre
That we, in our benighted state, prefer to simply think it great
And know that if we could have guessed
what it is, we’d sure be impressed.
Art-Colored Glasses 