E.R.A. A NEW ERA 1968
The other day I made the mistake of opening a store door for a young lady. “I am quite capable of opening my own door,” she said, giving me a withering look. I apologized, and slunk away, my tail between my legs.
Last week at a party, a woman challenged me to an arm wrestling match. Something told me to resist the temptation. I mean a woman does not challenge a guy with bulging biceps like mine unless she is into body building “I’ll pass,” I said with a nervous laugh.
“Chicken,” she said derisively.
“You’re on,” I said, rolling up my sleeve.
I was down in less than 10 seconds. What could I do? I congratulated her, a weak smile on my face. Was she originally a man --- a her who had been a he in this life or some other one?
The morning after my ignoble defeat, I was traveling down 80 west, singing in my bass baritone voice, while making sure I was not moving faster than sixty or sixty-five.
Suddenly, I heard what sounded like a train whistle, directly behind me. I almost hit the roof. A van trailer, a mile long, pulled abreast. Behind the wheel sat this teeny girl weighing maybe ninety pounds. She gave me the finger and was gone in a flash.
“My gawd! I said out loud, “they’re taking over.”
That very night I got into bed with a good book and my good wife. I was enjoying the book immensely, when I heard my wife say, “Put the book down.”
“In a moment,” I said, thinking she wanted to have me close the light.
“Put the book away,” she repeated softly. Her voice carried an unmistakable suggestion this time.
I am always open to suggestion. The thing is, the last time my wife indicated proceedings was just after the repeal of prohibition.
I put the book down. “My god,” I said, “It’s a revolution.”
At two a.m. the phone rang. I hopefully waited for my wife to answer. She did not budge. I crawled out of bed, my eyes still shut and groped for the phone.
“Hello,” I said crossly.
“Now, now, don’t be cross my great, big man,” the distinctly feminine voice crooned.
My mouth flew open. The voice continued to purr. “I would love to jump into your arms and caress you all over. And then I’d ……
I interrupted. “I can’t believe it,” I said, “Is nothing sacred?”
Sunday, November 1, 2009
OH THOSE NAMES
As a rule, names of foreign tennis players do not phase me. I can rattle them off correctly, foreign accents right on key.
I breeze through Helena Sukova, Yannick Noah, and even Claudia Kohde-Kilsh. However, I have extreme difficulty with the names of two tennis greats, namely Martina Navratilova and Hana Mandlikova. For some inexplicable reason I cannot make them come out right unless I see them in print.
A ‘few’ years ago I had the good fortune of seeing Martina finally succumb to Hana, a nifty little tennis player, who finally came through after losing all seven of her previous matches to Martina. My head was still moving from left to right and from right to left as I drove home after the match.
Inspired by what I had seen, I arranged for a game of singles. While warming up, my friend asked, “Say Oscar, who won the match?” Hana,”I answered quickly, hoping it would end there.
“Who did she play?” He was relentless.
“Martina,” I said, as I lofted a warm-up lob purposefully behind him. It was no good. He persisted. “Martina who?” he shouted from the base line.
Go slow, I cautioned myself. “Naravlotiva” I finally sputtered.
“Repeat that please,” he said. I was anxious to get at his throat.
“Natralova,” I managed to squeeze out. He let that pass, for a moment, but only a moment and then he pounced again.
“Natralova?” he queried innocently. “Who is that?”
My hands were ready to kill. “You know,” I said desperately, “The one who played Malindovaka.”
He was on the ground a full five minutes, holding his stomach, while great gusts of laughter came bursting forth. I took him in three straight sets. He was silent as a lamb all through.
I breeze through Helena Sukova, Yannick Noah, and even Claudia Kohde-Kilsh. However, I have extreme difficulty with the names of two tennis greats, namely Martina Navratilova and Hana Mandlikova. For some inexplicable reason I cannot make them come out right unless I see them in print.
A ‘few’ years ago I had the good fortune of seeing Martina finally succumb to Hana, a nifty little tennis player, who finally came through after losing all seven of her previous matches to Martina. My head was still moving from left to right and from right to left as I drove home after the match.
Inspired by what I had seen, I arranged for a game of singles. While warming up, my friend asked, “Say Oscar, who won the match?” Hana,”I answered quickly, hoping it would end there.
“Who did she play?” He was relentless.
“Martina,” I said, as I lofted a warm-up lob purposefully behind him. It was no good. He persisted. “Martina who?” he shouted from the base line.
Go slow, I cautioned myself. “Naravlotiva” I finally sputtered.
“Repeat that please,” he said. I was anxious to get at his throat.
“Natralova,” I managed to squeeze out. He let that pass, for a moment, but only a moment and then he pounced again.
“Natralova?” he queried innocently. “Who is that?”
My hands were ready to kill. “You know,” I said desperately, “The one who played Malindovaka.”
He was on the ground a full five minutes, holding his stomach, while great gusts of laughter came bursting forth. I took him in three straight sets. He was silent as a lamb all through.
WHAT'S IN A NAME? wrote in '57
As a rule, names of foreign tennis players do not phase me. I can rattle them off correctly, foreign accents right on key.
I breeze through Helena Sukova, Yannick Noah, and even Claudia Kohde-Kilsh. However, I have extreme difficulty with the names of two tennis greats, namely Martina Navratilova and Hana Mandlikova. For some inexplicable reason I cannot make them come out right unless I see them in print.
A ‘few’ years ago I had the good fortune of seeing Martina finally succumb to Hana, a nifty little tennis player, who finally came through after losing all seven of her previous matches to Martina. My head was still moving from left to right and from right to left as I drove home after the match.
Inspired by what I had seen, I arranged for a game of singles. While warming up, my friend asked, “Say Oscar, who won the match?” Hana,”I answered quickly, hoping it would end there.
“Who did she play?” He was relentless.
“Martina,” I said, as I lofted a warm-up lob purposefully behind him. It was no good. He persisted. “Martina who?” he shouted from the base line.
Go slow, I cautioned myself. “Naravlotiva” I finally sputtered.
“Repeat that please,” he said. I was anxious to get at his throat.
“Natralova,” I managed to squeeze out. He let that pass, for a moment, but only a moment and then he pounced again.
“Natralova?” he queried innocently. “Who is that?”
My hands were ready to kill. “You know,” I said desperately, “The one who played Malindovaka.”
He was on the ground a full five minutes, holding his stomach, while great gusts of laughter came bursting forth. I took him in three straight sets. He was silent as a lamb all through.
I breeze through Helena Sukova, Yannick Noah, and even Claudia Kohde-Kilsh. However, I have extreme difficulty with the names of two tennis greats, namely Martina Navratilova and Hana Mandlikova. For some inexplicable reason I cannot make them come out right unless I see them in print.
A ‘few’ years ago I had the good fortune of seeing Martina finally succumb to Hana, a nifty little tennis player, who finally came through after losing all seven of her previous matches to Martina. My head was still moving from left to right and from right to left as I drove home after the match.
Inspired by what I had seen, I arranged for a game of singles. While warming up, my friend asked, “Say Oscar, who won the match?” Hana,”I answered quickly, hoping it would end there.
“Who did she play?” He was relentless.
“Martina,” I said, as I lofted a warm-up lob purposefully behind him. It was no good. He persisted. “Martina who?” he shouted from the base line.
Go slow, I cautioned myself. “Naravlotiva” I finally sputtered.
“Repeat that please,” he said. I was anxious to get at his throat.
“Natralova,” I managed to squeeze out. He let that pass, for a moment, but only a moment and then he pounced again.
“Natralova?” he queried innocently. “Who is that?”
My hands were ready to kill. “You know,” I said desperately, “The one who played Malindovaka.”
He was on the ground a full five minutes, holding his stomach, while great gusts of laughter came bursting forth. I took him in three straight sets. He was silent as a lamb all through.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
IT’S HIGH TIME
Written around 1957: Read on
Leaving my firm meant leaving all perks, including first class air travel—at four times the price of coach seats. What’s so special about first class seats aside from the inflated price you might ask? The answer is plenty.
No waiting, you board first, all four of you. You exit first, all four of you. While on board you are kingpins.
The prettiest stewardesses are specifically chosen to serve you. They can’t wait to tuck you in, to make you ever so comfortable. They light your cigarette, they clean your eyeglasses, they marinate you in hot and cold beverages. They serve you meals almost fit to be on real plates and give you portions large enough to feed three people.
You are showered with newspapers, magazines, and ever constant smiles, you are it, the one and only. They just love you to pieces. After all, you might be a producer, a director, a corporate giant, a crown prince, or best of all, a practicing surgeon. You keep them guessing of course.
And the seats, oh the seats, the kind you just sink into and stretch in every direction. You just have to fall asleep and dream nice dreams, even so-called naughty dreams about that blond gal that leaned over far enough to enable you to see her perfect 34 C boobs as she served you.
Fade away to the present. The scene opens with me wedged in an air coach seat, surrounded on either side by two men large enough to be Sumo wrestlers. My knees are gently nudging the back of the seat in front of me I get dirty looks. I am in a straight jacket, my legs are glued together. I long for sleep, for oblivion, with out success.
I wait for the “Fasten seat belt sign” to go off so I can proceed to the Blue room. There are a number of drawbacks. All the cells are occupied and there are four standbys waiting to serve their sentences before me. Finally inside, claustrophobia sets in. Airlines consider every inch of space and their standing-room-only bathrooms can easily be measured in inches. “Please, please, whoever is listening, don’t crash now, “ I plead, as I maneuver awkwardly in the mini-room designed for Lilliputians.
Returning to my non-smoking seat, I squeeze myself into my measured space just in time to inhale the so called second hand smoke of smokers sitting in the permitted area some three seats behind me. Die bold smokers inhaling deeply of the weed, relaxing as they smoke themselves to an early death. With some satisfaction I listen to the coughs and wheezes of the right to smoke enthusiasts before I suspend breathing.
There is nothing more righteous than a holier than thou former smoker. I plead guilty as charged.
There is an infant who took off the moment we took off. His cries are piercing enough to puncture the fuselage or even the ozone layer. I smile at the baby, I throw love at the baby, I whisper sweet nothings, all to no avail. The Sumo wrestlers are snoring, goody, goody gumdrops. What could be next. It’s movie time. Airlines have a committee of sadists who choose their selections. I opt out. Enough torture. There is one saving grace, the baby stops crying.
Our section stewardess is going through the ‘safety features’. “Kindly note the exits located in the nose, the middle of the aircraft, and the aft compartment indicated by the red exit signs.” I am not reassured. I simply refuse to jump out of a plane at an altitude of some 36,000 feet with or without a parachute. She goes on, “Also note that your seat cushion functions as a flotation device in the event of a water landing.” Water landing? Is this a seaplane?
I am a seasoned air traveler, but listen as she dutifully continues. “In the unlikely event that cabin pressure suddenly drops, kindly extinguish all smoking materials. An oxygen mask will drop from the overhead compartment. Place mask firmly over your nose, pull on the strap, and breathe normally,” Breathe normally as the plane gaily somersaults through space? Who are they kidding?
We are further instructed on how to loosen and tighten seat belts. (The belt will keep me anchored to my seat in the event we hit turbulence determined to hit back. If we crash I will be able to take off, securely fastened to my seat. How cosy.)
The food cart is coming down the aisle trapping all passengers in front of the device. The food, packed in foam and plastic containers, is fighting for space on my tray. (Even food fights for space in the coach section.) Eating this tripe, while my arms are pasted to my torso, is no easy task.
The fasten-seat-belt sign goes on followed by a voice telling us that we will be experiencing some minor turbulence for the next little while.
I struggle with my belt and get my ‘doggie’ bag ready. ‘Some’ turbulence turns out to be SOME turbulence. It’s fun and games as the food on my tray and in my system try to join hands. Some forty-five minutes later we begin our descent. Seat backs are up. Seat belts are on. Feet are anchored to the floor, and first-time fliers are biting their fingers to the bone. Veteran fliers like myself remain outwardly calm while experiencing some turbulence inside.
I know that one out of every three landings will be anything but smooth. I am prepared for the leapfrog, a specialty of some pilots. We land and hop, skip and jump merrily along. My statistics hold true. Thank you, I say as I stagger out. I now march some two miles to the baggage carousel.
I do not rush. I know I will get one bag right away. It’s the second or third bag that will be at the tail end some sixty minutes away.
I’ve been thinking. I do that from time to time. There is a thing out now that permits one to stretch full-length, walk about, luxuriate comfortably in washrooms and in dining room areas, it’s called trains.
Leaving my firm meant leaving all perks, including first class air travel—at four times the price of coach seats. What’s so special about first class seats aside from the inflated price you might ask? The answer is plenty.
No waiting, you board first, all four of you. You exit first, all four of you. While on board you are kingpins.
The prettiest stewardesses are specifically chosen to serve you. They can’t wait to tuck you in, to make you ever so comfortable. They light your cigarette, they clean your eyeglasses, they marinate you in hot and cold beverages. They serve you meals almost fit to be on real plates and give you portions large enough to feed three people.
You are showered with newspapers, magazines, and ever constant smiles, you are it, the one and only. They just love you to pieces. After all, you might be a producer, a director, a corporate giant, a crown prince, or best of all, a practicing surgeon. You keep them guessing of course.
And the seats, oh the seats, the kind you just sink into and stretch in every direction. You just have to fall asleep and dream nice dreams, even so-called naughty dreams about that blond gal that leaned over far enough to enable you to see her perfect 34 C boobs as she served you.
Fade away to the present. The scene opens with me wedged in an air coach seat, surrounded on either side by two men large enough to be Sumo wrestlers. My knees are gently nudging the back of the seat in front of me I get dirty looks. I am in a straight jacket, my legs are glued together. I long for sleep, for oblivion, with out success.
I wait for the “Fasten seat belt sign” to go off so I can proceed to the Blue room. There are a number of drawbacks. All the cells are occupied and there are four standbys waiting to serve their sentences before me. Finally inside, claustrophobia sets in. Airlines consider every inch of space and their standing-room-only bathrooms can easily be measured in inches. “Please, please, whoever is listening, don’t crash now, “ I plead, as I maneuver awkwardly in the mini-room designed for Lilliputians.
Returning to my non-smoking seat, I squeeze myself into my measured space just in time to inhale the so called second hand smoke of smokers sitting in the permitted area some three seats behind me. Die bold smokers inhaling deeply of the weed, relaxing as they smoke themselves to an early death. With some satisfaction I listen to the coughs and wheezes of the right to smoke enthusiasts before I suspend breathing.
There is nothing more righteous than a holier than thou former smoker. I plead guilty as charged.
There is an infant who took off the moment we took off. His cries are piercing enough to puncture the fuselage or even the ozone layer. I smile at the baby, I throw love at the baby, I whisper sweet nothings, all to no avail. The Sumo wrestlers are snoring, goody, goody gumdrops. What could be next. It’s movie time. Airlines have a committee of sadists who choose their selections. I opt out. Enough torture. There is one saving grace, the baby stops crying.
Our section stewardess is going through the ‘safety features’. “Kindly note the exits located in the nose, the middle of the aircraft, and the aft compartment indicated by the red exit signs.” I am not reassured. I simply refuse to jump out of a plane at an altitude of some 36,000 feet with or without a parachute. She goes on, “Also note that your seat cushion functions as a flotation device in the event of a water landing.” Water landing? Is this a seaplane?
I am a seasoned air traveler, but listen as she dutifully continues. “In the unlikely event that cabin pressure suddenly drops, kindly extinguish all smoking materials. An oxygen mask will drop from the overhead compartment. Place mask firmly over your nose, pull on the strap, and breathe normally,” Breathe normally as the plane gaily somersaults through space? Who are they kidding?
We are further instructed on how to loosen and tighten seat belts. (The belt will keep me anchored to my seat in the event we hit turbulence determined to hit back. If we crash I will be able to take off, securely fastened to my seat. How cosy.)
The food cart is coming down the aisle trapping all passengers in front of the device. The food, packed in foam and plastic containers, is fighting for space on my tray. (Even food fights for space in the coach section.) Eating this tripe, while my arms are pasted to my torso, is no easy task.
The fasten-seat-belt sign goes on followed by a voice telling us that we will be experiencing some minor turbulence for the next little while.
I struggle with my belt and get my ‘doggie’ bag ready. ‘Some’ turbulence turns out to be SOME turbulence. It’s fun and games as the food on my tray and in my system try to join hands. Some forty-five minutes later we begin our descent. Seat backs are up. Seat belts are on. Feet are anchored to the floor, and first-time fliers are biting their fingers to the bone. Veteran fliers like myself remain outwardly calm while experiencing some turbulence inside.
I know that one out of every three landings will be anything but smooth. I am prepared for the leapfrog, a specialty of some pilots. We land and hop, skip and jump merrily along. My statistics hold true. Thank you, I say as I stagger out. I now march some two miles to the baggage carousel.
I do not rush. I know I will get one bag right away. It’s the second or third bag that will be at the tail end some sixty minutes away.
I’ve been thinking. I do that from time to time. There is a thing out now that permits one to stretch full-length, walk about, luxuriate comfortably in washrooms and in dining room areas, it’s called trains.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
MY LAST SONG
I'm going down that tricky road
into that dark oblivion
I'm slipping, I'm sliding
no longer abiding
I'm going nowhere fast
I'm finished with the past
Times up ladies
and gentlemen,
cheerio and all that.
My last word?
Enough said,
I'm kinda dead!
into that dark oblivion
I'm slipping, I'm sliding
no longer abiding
I'm going nowhere fast
I'm finished with the past
Times up ladies
and gentlemen,
cheerio and all that.
My last word?
Enough said,
I'm kinda dead!
Monday, August 31, 2009
LOVE OVER EIGHTY INTRODUCTION
I wrote the following songs of " love over eighty"
because we oldsters are not cast offs, we still
think, we still feel, we still care, and we still love,
each in our own way. I sing these songs with love
and abandon.
because we oldsters are not cast offs, we still
think, we still feel, we still care, and we still love,
each in our own way. I sing these songs with love
and abandon.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
AN ODE TO ME ON MY 86th
Why not to a man still strong, still bold,
who's gone through hell and been through fire.
Who's not yet ready to be placed on a pyre.
Who shakes off pains, sees suns not rains,
who loves his wife and children three.
Who thinks, who reads, still thirsty for knowledge
and who may consider going back to college.
That's all good folks, that's simply me.
who's gone through hell and been through fire.
Who's not yet ready to be placed on a pyre.
Who shakes off pains, sees suns not rains,
who loves his wife and children three.
Who thinks, who reads, still thirsty for knowledge
and who may consider going back to college.
That's all good folks, that's simply me.
AN ODE TO SHE ON HER 84th
Here's to a woman, a mother and wife
who's given more spice to everyone's life.
Who laughs all the day and smiles through the night.
Who's gentle and caring and even daring.
Who's both feisty and smart, a news flunky with heart.
a thinker, a reader, a born again leader.
Well, that's all for now, that's Marcia,
that's simply she, my wife
forever to be.
who's given more spice to everyone's life.
Who laughs all the day and smiles through the night.
Who's gentle and caring and even daring.
Who's both feisty and smart, a news flunky with heart.
a thinker, a reader, a born again leader.
Well, that's all for now, that's Marcia,
that's simply she, my wife
forever to be.
ODE TO CHILDREN THREE
An ode to my children all three
insane as can possibly be.
Let's look at sanity, a kind of vanity
Their time has come, it's really dumb.
It's out-dated, it's over-rated,
lots of people have come to hate it.
These children, these life soldiers,
these informals, are the real normals.
My three are loving and caring,
young in spirit and still daring.
They're fun, they're smart,
they're part of our heart.
insane as can possibly be.
Let's look at sanity, a kind of vanity
Their time has come, it's really dumb.
It's out-dated, it's over-rated,
lots of people have come to hate it.
These children, these life soldiers,
these informals, are the real normals.
My three are loving and caring,
young in spirit and still daring.
They're fun, they're smart,
they're part of our heart.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
WORDS ARE HERE TO STAY
I love words, they are my best friends. We have been going steady since I was three and discovered letters in a picture book. A new world of letters opened up, I entered and never left.
I see letters as shapes, as paintings, as letters that logically lock into place like jigsaw puzzles. Words are like a palette holding many colors: They can be descriptive, musical, comedic, colorful, instructive, destructive, thought provoking or mixtures of some or all these. Words can shape the way one think and acts.
So why not be inventive, daring, or colorful by painting sentences with a broad brush. Here are some word paintings I kind of like:
The cold stabbed at me, The tapestry of my life unfolded. I can here the sounds of trees growing. A bunch of ideas percolated in my head. His anger hurried his words along, he spat them out with machine gun speed.Finally, there are limitless word structures that call, nay, scream for your attention. They ensnare, they captivate, they move you to tears or laughter. Enjoy the world of words in blogs, books, newspapers, leaflets and anywhere you can find them. Enjoy the world of words.
I see letters as shapes, as paintings, as letters that logically lock into place like jigsaw puzzles. Words are like a palette holding many colors: They can be descriptive, musical, comedic, colorful, instructive, destructive, thought provoking or mixtures of some or all these. Words can shape the way one think and acts.
So why not be inventive, daring, or colorful by painting sentences with a broad brush. Here are some word paintings I kind of like:
The cold stabbed at me, The tapestry of my life unfolded. I can here the sounds of trees growing. A bunch of ideas percolated in my head. His anger hurried his words along, he spat them out with machine gun speed.Finally, there are limitless word structures that call, nay, scream for your attention. They ensnare, they captivate, they move you to tears or laughter. Enjoy the world of words in blogs, books, newspapers, leaflets and anywhere you can find them. Enjoy the world of words.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
JUST SOME ACHES AND PAINS
There's pain in my neck, oh what the heck
My poor back is another story,
no use to give it a worry
My chest is aflame, but who can I blame?
My left knee gives when I walk,
no matter how I give it a talk.
My ankle is not steady, is it amputation ready?
My left leg is the size of two.
Should I get one that's brand new?
My jewels are victims of gravity,
and I say this without any levity.
and so for the sake of brevity
I'll end all this silly debility.
When my sweetheart
smiles at me
When my darling
looks at me
When my beauty
moves close to me
My pains drift away
I am whole again
i am ten feet tall
My poor back is another story,
no use to give it a worry
My chest is aflame, but who can I blame?
My left knee gives when I walk,
no matter how I give it a talk.
My ankle is not steady, is it amputation ready?
My left leg is the size of two.
Should I get one that's brand new?
My jewels are victims of gravity,
and I say this without any levity.
and so for the sake of brevity
I'll end all this silly debility.
When my sweetheart
smiles at me
When my darling
looks at me
When my beauty
moves close to me
My pains drift away
I am whole again
i am ten feet tall
WHEN I FIRST MET HER
When I first met her
She was a sweet five foot four
My hormones told me
She’d not ever be a bore
It’s now been sixty seven years later
And she’s still five foot four
And we’re still mated
Surely, like it's fated
We’ve learned to do it slowly
Working from the top to the lowly
Every part unrehearsed
A gentle slaking of a thirst
Just the touch of her hand
The sound of her voice
The look that she gives me
Is more than I ever need
She was a sweet five foot four
My hormones told me
She’d not ever be a bore
It’s now been sixty seven years later
And she’s still five foot four
And we’re still mated
Surely, like it's fated
We’ve learned to do it slowly
Working from the top to the lowly
Every part unrehearsed
A gentle slaking of a thirst
Just the touch of her hand
The sound of her voice
The look that she gives me
Is more than I ever need
ABSENT MINDED?
I'm walking down an avenue
In a city I do not know
I have no idea of where I am
Or where I want to go
Have I reached that awful time
are my senses really going
is a quarter really a dime
Have my brains stopped growing
Wait, I see a woman across the street
possibly someone I'd like to meet
she looks at me and I look at her
and believe it or not I begin to purr
Then it happened, I don't know how
we were together, like in the now
I went to kiss her, and kiss her I did
her lips were like roses, I do not kid
Our bodies met and began to sway
we held on, was it night or day?
I knew this much, I loved her touch
In fact I liked it very much
Suddenly, it dawned on me
I soon began to see
those lips, that voice
that was a you and a me
My darling of some sixty years
stood before me and there were tears
Tears of happiness, of finally knowing
that life again,could be glowing
Hand and hand she led me home
and warned me not to roam
Home sweet home, home sweet home
Life forever, like a honey poem
In a city I do not know
I have no idea of where I am
Or where I want to go
Have I reached that awful time
are my senses really going
is a quarter really a dime
Have my brains stopped growing
Wait, I see a woman across the street
possibly someone I'd like to meet
she looks at me and I look at her
and believe it or not I begin to purr
Then it happened, I don't know how
we were together, like in the now
I went to kiss her, and kiss her I did
her lips were like roses, I do not kid
Our bodies met and began to sway
we held on, was it night or day?
I knew this much, I loved her touch
In fact I liked it very much
Suddenly, it dawned on me
I soon began to see
those lips, that voice
that was a you and a me
My darling of some sixty years
stood before me and there were tears
Tears of happiness, of finally knowing
that life again,could be glowing
Hand and hand she led me home
and warned me not to roam
Home sweet home, home sweet home
Life forever, like a honey poem
JE T'ADORE
I adore you
Je t'aime
You are my life
Vous etes ma vie
You are my inspiration
Vous etes mon inspiraton
My reason for living
Ma raison de la vie
I throw you a thousand kisses
Je vous jette mille baisers
Married sixty-two years
More laughter than tears
Let's go to bed,
Something might rise
Miracles happen , don't they
Bonne nuit cherie, good night
Je t'aime
You are my life
Vous etes ma vie
You are my inspiration
Vous etes mon inspiraton
My reason for living
Ma raison de la vie
I throw you a thousand kisses
Je vous jette mille baisers
Married sixty-two years
More laughter than tears
Let's go to bed,
Something might rise
Miracles happen , don't they
Bonne nuit cherie, good night
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
YOU SMELL REAL NICE
You smell real nice
from head to toe
You smell real nice
my nose just knows
And when you talk I listen
Wouldn’t want words to be missin’
‘Cause the sounds make love to my ears
I want to listen for a hundred years
My sweetie is past eighty
and I’m older than that
That doesn’t slow us down
though we’re slightly fat
We’re both very retired
And can do as we please
Our good times have not expired
So we play bareback at our ease
You smell real nice
From head to toe
You smell real nice
My nose just knows
from head to toe
You smell real nice
my nose just knows
And when you talk I listen
Wouldn’t want words to be missin’
‘Cause the sounds make love to my ears
I want to listen for a hundred years
My sweetie is past eighty
and I’m older than that
That doesn’t slow us down
though we’re slightly fat
We’re both very retired
And can do as we please
Our good times have not expired
So we play bareback at our ease
You smell real nice
From head to toe
You smell real nice
My nose just knows
BODY I KIND OF KNOW YOU
Baby, you have some wrinkles
Your breasts are somewhat pendulous
You’re arms are, well, a little flabby
But you’re body is still incredulous
I know every cranny
You’re cute saucy fanny
Love your delicious smile
For it I would run a mile
Body, I kind of know you
Darling, I too have wrinkles
That line, my once perfect face
Kind of gives me character
No cream will ever erase
Oh me, oh my
My jewels are falling
Gravity has come calling
It’s just too damn galling
But darling, but darling
I’m forever falling
Head over heels
And I keep calling
Body, I kind of know you.
Your breasts are somewhat pendulous
You’re arms are, well, a little flabby
But you’re body is still incredulous
I know every cranny
You’re cute saucy fanny
Love your delicious smile
For it I would run a mile
Body, I kind of know you
Darling, I too have wrinkles
That line, my once perfect face
Kind of gives me character
No cream will ever erase
Oh me, oh my
My jewels are falling
Gravity has come calling
It’s just too damn galling
But darling, but darling
I’m forever falling
Head over heels
And I keep calling
Body, I kind of know you.
YOU'RE NEVER TOO OLD
You're never too old
to be ever so bold
you're never too old
for a hug and a hold
You're never too old
To kiss her nose
To kiss her toes
To kiss her ears
To kiss her tears
You're never too old
to kiss her thighs
to listen to her love sighs
to hear her saying again and again
don't stop, don't you ever stop
her voice so sultry, ever so pleading
and I go on forever needing
You're never too old
to be ever so bold
You're never too old
for a hug and a hold
to be ever so bold
you're never too old
for a hug and a hold
You're never too old
To kiss her nose
To kiss her toes
To kiss her ears
To kiss her tears
You're never too old
to kiss her thighs
to listen to her love sighs
to hear her saying again and again
don't stop, don't you ever stop
her voice so sultry, ever so pleading
and I go on forever needing
You're never too old
to be ever so bold
You're never too old
for a hug and a hold
WHEN I HOLD YOU CLOSE
When I hold you close,
something may be growing
or maybe even unknowing
But no matter what.
or no matter how,
just being near you
is so good, so really now.
We're getting kind of older,
still trying to be bolder.
Not knowing if we could,
or even if we really should.
I think we may
have another chance,
Or is it the time,
for the final last dance
When i hold you close,
something may be growing
or maybe unknowing
When I hold you close
something may be growing
or maybe even unknowing
But no matter what.
or no matter how,
just being near you
is so good, so really now.
We're getting kind of older,
still trying to be bolder.
Not knowing if we could,
or even if we really should.
I think we may
have another chance,
Or is it the time,
for the final last dance
When i hold you close,
something may be growing
or maybe unknowing
When I hold you close
THE MASSEUR
Massage my calves,
massage my toes
Massage my ankles
get rid of my woes
O'k, we're not as young
as we used to be,
I mean who is
a she or a he?
We're getting on in years,
like we're getting older
every minute, of every day
In every conceivable way
But we still have eyes
to realize, to glamorize
that there is so much
to be simply amorous
We're not dirty old men
or dirty old women
We simply do what we can
and if we can't
we'll not rant
So listen folks,
give me your ears,
your time will come
to be on in years
Massage my calves,
Massage my toes
Massage my ankles
Get rid of my woes
massage my toes
Massage my ankles
get rid of my woes
O'k, we're not as young
as we used to be,
I mean who is
a she or a he?
We're getting on in years,
like we're getting older
every minute, of every day
In every conceivable way
But we still have eyes
to realize, to glamorize
that there is so much
to be simply amorous
We're not dirty old men
or dirty old women
We simply do what we can
and if we can't
we'll not rant
So listen folks,
give me your ears,
your time will come
to be on in years
Massage my calves,
Massage my toes
Massage my ankles
Get rid of my woes
IN OUR EIGHTIES
Just because you’re eighty three
And I’m just eighty five
Does not mean, we can’t be
Like sexually alive
Move closer, move closer
I need to have you near
One part of me, touching one part of you
Leads us closer , ever closer
To an all night screw
An all night screw?
Like me and you?
What are we thinking
We must be drinking
Just give me your lips
Give me your smile
Give me your touches
I’ll put it on file
Don’t need your saliva
Don’t need your spit
Our mouths just meeting
Like a lover’s greeting
That’s a much better fit
A little touching here
A little touching there
Till maybe we could be
Like absolutely bare
Is there something growing?
Is it coming or going?
There’s always another day
To do it another way
Like way back when
In our good old heyday
And I’m just eighty five
Does not mean, we can’t be
Like sexually alive
Move closer, move closer
I need to have you near
One part of me, touching one part of you
Leads us closer , ever closer
To an all night screw
An all night screw?
Like me and you?
What are we thinking
We must be drinking
Just give me your lips
Give me your smile
Give me your touches
I’ll put it on file
Don’t need your saliva
Don’t need your spit
Our mouths just meeting
Like a lover’s greeting
That’s a much better fit
A little touching here
A little touching there
Till maybe we could be
Like absolutely bare
Is there something growing?
Is it coming or going?
There’s always another day
To do it another way
Like way back when
In our good old heyday
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
JUST WORDS OLD BOY
GO --- I grit my teeth and shut my ears when I hear that word used to start a sentence that has nothing to do with the
word GO. Example: I GO...., HE GOES ....., THEY GO. They are not GOING anywhere, accept in the bad language bin.
LIKE --- Now, I LIKE a lot of things but I don't LIKE a lot of LIKES. Like, LIKE appearing in conversation every three words.
I personally don't LIKE it.
YOU KNOW --- Some people, YOU KNOW, are addicted to, YOU KNOW, to those words appearing ad nauseum, DON'T YOU KNOW. Does anyone know why?
HUNK --- I may have been a HUNK ages ago. This word is attributed to males who are, well, Hunks, tall. handsome, well built and sexy. The word HUNK is bunk. The English language can be colorful inventive, Let's not chop it up, please.
On to the OSCARS and the winners. You will hear these words repeated again and again --- GREAT, AMAZING, AWESOME by the winners. Not class acts.
word GO. Example: I GO...., HE GOES ....., THEY GO. They are not GOING anywhere, accept in the bad language bin.
LIKE --- Now, I LIKE a lot of things but I don't LIKE a lot of LIKES. Like, LIKE appearing in conversation every three words.
I personally don't LIKE it.
YOU KNOW --- Some people, YOU KNOW, are addicted to, YOU KNOW, to those words appearing ad nauseum, DON'T YOU KNOW. Does anyone know why?
HUNK --- I may have been a HUNK ages ago. This word is attributed to males who are, well, Hunks, tall. handsome, well built and sexy. The word HUNK is bunk. The English language can be colorful inventive, Let's not chop it up, please.
On to the OSCARS and the winners. You will hear these words repeated again and again --- GREAT, AMAZING, AWESOME by the winners. Not class acts.
Friday, January 2, 2009
THE TREES HAVE IT
I DIVORCED MY WIFE AND RAN AWAY WITH A TREE. I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I did get your attention though.
I love trees and they love me. I want to think that they return my love. Do I hear them talking with each other as their boughs sway in the wind? Listen closely and you might hear them too.
I am far removed from being an arborist. I know next to nothing about trees but I do know the kind of trees I favor, those that surround my modest home. Trees that are straight and tall and true searching for the clouds, aged with expansive girths, their sturdy boughs reaching out to me, inviting me into their leafy embrace.
I don't really know their names. It's not important to me. My guess is that some of them might be oaks, redwoods, cedars, and maybe an eucalyptus or two thrown in for their distinctive scent. But each and every tree is a true friend. We're going steady. To those giant trees firmly embedded, I am truly wedded.
Now listen in to Joyce Kilmore.1886-1918, who wrote an exceptional poem about trees, one known throughout the world,
TREES
I THINK THAT I SHALL NEVER SEE
A POEM LOVELY AS A TREE.
A TREE WHOSE HUNGRY MOUTH IS PRESSED
AGAINST THE SWEET EARTH'S BREAST;
A TREE THAT LOOKS AT GOD ALL DAY,
AND LIFTS HER LEAFY ARMS TO PRAY;
A TREE THAT MAY IN SUMMER WEAR
A BEST OF ROBINS IN HER HAIR;
UPON WHOSE BOSOM SNOW HAS LAIN;
WHO INTIMATELY LIVES WITH RAIN.
POEMS ARE MADE BY FOOLS LIKE ME,
BUT ONLY GOD CAN MAKE A TREE.
A note of contention dear Joyce.
Only nature makes a tree.
Harry Behn is the author of another
TREE poem I rather enjoyed reading.
A simple poem, a poetic dimple.
Also entitled TREES
Trees are the kindest things I know
They do no harm, they simply grow
and spread a shade for sleepy cows
and gather birds among their bows
They give us fruit in leaves above,
and wood to make our houses of,
and leaves to burn on Halloween
and in the spring new buds of green.
They are first when day's begun
to touch the beams of morning sun.
They are the last to hold the light
When evening changes into night.
And when a moon floats on the sky
they hum a drowsy lullaby
of sleepy children long ago ..
Trees are the kindest things I know.
Harry Behn I salute you.
Now for an uninspiring definition of a tree.
A tree can be defined as a large, perennial,
woody plant with secondary branches
supported by a primary stem (compare with a shrub).
There is no set definition regarding minimum size,
though most authors cite a tree species as being one
which regularly reaches 6M (20 ft) tall.
Now for some big words to help us understand
the practical benefits of trees.
Plants (trees) absorb carbon dioxide and release
oxygen as part of the photosynthetic process helping
us to breathe cleaner air. Researchers have found
that many common houseplants also absorb benzene,
formaldehyde and (hold on) trichloroethylene, as well.
Google your way into finding which houseplants and
blooming potted plants perform best in fighting pollution
indoors as well.
Symptoms of indoor air pollution. They may include
headache; dizziness, cough, irritation of the eyes, nose,
and/or throat, runny nose,difficulty in breathing, chest
and/or abdominal pain, nausea, difficulty sleeping,
diarrhia, and rashes. Since most of us come down with
one or more of these symptoms, it's best to consult a
physician before running out to the plant store.
If you are interested in some trees that are distinctly
different in various ways, I give you three that will
intrigue you. Let Google introduce you to:
the BAOBAB tree, and .the WELWITSCHIA tree.
One more? The world's tallest tree,
is the MENDOCIA tree, a coast Redwood
growing in Montgomery Woods State Resort near
Ukiah. This tree will strain your neck as you
continue to look up, and up and up to reach the
end of this giant standing some 367'6"tall.
Are you still with me? Excellent -- you are
true tree lovers and I thank you for listening.
Now go find a tree to hug.
I love trees and they love me. I want to think that they return my love. Do I hear them talking with each other as their boughs sway in the wind? Listen closely and you might hear them too.
I am far removed from being an arborist. I know next to nothing about trees but I do know the kind of trees I favor, those that surround my modest home. Trees that are straight and tall and true searching for the clouds, aged with expansive girths, their sturdy boughs reaching out to me, inviting me into their leafy embrace.
I don't really know their names. It's not important to me. My guess is that some of them might be oaks, redwoods, cedars, and maybe an eucalyptus or two thrown in for their distinctive scent. But each and every tree is a true friend. We're going steady. To those giant trees firmly embedded, I am truly wedded.
Now listen in to Joyce Kilmore.1886-1918, who wrote an exceptional poem about trees, one known throughout the world,
TREES
I THINK THAT I SHALL NEVER SEE
A POEM LOVELY AS A TREE.
A TREE WHOSE HUNGRY MOUTH IS PRESSED
AGAINST THE SWEET EARTH'S BREAST;
A TREE THAT LOOKS AT GOD ALL DAY,
AND LIFTS HER LEAFY ARMS TO PRAY;
A TREE THAT MAY IN SUMMER WEAR
A BEST OF ROBINS IN HER HAIR;
UPON WHOSE BOSOM SNOW HAS LAIN;
WHO INTIMATELY LIVES WITH RAIN.
POEMS ARE MADE BY FOOLS LIKE ME,
BUT ONLY GOD CAN MAKE A TREE.
A note of contention dear Joyce.
Only nature makes a tree.
Harry Behn is the author of another
TREE poem I rather enjoyed reading.
A simple poem, a poetic dimple.
Also entitled TREES
Trees are the kindest things I know
They do no harm, they simply grow
and spread a shade for sleepy cows
and gather birds among their bows
They give us fruit in leaves above,
and wood to make our houses of,
and leaves to burn on Halloween
and in the spring new buds of green.
They are first when day's begun
to touch the beams of morning sun.
They are the last to hold the light
When evening changes into night.
And when a moon floats on the sky
they hum a drowsy lullaby
of sleepy children long ago ..
Trees are the kindest things I know.
Harry Behn I salute you.
Now for an uninspiring definition of a tree.
A tree can be defined as a large, perennial,
woody plant with secondary branches
supported by a primary stem (compare with a shrub).
There is no set definition regarding minimum size,
though most authors cite a tree species as being one
which regularly reaches 6M (20 ft) tall.
Now for some big words to help us understand
the practical benefits of trees.
Plants (trees) absorb carbon dioxide and release
oxygen as part of the photosynthetic process helping
us to breathe cleaner air. Researchers have found
that many common houseplants also absorb benzene,
formaldehyde and (hold on) trichloroethylene, as well.
Google your way into finding which houseplants and
blooming potted plants perform best in fighting pollution
indoors as well.
Symptoms of indoor air pollution. They may include
headache; dizziness, cough, irritation of the eyes, nose,
and/or throat, runny nose,difficulty in breathing, chest
and/or abdominal pain, nausea, difficulty sleeping,
diarrhia, and rashes. Since most of us come down with
one or more of these symptoms, it's best to consult a
physician before running out to the plant store.
If you are interested in some trees that are distinctly
different in various ways, I give you three that will
intrigue you. Let Google introduce you to:
the BAOBAB tree, and .the WELWITSCHIA tree.
One more? The world's tallest tree,
is the MENDOCIA tree, a coast Redwood
growing in Montgomery Woods State Resort near
Ukiah. This tree will strain your neck as you
continue to look up, and up and up to reach the
end of this giant standing some 367'6"tall.
Are you still with me? Excellent -- you are
true tree lovers and I thank you for listening.
Now go find a tree to hug.
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