5 thoughts on ““Greatest Poverty”

    • To me, one of the saddest rooms in Poverty House is the places self-made with padlocks on both sides of the portals therein self-inserted. I cannot claim originality here: but the me-seems of despair comes from the downcast countenance beaten in by others or a weird but understandable (since it sometimes in my memory shows itself as mine) willingness to refuse to stand up and say aloud “No!” Conformity is a crippling kind of poverty. Thanks, Yassy, for the comment that forced me to reassess this simple piece of 15-syllabic transmagorification of Basho’s bequeathment to us all. You, truly are among my favorite bequeathers of second-lookings. For you I will reserve a third and onward look and relook because I know thataway lies gold.

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  1. I tolerate your vast posers of overstatement with a growing understanding of kindness in accepting appreciation rather than my usual rants. You o’erpower my feeble ‘tempts at deflection, dissimulation and denial…which is, too, a river somewhere lost in time’s sands. Thanks, your Ladyship for the affirmation though I fail to find cause…or was it an acknowledgement I learned how to tie my shoes before kindergarten? I cheated: watched Dad with my two brothers: but I heard no chanted “rabbit hole” doggerel…though he did teach me the one (or two…but that one is pejorative of Scandahoovians so I shant repeat…this one goes: “Have you ever been in an irishman’s shanty, with a three-legged stool and a table to match and a hole in the floor for the chicken to scratch?” Never found out if there was more. Oh well: here goes the neighborhood: “A t’ousan’ Sweeds went through the weeds, chasing one Norwegian.” Never found out if they caught the guy or what then would happen in either event: Dad was like that…tease and test you to find out for yourself. I taunted back mostly, declining the honor of the man who’d gloat at Table when he asked: “Name the place in the Contiguous United States that is furthest North.” All three of his progeny would guess and he would snap: “Nope! Smarty Britches, all. It’s Lake of The Woods, Minnesota!” where he was a fire-tower watcher and parttime hunter, trapper and fishing guide, not that he was any great shakes at cartography unless sitting at his navagator/bombadier’s station abour a U.S. Navy warplane. Mom would just grin and shove yet another serving dish to my circling collection, knowing that I would finish what was presented in a galloping scarf and she could join three of her fur “boys” watching the nightly news and then Joepardy whilst I supplied the excuse not to wash the dishes immediately. I had taught my two siblings my trick of dropping the first wet, soapy plate and thus assigned a different after-eating chore: yes, I admit to that – and other – acts of parental manipulation. So, Lady Yassy, “You are the best,” must be ameliorated by further confessions of mere scallawaggery, no?

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