A Deluge in Blue

April sixth started out as a normal day

We drove to U.C. and did OLLI

Then picked up Chinese on the way back home

Though our world would soon be less than jolly

We walked in the house and to our surprise

A rainstorm was gushing through the ceiling

A pipe had burst on the second floor

I panicked and Katja was reeling

The cleanup crew arrived in an hour

Their blowers were massive and loud 

They sucked up the moisture for six long days

We huddled beneath a dark cloud

The walls finally dried but to our dismay

The house had turned totally blue

Not the joyous blue of a sky in July

But a dishwater blue through and through

The chimney was blue and the windows too

The stove and the fridge and the doors

Even our plaster cast rabbit was blue

And the stuff in our dining room drawers

I was shocked when I looked at Katja

What was this, her blue face and blue hair?

And her hands and her feet and her outfit too

The two of us, now a blue pair

Our neighbors felt sad for our house and ourselves

But they couldn’t stop staring at our pallor

They had never seen people so blue before

They prayed we’d recover our valor

The workers arrived and they rehabbed our house

They moved all our goods to their truck

They tore out the floors, replastered the walls

And began to haul out the blue muck

This story has a fortunate ending

Six months and the work’s nearly done

I still have some strands of blue in my hair

But our new life has clearly begun

This tragedy could have been much much worse

Our kids lived through Hurricane Katrina

They lost their new home in the Mid-City flood

While our blue house just had a patina

Life's Vicissitudes: Three Sonnets

          Life Passions

Passions make up the gist of one’s life

At age ten it was comic books

Plus bikes and baseball cards and backyard strife

Like Hopalong battling the crooks

I took up hoops in junior high

Steve and I played for hour upon hour

Then tennis became my pie in the sky

And jazz gave me spiritual power

Most of these passions have faded from view

Late seventies, line dancing’s my craze

Poetry has its own fervor too

And workouts help anchor my days

There’s one obvious moral to this story

No passions, no meaning, no glory

          Morning Ritual

           

Our clock goes off at a quarter past eight

I lie awake, hear news on NPR

The nation’s now the opposite of great

I brush my teeth and ponder the bizarre

I go downstairs, fry bacon in a pan

Page through the Times and get news from the coast

The wall, the leaks, Sean S., and Kellyanne

All scrambled up amidst the eggs and toast

Computer on, I open up my mail

I check my tweets, perhaps send off a few

Then struggle with my poems — such travail

And play a game of solitaire or two

My sister asks, “Are all your days the same?”

They better be or else I’ll go insane!

          Misbegotten Youth

I wish that I could live a second life

I’d be more close to friends and to my dad

And, yes, be kind and caring to my wife

My brother Steve…I wouldn’t be so bad

I’d spend more time on learning how to dance         

And be a better student when in school

Perhaps I’d even take a trip to France                       

I’d be more careful toward the Golden Rule

Another thing, I’d never start to smoke

And likewise I’d imbibe a little less

I’d spend more time with different kinds of folk

I’d ferret out the secrets of less stress

Bad news, I know I’ll never get this chance

But, that’s okay, I still have time to dance

Theda Bara, Cincinnati Vamp

I’ve always had crushes on movie stars

Theda Bara was one of the first 

A beauty of the silent film era

(Though my mother said she was the worst)

Theda’s characters seduced rich middle-aged men

She was known from the start as “the Vamp” 

She led her victims to ruin and death

Nowadays we would say her style’s camp

They claimed she was born in the shadow of the Sphinx

Her mother, a French actress; her father, a sheik

The letters, Theda Bara, spelled “Arab Death”  

Occult powers lent to her mystique

In truth, Theda was born in Cincinnati

She grew up in Avondale 

Her birth name was Theodosia Goodman 

As a child, little Theda was frail

Theda’s father was an immigrant tailor

She finished Walnut Hills in ’03

Drawn to the theater from an early age

She studied two years at U.C. 

Then off she went to the New York stage

“The Devil” was her first Broadway part

From Broadway Theda moved to Hollywood

Where she quickly was cast as a “tart” 

She did forty films in her first four years

“The Galley Slave,” “Tiger Woman,” “Sin”

Her fans called Theda “The Queen of Vampires” 

A vampiress who showed lots of skin

At her peak Theda earned four thousand a week

In the Twenties she wed a director

They moved to a mansion on Victory Parkway

Her life became that of a specter

Theda Bara died in 1955

She is buried in Forest Lawn Park

One of Cincinnati’s most illustrious stars

Theodosia carved out her mark

Bigfoot Lives

Last month I went on a U.P. trip

I found a motel near Birch Creek

I hadn’t been home for years and years

The land still had its mystique

I hiked for miles in the wilds of the forest

Woods teeming with cedar and pine      

The snow on the ground made walking a struggle

Dead deer were an ominous sign

I found large tracks heading off to the north

Two feet long and nearly as wide

It couldn’t have been a bear or a cougar

It had moved with a gigantic stride

I followed those tracks to the heart of the woods

A loud wail burst forth from the trees

At a distance I saw a blurry shape

I felt myself flinch and then freeze

The creature started to come for me

I couldn’t believe my own eyes

He must have stood over eight feet tall

And he bellowed great howls and cries

           

I started to run as fast as I could

But the beast was much faster than me

He knocked me to the ground with a piercing blow

Then he pinned down my chest with his knee

He had blazing red eyes and horns on his head

He was covered with matted black fur

I kicked and struggled and tried to break free

But his foul breath made my eyes blur

The monster pummeled my head with his arms

He was snorting like a bull through his snout

My heart was pounding like a battery of drums

It was then that I must have passed out

When I finally came to, the beast was gone

I’m amazed I survived my ordeal

Some people still wonder if Bigfoot exists

This poem surely proves he is real

Racy Limericks: John Johnson From Wisconsin

I’m sure you have heard of John Johnson

He was born at Oconto, Wisconsin

He drove the girls crazy

Especially Miss Daisy

He looked like a young Charles Bronson

At thirty John Johnson was a virgin

Quite desperate, he met with his surgeon

Said the doc, “This is bad”

“You could lose your doodad”

So John Johnson had sex with a sturgeon

John Johnson still hadn’t much sex

He went out with a pal’s former ex

John tickled her nose

As he tugged at her clothes

But she said, “I have herpes simplex” 

John Johnson met a lady of the night

She brought him to the house of red light

John asked her how much

She said such and such

One second and John was in flight

John Johnson went back to the bar

He spotted three cuties from afar

They gave him a wink

Which caused John to think

“Perhaps they will strum my guitar”

Then John met a girl named Marie

Marie approached life with such glee

John Johnson said, “Let’s do it”

Marie said, “Oh screw it”

And that’s what she did and for free

John Johnson had a girlfriend named Ruby

Miss Ruby had tattoos on her booby

She loved a good time

She would strip for a dime

And then she would do scooby-dooby

John Johnson had eyes for Ms. Mary

But toward him Ms. Mary was wary

John came to her house/

Stuck his hand in her blouse

But Ms. Mary screamed loudly, “How dare he!”

John Johnson knew a girl named Ora

And Ora had a sister named Flora

John met them one night

To their mutual delight

They pretended to be in Gomorrah

John Johnson seduced Goody Smith

He had her imbibe half a fifth

They lay down in bed

And although she played dead

John Johnson proceeded forthwith

John lured Miss Babette to his room

On the guise she could see his heirloom

As he unzipped his fly

Babette poked him in the eye

And John’s lust transformed into gloom

Widow Murphy took Johnson to bed

The widow, of course, was well-bred

She declared, “This is wrong”

As she burst into song

And they played Chinese Checkers instead

John Johnson had a thing for Miss Suzy

He tricked her and got her quite boozy

But she smacked him in the nose

Then strangled him with her hose

R.I.P., John, done in by a floozy

John’s Heavenly stay had begun

He found an angel who could be the one

Alas, her true love was her harp

Sacred songs in C sharp

John asked her if Hell were more fun

The Ballad of Paul Bunyan, U.P. Lumberjack

The most famous figure in my home town

Was Paul Bunyan, the great lumberjack

He dug the Menominee River

He could level ten pines with one whack

Paul Bunyan was born in Menominee County

He weighed over one hundred pounds 

It took five storks to deliver him

Six wet-nurses made daily rounds

Each time baby Paul rolled over in his sleep

He would flatten an acre of trees

His parents built a raft on Lake Michigan

But Milwaukee would flood when he’d sneeze

As a child Paul Bunyan was not only strong

He was faster than a lightning arc

He could turn off his light and leap into bed

Before his room even got dark

Paul found a blue ox in a snowdrift

Took him home and young Babe grew so fast

A crow took an hour to fly twixt Babe’s horns

When he burped, mountains crumbled from the blast

Babe could pull anything Paul wanted

For example, their crooked logging road

Babe pulled on that road till it straightened out

And that new road carried ten times the load

Babe was in need of a watering hole

Paul Bunyan dug one with his axe

Today it’s the Lake called Superior

Pictured Rocks were formed by Babe’s tracks

Paul and Babe took a hike through Minnesota

Their footprints in the earth were so big

Those depressions became the 10,000 lakes

And Babe drank them up in one swig

A log jam blocked the Menominee River

Paul poked Babe’s rear end with a spear

Babe swished his tail and broke up the jam 

And that river stayed clear for a year

The axe men in Paul’s camp were eight feet tall

And each had the same name of Sven

When Paul called “Sven” the whole crew came running

Dragging sled-loads of logs from the glen

Sourdough Sam made pancakes at their camp 

His griddle covered thirteen full acres

Twenty-five men with bacon on their feet

Greased that griddle to help out the bakers

Paul Bunyan enjoyed a pipe after dinner

And he blew his smoke far away

It floated westward over the hills

Creating the smog in L.A.  

The winter of ’07 was so brutally cold

The axe men’s words froze in mid-air 

Those words remained frozen until the spring thaw

Then they heard melting chatter everywhere

No one is certain where Paul is today

Some think he is at the North Pole

They say he returns to the U.P. each May

Bringing Babe for a leisurely stroll 

The Best Valentine's Day Ever

Valentine’s Day

It’s hard to keep track

Last year the doorbell rang and a man in a Nascar cap

Delivered a dozen red roses

Dark ruby red, opulent, bursting with color

A mystery gift for my wife

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” the card proclaimed

Then continued, “To Katja from David”

“What’s this?” I thought

Bamboozled, confused

I hadn’t ordered flowers

No memory, not a clue

Besides which, they must have cost a fortune

Just then Katja appeared on the stairs

A beaming smile on her face

“Thank you so much,” and she kissed my cheek

I started to speak but she whispered, “I know”

The flowers, she explained, were from NPR

A thank you for her annual pledge

She asked they be sent in my name

“What’s this?” I thought

Mortified, dismayed

“My wife has to send my Valentine?”

I pretended I had pressing matters

And scurried down the street to the store

I picked the gooiest card on the rack —

Eight Ninety-Nine, it played a perky song

Then a super-sized box of chocolate turtles —

Nineteen ninety-nine

Plus tax

Katja was thrilled, I have to say

In fact, I would say ecstatic

Not the chocolates, not the card, but that I’d come through

(Even though I had gotten a reminder)

She called it the best Valentine’s Day ever

And that may be true of our times so far

But, if I dig deep, 

There’s no telling, 

Perhaps I could  do even better