“My Blueberry Bonanza”

(February 1, 2019)

cereal add-ins

my blueberry bonanza:

muffins, waffles too!

*(Though the label says some farms from Plant City, a closer reading says From Chile. Fine. And almost wide-berry Florida high-bush tasting! The ongoing project to genetically transfer high-bush wild blueberry taste to the fatter, commercial products I long have eschewed in favor of Dole’s expensive frozen wild berries, may find relief in this product. And, I saved a few – okay, a good half package – for a fancy salad addition. Great with a fresh-squoze navel orange juice based vinaigrette.)


Thouart for- (no, five-) given, Juice. As one deserving a grand-parental scolding often then and still, I have vested authority to tell you “why” matters not nor will it recall the times you were deservedly (or not) so chastized. But a hug cures both kid and kid. What a terrific poem, pal!

Cat Nap Revue

scolding the grandkid
all of four years old
can’t remember why

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“Conditioned To Ride”

(February 1, 2019)

the young: conditioned

to ride back of mommascar

and wear backpacks low*

*(I always wanted to ride up front with the window rolled down and let my hands trace the winds as dad drove. But with two brothers: such as a rare-ish treat. But I recall only a very few – fewer than a half-hand of times I got “took” to school by car and only once returned home the same way…and that was a con-job expertly played by one fourth-grader I still can find in a mirror. But I must go on record. Never have I ever worn a backpack – bookbag some call ’em – riding that low, just above my ass and guaranteed to cause backstrain. And never have I – or would I! – wear a backpack still high up on my shoulders (even before learning that way at Parris Island Marine Corps boot camp – into the back seat of any car!. We are raising – or in my case I am watching the raising – of a generation of doomed-to-remain infants. And they almost all will have accumulated lowerback strain from wearing their bags-fulla-books too damn low to let their shoulders share the load. Watching a pair of young boys – middleschoolers – swing their arms and flap their hands like girls running to the next clique to share a horrid little tale at the playground during recess – carrying low above their butts big bulging bookbags as they “ran” down my side of the street and crossed – without looking in ANY direction – to get to mommascar almost made me violate the two-beer rule.)

Concerning the Delay of My Self-Immolation

A Stephanie L. Harper amazing’s – to quote another amazing writer – tale of feathers and fire and filial love with a sassy rejoinder as lagniappe. Other – and I am sure more famous poets – gnash their pens ‘twixt sorry teeth they did not write this. And would;st mount an expedition to that peak with pick and prybar. Go. Read. This is delicious! I blame Robert Okaji – O at the Edges – for the intruduction. He is marked up for one free felonious activity in but partial repayment thereof. J Richards


Concerning the Delay of My Self-Immolation

“Ich kenne nichts Ärmeres
Unter der Sonn’, als euch Götter!
_______________~ J. W. von Goethe’s “Prometheus”

when i sacrifice myself
as a gift to my fellow humans
i promise it will be for nothing
so hackneyed as to protest
some hypoxic septuagenarian
hunched on a mountaintop
mistaking every garish tendril
to wisp from his head
for a well-honed lightning bolt

not that i imagine
there’s any portion of my no-longer-
combustible flesh i might set
upon the balance    that could be
tendered for passage to Elysium

but you can believe i’d pluck my own eyes
from their conceding sockets    send
the fabrics from my padded scaffold back
to China    & traipse forever    a blind
naked-as-a-mole-rat gnome in the garden of
unscented flowers    if the stygian prophecies
were to divine any semblance of purpose
in chaining my corpse to the cliff face

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