BARKING DOGS AND RACING LEGS
My Great Grand Dad, it may be noted, landed on the docks of Portland, Maine, near penniless, with but his dreams, a pair of patched dungarees, dirty jacket and a brown derby, sun-faded.
He had on his feet a brand new pair of brogan shoes, stove-black polished, that were two sizes too big for his wandering, dancing Irish feet. “Stop thief! That Paddy stole my shoes!”
Great Grand Dad had ‘found’ the brogues near the starboard rail, sun drying on an old Dublin Times as he told the tale. “Who would wrap a pair of new shoes in faded newsprint, like old fish guts ready to be tossed into the dustbin?”
Being new to this land of opportunity, he had a strong desire to remain free, so he hit the cobblestone street at the end of the dock running like all the banshees of old Ireland chased him.
He huffed and puffed up Wharf Street, gathering a small cavalry of dogs, amid the curses of, “damned Paddy stop,” and “Not fit to sleep with hogs!” His racing legs bore him on, until he dove behind some barrels to hide.
Twenty minutes later, he judged all clear, he wandered from hiding, looked in a shop window, near. Eyes so brown and gentle he met with alarm, Almost ran again, until he worked courage up. Tipped his derby and knowing not how to court, walked into the shop, bold as could be.
My Great Granddad, fresh from County Cork, spent a week in jail for stealing shoes, but met the love of his young life, a lady who helped him adapt, amid strife. He became an American working and family man, who begat strong sons in his adopted homeland.
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Do Angels Smile
Do angels smile in the dark night as they watch over the sleeping child guarding, protecting until light?
The infant, innocent, meek and mild nestled warm in his snug straw bed looked at a dancing cherub and smiled.
Forsaken and crucified He bled. The sky darkened and He was home, while the angels watched overhead.
Now angels soft and pure as a midnight breeze, surround Him and smile upon sleeping babes
Death in a Metro Bar
WASHINGTON (AP) 10 percent jump in slayings is ‘no aberration,’ constabulary think tank announces
A man got off the E Train carrying a samurai sword, three pistols, kerosene, propane, and plastic handcuffs, strode into a bar, presumably not for a drink. It made me think, how did he get that far? Who sat next to him in the subway car?
“FBI data has shown a rise in violent crime since 2004. The Justice Department says crime was historically low that year.”
Pistol shots rang out before two courageous barmaids, brave ladies no doubt, dove to wrestle him down. I see images, fears hard to allay they are still deep in my mind. Was everyone on the street blind? Did they turn their head away, from a midnight stroller armed to the teeth, not concerned if bullets didn’t spray.
“Two years worth of increases in violent crime demonstrates a change in the extent and the nature of crime in America.”
I wonder what is wrong in our cities and big towns, subways and thoroughfares, when a man so bent upon harm can walk around without obstruction. I wonder what the attorney’s defense will be, “He was temporarily insane, set him free. He didn’t really mean to cause destruction. Something sure must have set him off, poor victim of poverty and society.”
WASHINGTON (AP): “A public spokesman said after the shooting, ‘this attack was so bizarre that it could only have been committed by someone clearly deranged.'”
Daughter of the Night
Like a sip from a clear ice water stream, you await me with outstretched arms. Teeth sparkle, perfect smile, eyes agleam. Daughter of the night I need you.
Your magic and passion are mine to crave, sometimes dreams, sometimes nightmarish charms. Needs and desires wash over me in a wave. Daughter of the night I need you.
The cold water engulfs me, fails to quench, the heat of my flush-faced desire. Less than a lady, more than a wench, daughter of the night I need you.
I am not sure where my reality resides. I don’t want to awaken if this is the dream, a drowning man seduced by mermaid’s deadly tides. Daughter of the night I need you.
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If I Were a Surprise
If I were a surprise, I would be the one that brought the tears to Emily’s eyes. Her mom hustled her into the car with nary a please. No time to dawdle, we have to go now.
I had driven 1,800 miles in two days instead of three to pick up my daughter for summer vacation.
The shock was complete and watching it register on Emily’s face was something to behold.
She first looked, then started smiling wider and wider as the tears started and her chatter stopped.
“Daddy, you tricked me, you weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow or something,” came through my little girl’s happy cries. Come to think of it, I was a surprise.
Hot Air Balloon
How quaint I should think not of a New Mexico sky filled with floating orbs of every color, but an old busybody who was free to tell everyone, but mostly her family how poorly they behave and how much they disappoint.
So lovely to look at big balloons floating in the brilliant summer skies as I drive along a lonely desert highway.
Too bad you ruined it by being so hateful and everything you should not be, because you could not be anything but a bag filled with hot air.
Homeward Bound
“Where that blue trailer is used to be a flowered hill. Dad found some Abenaki arrowheads over there, sharp still. Over on this side were two old well-climbed willow trees.” They tore down the house but I rebuilt it in my memories.
16 years ago our family moved away from the old farm, Now I visit, trying to show my daughter its charm, “Along here we grew carrots, corn, lettuce and peas…” They tore down the house but I rebuilt it in my memories.
Bulldozers came and beat, bladed, and shaped the land, changing everything my dad built with his own hand. I was sad to see it all gone, like a spring
breeze. They tore down the house but I rebuilt it in my memories.
“Where that blue trailer is used to be a flowered hill…” They tore down the house but I rebuilt it in my memories.
Hammered
I have heard sawdust bakes up nice…
Hammer in his tin shed… Hammer at supper time.
Tried to sleep in this morning, but the neighbor started beating out a tune with his hammer. Someone please take his hammer away.
The hammerhead bought house number eight, decided to take a wall out, and make the kitchen bigger.
I know I complain about everything, but I might just get out my chainsaw at midnight and chop down the trees that hang over my good neighbor-making fence.
Maybe the neighborly thing would be to take a freshly baked cake over and let him stop for morning tea. (I’ll hide his tools while he is eating!)
Hammer in his tin shed… Hammer at supper time?
If he doesn’t stop by dinner, I’ll put more than his hammer away for him! He is in his aluminum shed hammering away and it is echoing all over the neighborhood. If he has to build something, I hope it is a soundproofed workshop.
Tried to sleep in this morning, but the neighbor started beating out a tune with his hammer. Someone please take his hammer away.
Hammer in the morning… Hammer in the evening…
I have heard sawdust bakes up nice…
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Memorial Day Memory; 1983 There’s a Memorial Day Parade in Rumford today. The whole town will go the way they always do. With smiles of anticipation, we are ready to go. In Rumford today, Al, Digger, Lois and me crowd into the cab of the truck and head down the highway. We want to see the sights and share the fun. The whole town will go. They can’t stay away. Somehow Al and Digger find money to buy Lois and me flags. We watch the soldiers march by, and try to stand tall like them. Shriners ride their motorcycles the way they always do and clowns pedaled tricycles too. One sneaks up and pinches Lois’s nose and hands me a balloon. With smiles of anticipation, Digger brings over plates full of watermelon and red skinned hot dogs, We eagerly dine; a meal made in heaven. We are ready to go after all the soldiers have marched, the trucks and tanks have rolled. We share the memories and practice marching; Lois and I, a two-person Army. There was a Memorial Day Parade today
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Jean Lafitte
Don’t call me “pirate.” I sail with 1000 men.
Your movie actors in Hollywood; megawatt smiles, betray their countrymen, move to France, because they don’t agree with war. I sail with 1000 men.
How can you be a pirate and not warrior. According to my code, “Coward” means death. I sail with 1000 men.
They call me Jean Lafitte. I am the best man on the Gulf Coast. I am The Buccaneer, The Hero of New Orleans. I sail with 1000 men.
While you read a script, pretend to sail, and steal, I am condemned and exonerated by your president. I sail with 1000 men.
I am loved by all, hated by those who fear me.
I sailed the Gulf of Mexico, in a leaking ship, and defeated the British in The Battle of New Orleans. I sail with 1000 men.
Don’t call me “pirate.” I am a privateer. I sail with 1000 men.
I invented economy in a new America that had naught. For thanks, I was branded “traitor” and reviled, though I saved you from your hated Motherland. I sail with 1000 men.
Now I am driven from your corrupted American shores, betrayed by a country that doesn’t know the difference between savior and satan. I spit on you. I sail with 1000 men.
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Stormy Days And Sun Rays
The movie angels said it couldn't rain all the time but Mother Nature seemed to have different thoughts as clouds still blanketed the sodden earth. Spring visions of blossoming apple and cherry trees were blotted out by breeze blown curtains; fresh raindrops were once again beginning. The tender green shoots of weeds in sidewalk cracks shook. Skirting worms who crawled along the cement I ran onward, my footfalls slapping puddles, soaking legs with sprays of dirty water. Forward I ran, accompanied by mists and deluge, until sweat was indistinguishable from droplets upon my saturated black running shirt. The movie angels said it couldn't rain all the time and Mother Nature seemed to have read their thoughts.
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The Green Tree Waits
A green tree stands in the corner
with synthetic branches fluffed,
waiting for lights and bulbs
to be hung by a child's hand
and plugged in by mom and dad.
With synthetic branches fluffed,
shaped, and bent, the illusion
is complete. No Charlie Brown affair,
but a living breathing testament;
soon it will be Christmas day!
Waiting for lights and bulbs,
the old tree snoozes patiently.
We slowly built a mountain,
wrapped gifts at his feet;
colorful boxes and bags.
To be hung by a child's hand
are golden stars and angels,
mini sleighs and snowflakes,
resting in soft tissue cocoons.
They have slumbered all year.
"And plugged in by mom and dad?
Are you serious, I am almost 12!"
How quick our precious little girl
has grown over the few months
the green tree waited in the corner.
Silk Flowers
Silk flowers last a lifetime, as do my many memories, as midnight's hour chimes. I wish childhood lasted forever, unfortunately we pack up youth. I will always remember you however. The cloth bouquet at my nose, makes me remember your beauty, fresh like the dew upon a rose.
A Folder Of Love
My love for you was left in a blue folder
upon a coffee table next to your sofa-sick bed
under two boxes of Oreo's and a carton of 2 percent milk
that had ridden in the front seat of my car
until just the right time, awaiting feet-sweeping
and soul baring.
I dance with my toes in the fire of emotion.
I penned a sonnet or maybe open-ended
and unrhymed heart-pained words
in an outpouring of haphazard and confused emotions.
I didn't know if you would read, or hear or feel,
so I kissed your blanket-warmed brow
and silently stole away.
I dance with my toes in the fire of emotion.
Would I live or love another day
or forever hunger for your words
and gentle kisses?
I seem to have spent a lifetime, lifeless,
and a smattering of love affairs, loveless.
Am I to deny friends
and end up friendless
because I lust for yet another taboo?
I dance with my toes in the fire of emotion.
My heart is again broken yet seamless,
a poem like bit of fluff torn from the sleeve
of my existence where it continually resides.
I wish the frost at your core would thaw,
melting ice dripping, dripping dripping,
a maddening sound of spring coming,
destroying the hell of winter once and for all.
I dance with my toes in the fire of emotion.
I am waiting the crash of symbols
or the tolling of a bell
as the litmus test of your feelings;
bearing a chad-edged and lined paper
written with a number two pencil;
I love you. Do you love me?
Check yes or NO,
and so it goes:
My love for you was left in a blue folder
upon a coffee table next to your sofa-sick bed.
Another Battle
Like a warrior home from his last battle, I piled dented shield and dulled sword in an old dusty and locked room, where only memories and loneliness rattle. "I will fight no more, forever," upon my lips. To love no more was once my master plan. Scars upon my heart would heal in time. There were no more dragons to slay, no more maidens to steal across the land. I will love no more, forever," upon my lips. I lay alone in the dark shadow of a lover's moon destined to remain a lonely, unbeaten warrior . Oft offered heart slowly hardened, calcified, "Maybe it will stop beating, and none too soon. I will know pain no more, forever," upon my lips. One day into my life a young beauty wandered, peering, through the long unused keyhole that lead into my carefully secured soul. Slowly, as awakened from a dream, I pondered, "I wonder if this is the end of forever," upon my lips. I lifted door bars and disengaged rusted latches slowly, carefully widening the oak-hewn door that had been my heart's savior and salvation. Could this be one of Cupid's unexpected matches; "I will love you forever," upon our lips.
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Maisie’s Mom Says
Words from Maisie Jean. “Mama I don’t wanna do spelling and why does the cat lick to clean?”
The music of her voice makes me want to sing. “Finish your homework so we can snuggle love.” “Mama I don’t wanna do spelling.”
If there are angels here or above, they aren’t as cool as Ms. Maisie. “Finish your homework so we can snuggle love.”
“Mom one piece of chocolate won’t make me crazy.” Her sweet smile is hard to resist. They aren’t as cool as Ms. Maisie.
Chasing the cat, teasing him with a string tied to her wrist. How did I deserve such a great kid? Her sweet smile is hard to resist.
“Momma I love you more than I ever did!” Words from Maisie Jean. How did I deserve such a great kid, and why does the cat lick to clean?
If I Were the Autumn Leaves
If I were the autumn leaves I would be colorful and tinged. Reds, yellows, and oranges, falling and tangling in Maisie’s hair as she skips down the lane, followed by mama.
It is a fall day in Cheltenham. Maisie Jean and mom are on a walk to grandma’s. A little girl’s voice sings, “Wake Me Up When September Ends.” “Mama what day is this?” “November 12th” “Was I awake when September ended?”
If I were the autumn leaves I would clap and dance at the chance to be tangled in hair and serenaded by a sweet child who listens to the same song I do from thousands of miles away.
House of Cards
“Mommy what is the one with the A on it again?” “It is an Ace. Having a Daughter like you is ace.” 52 cards in a deck to build a house. Maisie Jean is making a mansion.
“It is an Ace. Having a Daughter like you is ace.” Maisie’s hands and imagination slowly, gently stack cards. Nine feet high and 14 feet wide, numbered faces out. Building the biggest card house in all England.
52 cards in a deck to build a house. Ace through King arranged in suits; red and black, hearts, diamonds, clovers, and spades arranged into a country place for Maisie and mom.
Maisie Jean is making a mansion for her and mom to hide in and snuggle, a day off from school and work to be remembered within these card-stock walls forever.
Fish Bowl
I am not a guppy goldfish, molly, or fighting fish. I was born in a shop on South Broadway which also has dog collars, scratch posts, and bird food.
I am not a Sri Lanka Ghost, on display for kids to watch and supply with bits of food, only to find I am boring and don’t do tricks.
In my fishbowl I float, looking out at your world, so dry.
I am snug and smug and soon I will grow out of my tail, and hop past a rim of glass, out a window, and on into a pond to sing all night.
I am not a guppy, goldfish, molly, or fighting fish, I am a frog if you didn’t know!
Bendy Gold Man
Mr. Bendy Gold Man comes from a far-off land. He is two inches tall you can barely see him at all.
Mr. Bendy is a quarter-inch wide, very easy to hide. One day the kitty bit him when he napped in Maisie’s mitten.
Mr. Bendy Man kept getting lost one day in the trash can he was tossed. Maisie was afraid he wouldn’t long linger now he rides wrapped around her little finger.
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Only the Broken-Hearted by Lou Marin
Where do the pillow-cried, lonely night desperate tears go, when love has left my bedside? Only the broken-hearted know. Why am I alone again, feeling sad and so low. Will I ever get over this pain? Only the broken-hearted know. When will I ever feel whole? When will my tears dry? When will I have a mended soul? Only the broken-hearted know.
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Rainy Night
“Rainy Night in Georgia” came from an a.m. station, through the worn speakers of my pickup, as we worked on steaming windows, on a muddy July evening in North Dakota.
Through the worn speakers of my pickup, came songs sung with feeling and passion, done in 3 1/2 minutes to fit the time allotment. Onto the next track, after a word from sponsors.
As we worked on steamy windows, thunder outside and the radio blasting, competed with the rumble of a big block Ford, and sounds of our passion, to create a symphony.
On a muddy July evening in North Dakota, after dinner, and a movie, with a pint of Bacardi Black, we stopped at North Hill, an hour before we had to get kids from the babysitter.
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RECLAMATION
BY LOU MARIN
Among blue tarps and bayou there is trash and triumph. They say crime is taking over down here. New Orleans will reclaim hers. The day ends, night begins. Lightning streaks and thunder rumbles. Cool soothing rain washes all anew. Nature reclaims hers. On the back deck we sit and trade beer for stories. Cajun thieves and water moccasins walk about in tales. Beer, barbecue, and red fish join the mix until mosquitoes demand their pint of blood. We go inside. Nature reclaims hers. Hammers and saws, rebuild and rebirth awaken me, then mingle with birds chirping, frogs peeping, and the cricket’s continuous drone. Nature reclaims her own. I am in New Orleans on my wedding day. I join my siblings for a swamp tour. On an airboat we go to where the duckweed, giant blue herons and gators rule the day and night. Man is just a curiosity to be eyed for the dinner he could be. It seems to me, nature reclaims hers. We are Mr. and Mrs., discussing family and future. The lady next door died. The place may be haunted, but it would be good to move down here in a few years. New Orleans reclaims hers.
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No More Forever Lou Marin Like a warrior home from his last battle, I piled dented shield and dulled sword in an old dusty and locked room, where only memories and loneliness rattle. “I will fight no more, forever,” upon my lips. I piled dented shield and dulled sword; to love no more was once my master plan. Scars upon my heart would heal in time. There were no more dragons to slay, no more maidens to steal across the land. in an old dusty and locked room, “I will love no more, forever,” upon my lips. I lay alone in the dark shadow of a lover’s moon destined to remain a lonely, unbeaten warrior . Oft offered heart slowly hardened, calcified. Where only memories and loneliness rattle; “Maybe it will stop beating, and none too soon. I will know pain no more, forever,” upon my lips. One day into my life a young beauty wandered, peering, through the long unused keyhole. “I will fight no more, forever,” upon my lips, that lead into my carefully secured soul. Slowly, as awakened from a dream, I pondered, “I wonder if this is the end of forever,” upon my lips. I lifted door bars and disengaged rusted latches. I piled dented shield and dulled sword, slowly, carefully widening the oak-hewn door that had been my heart’s savior and salvation. Could this be one of Cupid’s unexpected matches; “I will love you forever,” upon our lips. (continued on following page) The Oddville Press • oddvillepress@gmail.com • Winter 2019 26 Gone To North Dakota He’s gone to North Dakota, Wiped the dust off his feet, headed out west To the cold badlands he remembers From his boyhood. He’s gone to North Dakota, His heart is following his feet, Shadow lengthening to the west, Soul shaped by the badlands, Embers he remembers, Dreams of boyhood.
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Waiting At Rainbow’s End
I have a picture saved,
in a stack of thumb printed
dog eared memories.
Emily sits on a redwood deck railing
peering back at the camera,
large eyed and hair wind tossed,
rainbow tie-dyed shirt
ice cream stained
and wet from a recent rain.
Behind her right shoulder
are towering black
anvil-shaped thunderhead clouds.
Behind her left,
a brilliant shaft of sun
throws light upon
the rain washed summer evening.
The overhead rainbow
tells me all is right.
I slowly return
the picture
to the box that I go to
when I need to find my smile.
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Bottles On The Tides
Bobbing along Out of sight, The green bottle Tottles along Listing left of straight, Endless as the sea, Seemingly forever.
Our lives are but Bottles on the tides
Overlapped by waves Needlessly pushed to and fro.
Our minds are but Bottles on the tides
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