Ear Wax Terrors

I’ll tell you of a ghastly experience  

It came as a hair-raising shock

Like marooned in the wastes of Antartica

Or entombed by a large granite rock

I asked Dr Z about ear wax

He peered in my ears, left and right

“Yep, you’ve got plenty of wax,” he said

His nurse would take care of the blight 

The nurse squeezed hot liquid in each of my ears

Then she switched on her vacuum device

Whoosh, the wax popped from my left ear

But my right ear she had to do twice

I didn’t hear well as I drove the car home

My left ear, I’d say, was okay

But then I discovered, my right ear — stone deaf

Mere words can’t describe my dismay

I worried the wax had simply gone deeper  

The surgeon might slice through my head 

Perhaps my eardrum was suctioned out

That part of my brain was now dead

I called the office in dire panic

“Try peroxide in your ear,” said the doc

“If it’s not any better by Friday

“Come back in at eleven o’clock”

My wife took the job as my medical aide

Each morning she filled up my ear

I still couldn’t hear a word of NPR

I returned to the doc, full of fear

           

The nurse said she thought that my wax now looked softer

She swished and she swushed and a big chunk came out

My ear, my life, was miraculously saved

So pleasing to hear myself shout

The eeriest feeling is being stone deaf

Even if it’s only one ear

I’d lost all connection with the world’s right side

Many things on my right I hold dear 

"The Dance of Life" by Edvard Munch

Midnight on the Norwegian isle 

A full moon glitters on the lake 

While villagers cavort along the shoreline

Spinning, twirling to the mesmerizing music

A gray-haired man lustfully dips his partner 

While a man in black and his partner in red slowly sway

Hand in hand, arms stretched downward

The man’s face, yellow in pallor, the mask of death

The woman, dark circles engulfing her eyes

Sad, absorbed, resigned

The last dance the doomed couple will know

A woman in white stands to one side 

Smiling, fresh and innocent, virginal 

To the right, an older woman, adorned in black 

Hunched over, face glum, hands clasped

Gazing at the couple, contemplating their demise

The dance of life persists but moments more 

Until the dancers sink down to the netherworld 

The Wrong Button

Every few years

the cardiologist calls me in

to do a nuclear stress test

I get excited

They always are impressed

at how well I do on the treadmill 

Or so they say 

(They probably say this to everybody)

This last visit the technician said

my target heart range

because of my (quite advanced) age

would be one hundred twenty

No problem

I do that all the time at the gym

When I reached one twenty, he asked

how I was doing

and I said I’d like to do more

I’d like to set

a new personal record

He raised the incline

He jacked up the speed

Run run run run run

Run run run run run

When I reached 136 b.p.m. the technician said

“Oops, I pushed the wrong button

“I’m afraid we’ll to have to stop”

He said he was very sorry, but he’d

gotten all the data he needed

No need to start over

I was more sorry than he was

I wanted to beat my old record

And I don’t really believe

that he pushed the wrong button

He just said that

so that he could stop

without asking my permission

I’ve been practicing every day on the treadmill

Next time I plan to set an even higher record

No wrong buttons allowed  

My Week (In Memoriam)

Monday, the day for a trip to the gym 

How is it possible I don’t get slim? 

Tuesday, six-thirty, I’m off to line dancing 

A grapevine, a cha-cha, a bit of of fine prancing 

Then Wednesday eve, our class for zumba

I’m so-so at salsa, more shaky on rumba 

Thursdays I walk to my office from home

It’s there that I fail to write a new poem

Friday at five I have wine with a friend

I uncork the bottle, we sip till the end

Saturday it’s time for the Musee de Art 

A pleasing respite for the mind and the heart 

Sunday, some football or hoops on TV

Then Masterpiece Theater for Katja and me

That, in a nutshell, is my normal week

A few parts are boring, but most are tres chic 

Ladies Who Lunch

                            by Katja Lundgren 

Ladies who lunch

Who are we, sitting in restaurant windows

Sun shining behind our silvery, peppery, gold and auburn streaked hair

Catching up on weeks and months flown by

Catching glimpses of wrinkled necks and droopy eyes

Grasping each other in arms that sag but hold each other firm- as if afraid our lives will vanish with our salads and Bloody Marys

Kiss, Kiss – we blow gently on each cheek

and make deep promises to keep in touch

Before we lose each other – again.

The Best of Times

My father came home from the war

but we still didn’t have any money

so we moved out of town

into my dead grandpa’s cottage on the river.

Set among the great oaks

the only house on the whole River Road.

No electricity, no telephone

no running water, no indoor toilet.

In the winter it took the county

three days to come and plow.

Our own private school holidays.

We pioneers of the Great White North

like Daniel Boone or Paul Bunyan himself.

My job every evening

was to light the candles

and the two kerosene lanterns

on the living room mantle. 

Our water came from the pump out front.

I carried the buckets to my mother

to fill the dog’s bowl, to brush our teeth.

Before bedtime I walked my little brother to the outhouse

keeping an eye out for creatures of the night. 

We took our baths in the river

even my mother and father

though I learned many years later

that our river was dirty. 

My happiest times in those years on River Road

were walking with my dad to the city dump

a half mile up the road

pulling my red wagon behind us

to carry home the treasures we found. 

I searched for bottle caps

to add to my collection

while my dad looked for household furnishings.

A bedside table with a broken leg

a discarded flower vase

an ashtray from somebody’s Florida vacation

rusty old tools.

We lacked this and that but

we loved our life on the river.

The swimming, our green rowboat

with its one horsepower motor,

birches and pines, expeditions to Pig Island.

After two years the Meads and the Orths built houses nearby

and the county installed electric lines on River Road.

Our world would never be quite the same.

Sibling Limericks

Four kids, we were much like a flock of sheep

A fractious bunch, even with Bo Peep 

Our mother watched over this frisky lot

Like ewes in the pasture, ready to trot

Sweet memories when I’m going to sleep 

  

Steven is like a New Year’s Eve blast

A rowdy youth, his chums called him fast 

He imbibed a strong drink

Gave the girls a wink 

And never lamented his past  

Peter is like a museum of art

A passion for beauty runs through his heart 

A photo artiste

Paint and brush, he’s a beast 

A Renaissance man from the start 

Vicki, our sis, like a jazz quartet 

Soulful music though sometimes she’ll fret 

A minor’s her key

Her riffs give us glee 

Such vocals we’ll never forget 

David is more like a cemetery at night

Moody, morose, often poised for flight

Quiet as a tomb

His mind toys with doom

But with siblings he feels less uptight

As a family we’re sort of a Swedish stew

All these fine flavors go into the brew  

True, no two are alike 

A happy medium we strike  

And that said, I will bid you adieu