sometimes lovers fart

sometimes lovers fart
by L. Stewart Marsden

sometimes lovers fart.
sometimes say stupid things.
sometimes they can’t bare their heart.
sometimes they’re ding-a-lings.

sometimes their armor’s full of rust.
sometimes their steeds are nags.
sometimes their hopes are total busts.
sometimes they’re just windbags.

sometimes they totally fail you,
sometimes day in, day out,
sometimes they’re not so true and blue,
sometimes they’re awful louts.

sometimes, when you’ve but lost all hope
sometimes when all is grim,
sometimes you’ve used up all your rope,
sometimes look back at him –

sometimes forebear his fallacies
sometimes recall this rhyme
sometimes he’ll fall upon his knees –
forgiveness is divine.

sometimes.

the hiccup

the hiccup
by L. Stewart Marsden

Doesn’t come along too often.
Gets everyone’s attention.
And everyone wants it fixed.
To go away.
Has a solution.
Some, scary.
Some very superstitious.
Most, ineffective.
Time being, mostly,
the best healer.
The best healer being,
mostly — time.

Hiccup!

‘Scuse me!

Day is Done

Day is Done
by L. Stewart Marsden

Time to wipe the bar
and clean the glasses;
upturn the chairs,
unplug the juke box;
sweep the vinyl-tiled floor
and empty the garbage;
switch off the neon Bud sign
and draw the blinds;
check the men’s room
and flush the commode;
check the salt shakers
and refill the ketchup bottles;
count the ones, fives and tens
and staple the charge slips;
mark down the To Buy stuff
and make sure the front door is locked.

One last look, and flick the lights off,
exit the back door and turn the deadbolt;
throw the garbage in the dumpster;
turn the key and hope the Chevy will start,
flip on the radio for some nice mellow tunes,
pull through the parking lot,
tires crackling on the stones,
light up a Marlboro, hang my elbow out the window;
check the traffic, watch the yellow caution light blink off and on,
the cold night mist slowly rising from the road;
deep drag and exhale, smoke escapes into the night,
check the road once more, before pulling out to the right.

Another day. Another dollar.
I’ll see you guys tomorrow.

Day is done
Gone the sun
From the lakes, from the hills, from the sky –
All is well,
Safely rest,
God is nigh.

– the lyrics to Taps

Thus endeth the 30 days of writing poetry for The National Poetry Month poetry writing challenge.

Peter and the Wolf

Okay, I’m cheating by putting this link under Poetry. Just remember, to err is human, to forgive, divine. Put another way, to ARRRRR is human, to Pirate, is divine.

But I digress.

I need comments on the following short story. It’s an adaptation of Peter and the Wolf. It is a first draft, so you will probably find many errors.

Is it good? Is it tripe? Why or why not?

It’s long. But as long and as short as it needs to be, I think. But, you tell me.

And, thanks much if you decide to read and critique.

Come by North Carolina and I’ll buy you a beer. Or a soda. Or a hot tea. Or whatever drink you prefer.

Now, here’s the link: http://skipmars.wordpress.com/2012/04/28/petya-i-volk-unfinished/

The Finery of Us

The Finery of Us
by L. Stewart Marsden

Regal satin,
closely stitched
sensuous to the pampered hand;
folds with no wrinkles;
colorful and handsome;
admired oft and then some;
light and lithe and lovely.

Common cotton,
woven rough and slubbed
with imperfections;
dyed to patterned decorations;
wearable and washable;
bearable through cold and hot;
not pretending what it’s not.

Which shall be
the finery which we
will clothe each other?
Which shall be
the finery of us?

Seldom Wright

Seldom Wright
by L. Stewart Marsden

Seldom Wright stepped onto the boardwalk,
Kicked the mud ofn’ both his boots.
He pulled out a match which he struck on a post
and lit up a long, thin cheroot.

He eyed the street right keerful-like
in the dyin’ light o’ day
then pushed on in the dark saloon,
the double doors givin’ way.

It smelled of sweat and cattle hide,
mixed in with rotgut rye,
and the smoke of fags and old cigars
stung his trail-dusted eyes.

He moseyed up to the wall-length bar
and mounted him a stool,
then checked the smoke-filled honky-tonk;
Ol’ Seldom warn’t no fool.

Two other gents sat at the bar,
One passed out for the night,
The other slowly nursed a glass
‘N kept his face out o’  sight.

A dandy played the upright that
was pushed agin’ the wall
and tinkled out a tinny tune
that Seldom didn’t know at all.

And at a table ‘crost the room
sat three gents a playin’ cards
all holding hands close to the chest
and puffin’ their cigars.

A feathered floozy watched their game,
Sign’ling to one at the table,
Then winked his way as if to say
“Later, if you’re able.”

Seldom turned back to the bar,
Pulled a coin from out his vest –
“I don’t want none o’ your rot-gut sh*t.
Jes gimme sumayer best.”

“Yessir!” the tender replied,
and stepped up on a chair
to reach a bottle stored up high
then turned to Seldom’s stare.

He poured a glass of golden rye,
and slid it o’er to Wright
who tossed it down without a frown
but closed his eyes real tight.

Then savoring that burning glow
he grinned and said “That’s nice.”
And motioned for the bottle then,
and tapped his glass just twice.

He wooed that bottle ’bout an hour
When them doors slammed open wide,
And an ornery cuss, with hair amuss,
Stomped his way inside.

The varmint stopped ’bout halfway in
And spots Seldom at the bar,
“I’d like to know, you wart-backed toad
Jest who the hell you are?”

“That a fact?” Seldom answered back
turning slowly in his chair,
“The name is Seldom. Seldom Wright.”
All eyes were struck with fear.

“Seldom Wright? What kinda name is that?”
he unfurled with a surly grin,
“The one my momma give me, Sir,”
Seldom answered back, and then

He stood up tall, stepped away from the bar,
Touched the butt of his Colt-45,
“Gotta problem with that?” as he pushed back his hat
And he glared with steely black eyes.

“Maybe I do,” that foolish cuss said
As he stupidly went for his gun,
But Seldom shot first, left the other man dead,
Then finished the drink he’d begun.

He pulled out a coin, which he left on the bar
As the honky-tonk onlookers spilled out,
And he said pushing through the curious crowd
“I’m Seldom Wright, but never in doubt.”

Billy Hahn

Billy Hahn
by L. Stewart Marsden

Cycling hard, legs in the air,
Working, grunting, pushing there
Until the moment has arrived,
Final harumpf — light the match — Beware!

WHOOF!

A bright blue streak of methane gas
Shoots out and down his Hanes-clothed ass
And Billy Hahn erupts with laughs
and rolls upon the floor!

A Garrison Keillor look-alike
albeit younger, shorter, and not godlike;
Broad, flat face with black, tight curls,
Bright, shiny eyes — very childlike.

Billy lived his life with mixed emotion
Never letting on of the commotion
That churned inside like a raging ocean
He just grinned and joked and laughed.

And then one day I caught a glimpse
Of the anger and disappointment in him
And something deep and dark did begin
To churn and shake and roil.

I never saw Billy Hahn again
Till years had passed and my telephone rang,
“Billy’s dead,” said a friend. I figured he’d hanged himself,
But never knew for sure.

I wrote to his father, T. Marshall, and said
I was terribly sorry that Billy was dead
And he sent me the obit which I slowly read
And folded it, and put it away.

Billy Hahn and I roomed together our freshman year at VA Tech in 1968. His father, T. Marshall Hahn, was President of the university, and Billy and he were strangely reserved toward one another. In the spring of 1970, the campus was somewhat disrupted by various protests: against the war (Viet Nam); against racial inequality; and against gender inequalities. At one point, the English building was taken over and occupied by students and organizers from off-campus. T. Marshall brought in 250 Virginia State Troopers, in full riot gear, to “guard” the student body. Several Mayflower moving vans were brought in, and the occupying students were hauled off to various local jails to be processed. Bill and I bumped into each other during that event, and I could see in his eyes frustration and anger — aimed mostly, I suppose, at his father.  While his obituary says he died of a sudden heart attack, I had heard he committed suicide.

Most Embarrassing

Most Embarrassing
by L. Stewart Marsden

“Hey! Watch this!”

You know I’ll bet a large percentage of most embarrassing moments come right after someone shouts this. Certainly true for me.

It was Labor Day, and a group of friends had gathered to play tennis at the public courts. Because dozens of others had the same plans, there was a wait.

Nearby the courts were some swing sets, outfitted with toddler seats as well as the flexible u-shaped seats. My three-year old daughter was with me, and I scooched her into a toddler seat and began to swing her.

“Weeeeee!” we both chorused as she swung out and back.

Boring.

Directly in front of the swings, about 15 feet away, was a chain link fence separating the playground area where the swings were from a sandy beach that sloped down to the lake.

Ding!

I let my daughter’s swing go and walked over to one of the “adult” swings.

“Wanna see Daddy do a trick?” I asked her. She smiled and giggled.

So I began to swing. Really high. Leaning way back on the reverse swing and flinging my legs straight on the on the forward.

Dressed for tennis. White polo and white tennis shorts. White socks and white Adidas.

A crowd of my friends along with dozens of unknowns, waiting for a court to free up.

“Hey! Lookit me!”

All eyes turned toward my voice as I completed a couple more swoopingly big swings. At almost the end of my forward swing, I launched myself. I was going to fake sling-shooting myself out over that chain link fence, only to simply fall from the seat onto the sawdusted ground in front of me. What a trick!

Those flexible seats, by the way, are fastened to the swing chains by large chrome S hooks. One of those S hooks, while I was swinging, had managed to work the bottom part of the S into my tennis shorts pocket.

All eyes on me. Slow-motion. Coming out of the seat to begin my fake leap. Feeling a tug on my tennis shorts. Feeling the shorts separate along the seams. Feeling me not only leave the swing seat, but my tennis shorts, behind as I flew into the air, a la Michael Jordan’s famous basketball dunk configuration. Out into the air. Free. Wearing my white polo shirt, my white socks and white Adidas, and white Hanes briefs, while the swing and my white tennis shorts stayed behind — no pun intended.

My shout for attention was still echoing over the lake, as was the uncontrolled laughter of my friends — and new friends.

What’s your most embarrassing moment?

Moe Or Less

Moe or Less
by L. Stewart Marsden

Moe and Less
Both did their best
to gain their dad’s regard;
Less reduced the family debt
While Moe worked in the yard.

Less economized and saved
and stretched each dollar bill;
he cut out any wasteful stuff,
got rid of all the frill.

Moe produced a luscious lawn;
Increased the curb appeal,
And soon the value of the house
became almost surreal!

Moe and Less
Would ask “Who’s best?”
Inquiring of their pop,
and vied each day to find a way
to climb up to the top.

Then came the day
Dad had to say
Which son he favored best
His health was gone and he’d not long
to choose ‘tween Moe or Less.

And from his bed
So close to dead
Their dad was forced to choose,
‘Tween Moe or Less, one would be best
the other, damned to lose.

“Come closer now
and I’ll avow
the which of you I bless
with this chanced inheritance
One of you, Moe or Less.

Less, I say
Upon this day
How well you economize
And have the gift of frugal thrift
that’s been a great surprise.

And Moe, your sweat
Did us beget
An increase of great size,
From tiny seed you did succeed,
Creating such a prize!

So, Moe and Less
I do confess
There’s nothing that you need
For each of you will surely do
What’s necess’ry to succeed.

Here’s my decree
“It shall surely be
My wealth and all my best,
I donate all to the meek and small
And none to Moe or Less.”

And that’s the story, more or less.

I’m ‘Bout Poe-treed Out

I’m ‘Bout Poe-treed Out
by L. Stewart Marsden

I think I’m ’bout poe-treed out;
The mindscape’s lookin’ bare,
and I’m diggin’ under rocks and stuff
to see if somethin’s there

To fit into a new idea,
Eke out another line . . .
Then thumb through my worn Webster’s
For a great word that’ll rhyme.

Five more days — Or, if you count this one,
Well I suppose it’s four
To check the backroads of my mind
And mine it for rare ore.

But, see, I’m not a poet –
That’s my honest,  right report,
I’d  hoped  through verse my feet would grow
‘Cause, frankly, they’re real short.

No expectations that my stuff
Will stay the test of time,
It won’t compare to Will Shakespeare
Or any of his kind.

What the heck, I’ve had some fun
With the stories that I’ve told,
At sixty-two, that’s hard to do –
Teach new tricks to the old.

This April’s just about to end,
When I’ll drop my poetry quill,
Return to Writing Odds ‘n Ends
My time with fiction fill

Till the Muse cries in my soul
In the future, somewhere thence,
I’ll go back to my hero
Left, suspended, in suspense.

This exercise in writing
Has giv’n me new respect
For all you rhymers who through time
Define the word, “poet!”

So, yeah, I’m ’bout poe-treed out,
With four more poems to go,
I’ll leave this fare to your good care,
And you’ll do well, I know.

Day 26