24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Soften a brick of regular cream cheese
not any of the non-fat or low-fat variety
Place in a bowl and add the following
three slices onions green
one-third jar of Real Bacon,
Accent salt, no fakin’
Worcestershire sauce
form a ball like a boss
Roll in chopped pecans
chill until it all bonds
Remember the fun times
the pleasure has been mine
Spread my love along
Now I think I’m done.
All the best, Mom
Barney
I love purple
everything about purple
all shades of purple but…
Barney the purple dinosaur
is an atrocity I do not appreciate.
Here are my top ten reasons why:
1) A-nnoying songs that play over and over
until you want to stuff your ears with wax.
Hot wax.
2) Barney was on for 18 years
and that is just wrong wrong wrong.
3) Too much sugar for kids in the 90s.
Someone finally woke up and pulled
the sugar plum plug on Barney.
4) A fat, purple, singing dinosaur, really?
Tell the truth… did you ever watch it?
5) I love you, I love you, I love you
so many times that I changed the words to
I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.
Better but not by much.
6) It’s Barney, after all, not Sesame Street.
Now that’s a show with longevity.
7) A purple t-rex that’s an educational dancer –
that should be more than enough.
8) 150 Ways to Kill the Dinosaur…
nuff said.
9) Barney actor is a tantric sex specialist. Yikes!
10) Any other color dinosaur, I could care less
but he wrecked purple’s reputation. I take that
as a personal affront.
I refuse to listen to rumors
that they are resurrecting Barney.
Get the garlic and the silver bullets.
Or at least lots of orange target paint.
~ J R Turek Hour 16
How sad is the word “almost”?
They almost left.
She almost knew.
He almost confessed.
They almost killed.
I almost told you.
We almost lived.
I almost was enough.
Almost…
Moonlit Night
Stars twinkle in the clear, dark skies
The moon’s bright light shines like a prize
A gentle breeze brings comfort and ease
Nature’s rhythm puts my mind at peace
With each breath, the night air is sweet
A time for reflection and self-retreat
The world’s busy streets fade far away
A serene moment to end the day
In this peaceful moment, I find new sight
Navigating through the shadows of night
The mysteries of life unveiled
As I stand in awe, my heart prevailed
Divorce can be ridiculous.
My mother is a terrific cook, as was her mother
before her, as they both taught my brother and me.
My father’s mother could not cook to save a dog’s life.
In leaving my mom, my dad knew what he was he was losing.
To that end, he had his lawyer add a stipulation into the divorce
agreement: He requested half of my mom’s recipes!
He made this request in writing.
This request quickly became a family joke.
How on earth was he entitled to even one of her recipes?
Between gales of laughter, Mom would ask, “Which half
of my recipes should I give him? He didn’t specify.
Does he want the ingredients or the directions?
Or does he want me to rip them all in half? If I do that,
does he want all the right side halves because I’m a lefty?”
The jokes were relentless.
Dad would feed the comedy with his own actions.
Unable to get Mom to cooperate with his recipe request,
the only time he had to copy recipes was when he stayed
with us when Mom was out of town. He would sit hunched
over Mom’s recipe books and boxes while sitting on the high
bar stools with the uncomfortable bars in the back of the seat.
Dad didn’t know the names of the recipes, so his list featured
items like “Mom’s chocolate pie,” “Grandma’s Meatloaf,” and
“easy chicken and rice.” These recipes would not be easy to find
by description within Mom’s labyrinthine recipe organizing system.
No one offered to help him. If we had cell phones at the time,
I am certain we would have taken and posted pictures of him
sitting on a bar stool in a sea of recipes.
We know my grandmother was laughing with us.
All the people I love are the ghosts that hunt at night.
The drive to my people’s home, the silence of nights
Quiets down as the horror fades away. On the roads
You do not meet the drunk, nor do you mistake the
Roads paranormal bending into light—a symbol of
Purity. It’s a thousand hours of walk, your body is
Forced into a gun powder (and your insecurities
Creak into the back of your ear like broken omen:
Clay plates falling on Christmas Eve)—smoke
Becomes fire, your body is an explosion of wrath
On all the wrong planets, your mothers body is
The first place to hold unto the warmth on the atlas.
An essence of life,
Accepted on the heels of the prurient.
Beyond Redemption’s entreaties,
Bound by our callous desire.
Cravings temporarily satiated,
Credence of your body.
Deliverance of your soul,
Diabolically you recieve me.
Union of the sacred and profane.
Smallest of the litter,
I didn’t want him at first,
my eyes on his bigger sister,
but he won us over with his determined fight
as he pushed to get to the food bowl,
trying to make his way through
the mass of other wiggling puppies.
His color was unusual,
a soft gray, or a “blue”,
and his fur a little softer and longer,
so in the end,
we happily went home with him.
As a puppy,
his tiny little body was small enough
to fit in the pocket of a shirt,
and he did handstands at the food bowl
because he was to short to otherwise reach inside.
What he lacked in stature
he certainly made up for in doggy charm and charisma.
He saw a few of our other dogs come and go,
but always in his mind,
he was the king of the house.
He reached a maximum weight of seven or so pounds,
but it was the loudest seven pounds you’d ever seen,
all heart and personality.
Our little blue boy was always there to greet us when we came home,
and he wanted to be wherever we were in the house.
He loved car rides,
and the drive thru windows were his favorite,
he loved to show off and get attention,
but I’m pretty sure the treats he got were what he enjoyed the most.
But, no matter how big his heart,
and how strong his soul,
even he couldn’t escape the inevitable.
My heart still breaks
thinking about how much I miss his furry face.
There’s an empty hole in our lives
and in our bed
where he used to be,
but he
will never be forgotten.
His little pawprints
have left their tracks across our hearts
and will never be erased.
Hour 16
Dear candidate
Thank you for your interest and time you invested
In applying for the role in our organisation
But it was not fate
We regret to inform you that after careful consideration
We have chosen another for this position
Though your qualifications were impressive
There was a high level of competition
We encourage you to keep an eye out for any future opening
Thank you for understanding
We wish you all the best
With your continued suffering
Fifty or so more written tests
Cover letters, interviews, networking
We are confident you will land your dream job
Just not this time
Not with us
Sincerely
HR
As one does, I wondered why one never sees black funeral crepe in museums. Wouldn’t that be a worthy keepsake of a passing head of state? A link with history, with the noteworthy days of old? Was the crepe rented? Used again? Discarded? I decided on the answer.
Abraham Lincoln’s funeral cortege moved by rail from Washington to Springfield, draped in somber black. All along the route mourners stood by the tracks. Waiting. Progress was slow. His final journey, not to be rushed.
Aboard the train with the precious cargo were stationed young boys dressed in black knickers tucked outside among the fluttering crepe. Each boy held a small pair of safety scissors, and with dutiful care, cut off small pieces to scatter along the tracks where come-what-may would find them. There was singing and tears. Ephraim couldn’t bear to watch.
He worked his fingers for as long as he could. Somewhere near Pittsburgh his hand gave out and he closed the scissors. He leaned back and wondered about his new prospects in Illinois and the uncle hired to care for him. He dozed and dreamed about the dark-haired pretty girl from school who smelled of garlic and carried a hand-painted lunchbox. In his dream he fell asleep and dreamed some more. The train continued west.
No documentation exists for this story. It’s a true story in my head.