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- Works Previously Added to This Site
ALMOST-SUMMER
NIGHT
Cricket’s
Chorus
In the
‘hood—
The
only thing
Happening
On the
block
Tonight
When
I come
Home.
I lean
back
Against
The
car door,
In the
darkness
And
listen,
Neither
where I was,
Nor
where I’m going.
An unknown
toad
Scuffs
Like
sandpaper
Across
the concrete
In front
Of my
shoe.
Marian Orrell
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REAL FACT #164 (Snapple bottlecap)
“The first vacuum
was so large
it was brought to a house
by horses”
who didn’t know they
were making history
(or pulling it). All they
knew was
feedbag and trot. But that
was before
they were replaced by Model
T’s,
before the invention of
television
and the Abbott & Costello
episode
where salesman Lou Costello
tries
selling an electric vacuum
to a housewife
out in the country, purposely
spreads
a bag of dirt over her carpet,
on top of which the lady
sprinkles
spoonfuls of sugar. What’s
that for?
squeaks Costello. So
you can eat it—
there’s no electricity
out here yet.
And that was before the
Interstates
turned Rural into Boondocks
and all the clouds of auto
exhaust
burned a hole in the atmosphere,
before a ten-year-old asked
her dad
If a vacuum is the absence
of air molecules
which conduct sound,
then why are
vacuums so loud?
And her younger brother’s
Dad, am I cold-blooded
or warm-blooded?
to which Warm-blooded
to which
Then will heat-seeking
missiles attack me?
—this in an era of
robo-vacuums
scaring pets into corners
of rooms,
a time still of dirt and
horses.
-- Joel Katz
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Stale Memories
By Donna Butcher
I lie on my grandmother’s old couch, trying
to absorb every
last memory.
I still smell her overpowering perfume, as time
has gone by,
making it stale.
I have become melancholy from nostalgic memories
flashing
before my eyes.
I remember how the plastic covering used to stick
to my bare
skin.
I remember watching old reruns of “Andy
Griffith” and “I love
Lucy.”
I remember sitting, waiting anxiously for my
parent’s return
from their long trips
away.
I remember every holiday on this couch, digging
into the
infamous candy dish.
I look back, regretful, of a happy time when
everything made
sense.
I inherited this creaky old couch from a grandmother
I once
loved. And unknowingly,
I discovered the memories that were trapped within.
I am homesick in my own home, wanting to re-live
my
childhood.
I hated this couch once, and yet I curl up on
it wanting to go
back in time.
I am alone, cold and afraid, still waiting for
someone to remove
the plastic
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Mud Menorah
Naked children dance around,
the light-skinned man,
with brown curls, who smiles
and plays his guitar,
I light our Hanukkah candles,
and think of you with the menorah of
Malian clay.
In search of eight candles,
you jump on your bike,
and travel twisted West African streets,
speckled with houses of mud. You weave
through streams of meandering sewage,
in between wandering donkeys and skeletal
dogs,
near women in the marketplace,
dressed in vibrant cloth,
covering suckling babies.
A rusty tourist bus honks; cameras click.
And you fly past the Mud Mosque,
overflowing with international worshipers.
On this night,
children try to touch,
the menorah,
blazing with light.
(To my son in the Peace Corps in
Mali)
Kathleen
Arnold Chambers
December
31, 2005
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Rules for Being a Daddy
When your three-year old daughter
clings with her arms around your neck,
forget all the business and stress
that call you to shorten this goodnight,
and dedicate long minutes to humor and comfort.
You're a necklace now, like the Lord Mayor of London's.
I'll have to wear you to work romorrow,
and what will everyone say? How will I
get my work done with everyone staring,
admiring my necklace? Such a pretty necklace.
Treasure the giggles, mine them and store them
in a warm, dry place. You don't know now
the need you'll endure, weary years on,
to measure them out and fold them round
a reckless narrow soul.
Jack Seybold
2004
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