“DadHour*” Tanka 675

Kept The Couch attached

and Five O’ Clock just happened!

Laughs…and tears: Marty!


He wove a powerful tale

and – for a time – this son heard!


  • (Marty Breamer, Pastor Marty, Marty B., all personas coming through the air from WPGS AM 840 in Mims/Titusville, Florida.  Though he now lives and preaches in Ohio, he still sends his radio rock-n-roll and his special “Though (Not Talk!) Radio through the airwaves and on the internet, I try to catch his patter whenever possible.  Head his first new-church sermon and that was just fine and the later mini-talk sermonette last week too was a keeper, but this special one-hour Father’s Day blast was special.  I had just hosed off just beside the garden, swigged my last unsweet suntea and said ‘PGS time and about 3:30 told The Couch I was taking it for some dreamship time so stay put:  somehow I awoke to hear Pastor Marty intone “Adorable Deplorable…” and knew I had not missed Drive At Five – or whatever he calls it – and settled back for a fine full listen.  I sure hope he puts out a CD of his tales he polishes into sermons.  He could quit messin’ about the airwaves and get a real sidejob just sellin’ that hash he slings for His Lord.  ‘Scuse: got a few more haiku and tanka to transcribe and hope I have time to fetch up Marty Breamer’s Facebook Page and go see what’s up.)



Kept The Couch attached

and Five O’Clock just happened!

Laughs…and Tears: Marty!


  • (Pastor Marty, Marty B. Marty Breamer though now in Ohio, still sends air through WPGS in Mims/Titusville on AM 840 on air and Local 840 on Net, and this time a Father’s Day sermon filled that Drive At Five hour which found me sharing laughter with the congregation and in the last five minutes, glad for each wet eye watering my happy cheeks.  Thanks Marty!  I Needed That!)

“My Future Past” Tanka 767

Without NoGod’s Eye

staromg bacl at ,e. read=write

and have ‘time to see’.


my-age music sports, some say,

but it does help turn the pages!*


  • (Which reminds: must go gather up the scattered notebooks, go – maybe you’ll find that lost flickblade knife: you know, the big’un’s a twin to that tinkertoy one you keep in the left-front pocket to slitting envelopes.  The notebooks of essays, stunted short story starts – some middles and ends – poetry of maniforms, some variegated by now with erasures, waterspots and suchlike and random musings, web addresses, people patch-points in ones and sixes or sevens in various outposts where last I read.  Go. Gather. Stack.  Wait for rain and read and catalog. Yeah. Right.)

“I Smell Me*”

I smell me…and more,

Shower now, or wait for night?

¡Such a Perezoso!


  • (After a mid-day walk back to the garden from the downtown library, harvesting the inevitable cherry, pear and grape tomatoes, eggplant, and cucumbers – plus what tonight’s salad’s required herbs-n-such, I dig up the okra patch (finally!) and spread compost to await tomorrow’s digging.  A sip of hot sun tea, sans sweetner causes me to whack off a stalk of steevia for a swizzlestick, and wonder if ever gumption will lead indoors for ice cubes and to put the third half-gallon of tea into the fridge.  Today?  Oh, wow! What’s that waft?  It’s coming from you, fool!  Lift and arm and see.  Nevermind the mixed metathree or -five: you stink!  Go! Shower.  Can’t we just sit here and marinade a bit more until sunset.  The mosquitoes are yet no bother and it’s just us one here hassling me about honest odor. You’re hopeless.  No.  Not Really: I have hopes you will get tired of this and leave the rest of me alone for a bit. Stinker!)