New Years Ruminations from a Nervous Person

New Years Eve and I, forever a bad fit 

We did do some parties in our younger days 

Katja enjoyed them all right

But I could never carry it off

Too many people, too many strangers

The chatter, the small talk, the manufactured laughter

Hats and horns and tootie toots 

Too much pressure to have the greatest time ever 

I don’t mind drinking too much

But the revelry does me in 
New Years, intrinsically, a bit traumatic

One year at its end point
All those unfulfilled dreams  

The omissions, the commissions

The bumps and bruises  

And then a brand New Year is about to begin 

A  minefield of hazards
Potential disasters   

No wonder the people are driven to drink

I tiptoe into this New Year 

I’ll have another bourbon on the rocks, please  

A Stroll Down Our Street: A Villanelle

Each night I go on a stroll down our street 

The Esquire marquee, the lights, the glare

The pulse of the street never misses a beat

There’s a “Street Vibes” vendor, friendly, upbeat 

The boutique windows offer glitz and flair

Each night I go on a stroll down our street

The skateboarder on Telford, his death-defying feat 

A panhandler asks, a dollar to spare? 

The pulse of the street never misses a beat

Children at the plaza, dancing, so sweet 

A woman walks by, fresh flowers in her hair 

Each night I go on a stroll down our street

Chocolate at Graeter’s, a forbidden treat 

Vape smokers huddle in their shady lair

The pulse of the street never misses a beat

Clifton Market, old chums I greet 

The flautist plays, fire sirens blare

Each night I go on a stroll down our street

The pulse of the street never misses a beat

My Story. By Jack.

My mom and I cherish our cozy homestead

But last week she told me, “No money”

“We’ll have to sell Old Bess,” Mother said

Such a shock, that sweet cow is our honey

We left for the market, much to my distress

On the way I met a scraggly old man

He offered to trade magic beans for Old Bess 

I was thrilled, an encouraging plan

Back home I showed the magic beans to my mom

But she screamed, “You didn’t get our money???”  

I did my best to stay peaceful and calm

But she yelled at me, “This is not funny!”

I ran upstairs crying, crawled right into bed

Out the window went the beans, such a shock

I woke up at dawn with a feeling of dread

But there, in our yard, a huge stalk

I tossed on my trousers, my shirt, and my shoes

Up the bean stalk I started to climb

Two miles high, such astonishing views

In the distance, a castle sublime

Standing in the doorway, a tall lady giant  

With one big red eye on her head

I tried to act likable and compliant

One wrong step, I knew I’d be dead 

Suddenly loud crashes came from the yard

Her husband strode forth, some sixteen feet tall

His face was all ruddy and jagged and scarred

I raced to the closet at the end of the hall

The giant chanted, “Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum  

“I smell the blood of an Englishman

“Be he alive, or be he dead

“I'll have his bones to grind my bread!”

That creature sat down and reached into a keg

He pulled out a mangy white hen 

In seconds that hen laid a golden egg

Worth at least sixty shekels and ten

I stayed in the closet till the giant fell asleep

Then the hen and I raced down the walk

I think that dumb bird must have made a peep

For the giant saw us climb down the stalk

We scampered down that stalk as fast as we could

With the giant following closely behind us

I grabbed my axe, began chopping the wood

I could hear the big brute scream and cuss

At the very last second the stalk tumbled down

The giant cried out in grave fear

Then he crashed right down upon his bald crown

Giant’s end, we were now in the clear

Our hen supplies a golden egg every day

The first one, I bought back Old Bess

Mom, me, Bess, Hen — all contented I’d say

Is this a happy ending?  Well, yes!

Clifton Barbers: A Villanelle

Our barber shop is a hungry beast

Dawn to dusk, a dozen in line   

Each of these stylists, a regal high priest   

Four chairs, four barbers, each an artiste

Their shading skills, befitting a shrine

Our barber shop is a hungry beast

Avant garde haircuts, shaped and creased 

Clients swagger, their image so fine  

Each of these stylists, a regal high priest

Arriving from the west side, some from the east 

Thirtyish clients, cool, mainline 

Our barber shop is a hungry beast

Each cut a sculpture, an icon, a feast

The neo hairdos bedazzle and shine  

Each of these stylists, a regal high priest

Business booms, the buzz has increased

Never a lull, no hint of decline 

Our barber shop is a hungry beast

Each of these stylists, a regal high priest

Support Squirrel Update

“Flight to Ohio delayed after woman 

brings ‘emotional support squirrel’” 

[Headline, Cincinnati Enquirer, Oct. 8, 2018]

  

My name is Lupita Louie

Some of you know me as the Squirrel Girl

Yes I was she on the Horizon flight

Terrorized for only wanting emotional support

Arrested, interrogated, investigated, humiliated

Emotional Support —  Ha Ha!

Horizon Airlines 

the satanic home of Anti-Support

My squirrel’s name is Lupitia

Yes, she took her name from me

her best friend, her sister in spirit

Lupitia is two years and two months old

I rescued her

when her deceased mother had an unfortunate 

experience with my cat

Lupitia and I go everywhere together

The soda fountain, the cookie store, the dentist

She is always welcome

True, she is terrified of people 

But still she is gentle and harmless

Why should Horizon Airlines be hostile to rodents?

What’s next?  No chinchillas?  

They allow miniature support horses, for goodness sake

In any case 

We did fly back to Cleveland

I bought my new ticket on Jet Blue

The emotionally supportive airline

I duct taped the windows in Lupitia’s crate

and told the stewardess she was a support kitten

Lupitia never let out a peep

If you are outraged by my story

and want to give emotional support

Please go to my GoFundMe page

and donate ten dollars 

Sincerely yours 

Lupita Louie

Blood Sugar Blues: A Quatern

My blood sugar, it’s sort of high 

I measure it once or twice a day

First check the reading, then a sigh

When at its worst, I kneel and pray 

 I saw the doc, the doc told me 

My blood sugar, it's sort of high

“Just lose some weight, that is the key”

Ten pounds or so, I guess I’ll try 

Dieting, I’m a cucumber guy  

I still enjoy my glass of wine 

My blood sugar, it's sort of high 

A painful task to tow the line

I’ve lost four pounds, a welcome start

The sight of cookies makes me cry

And yet I know deep in my heart

My blood sugar, it's sort of high 

5000 Towels

The sign at the Health Plex announced in bold print 

“5000 towels are missing each year” 

5000 towels?  That’s 14 per day! 

How could five thousand towels disappear? 

I once had an uncle who stole hotel towels

Outraged at the room rates — he thought them too high

So he’d bring towels home as a gift to my mom 

Then she’d slip them to us on the sly  

The Health Plex, of course, has an older crowd

Some portion are mildly demented 

They stick those towels in their gym bags 

And wander off home quite contented

On the dark side, we have those with towel fetishes

Sniffing body odors can be a kick  

To feed such a habit, you need fresh dirty towels 

Two dozen a week does the trick 

I’m keeping my eye on a worker named Edith 

She’s in charge of the laundry machines

Looks like the sort who’d sell towels at the flea 

Five thousand would keep her in jeans     

The Health Plex may implement drastic methods 

Perhaps a deposit, four dollars or five 

The world’s bad enough, all this stuff in the news 

No towels, we’ll never survive