"applesauce" poems
Jackal in his church pants,
Bad kid with punk jams,
Cramming nonsense in his conscience,
Skateboarding prophets,
Dividing light into chambers,
Bag of **** for his neighbors,
Turned into a living demon bleeding thru the paper,
Applesauce in the inside,
A coconut shell for the front,
Pineapple knives for the slaughtering,
Right into a strawberry's gut,
He was not a normal scorned, occulting youth,
But the lore of a regretful teen plaguing the afternoons,
Till that strawberry gut cracked his coconut noggin,
And shall he rest in bygones and Hanna-Babara monsters,
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC
Once upon a time, Oh but that’s such a boring way to start-
Once upon a time.
I was little red riding hood that knowingly stepped
onto the wrong side of the path,
Hoping that a monster in the woods
would come and get me, but you-
A hurricane,
car crashes in slow motion,
personified heartbreak-
Too much.
Too much applesauce madam? The waiter asked, clean-shaven face bathed
In the New York skyline, ignorant to the gunfire explosions
inside me as I waited for you.
No thank you, sir.
“Meet me at the station”,
scrawled in messy, love- stained letters
In between the railway roars and the clatters of foreign accent, you've flaked again, like the struck chord of a bass
Signifying disappointment like a punch line
Reverberating through my skull.
Okay, repeat the mantra, one-two-steady-
Okay. It's Okay.
Four weeks later
I had your body pushed up flush against bricks and-
No shut up you don’t get to say anything after you go and shatter me like that
You’re sick do you know that? Lips snarling, heart breaking.
You’re sick.
So maybe I was the big bad wolf after all.
Stairwell bricks glinted off iridescence and
your mouth in that sad, sad laugh
Studying me like a dream brought
to the ground,
Puffy lipped and eyes blown wide like I was on some psychedelic high-
And you said
*“You’re still a child with fanciful ideas of love, and the way you cling onto them-
Quite frankly, it’s terrifying.”*
Please darling, let me redefine myself
Skip the pleasantries and small talk,
scrap the story of little red riding hood-
Once upon a time, I was apology and you were forgiveness
I can imagine inside you, of alarm bells and sunken souls
as you listen to the static white noise of
A dying heart
Hello darling, are you there? Can you hear me? Is this mic working?
I hate to sound like those magazine cut outs-
I hate to sound like,
Just another lover, just another cliché-
But you were the matchstick to my dynamite
and nothing feels better
Than my own self- destruction, so won’t you please
Another chance? No?
Even Lucifer sometimes longs to be let
Into the gates of heaven again
I’ve cooked some apology,
I saved a plate for you
So for the love of god come inside and have some before it goes cold.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 5:04 AM UTC
People don't understand the creativity that flows through me
If only you were this good, you could see what I can see
All they can say is Im the best
Yeezus
Kanye West
A-K-A
G-O-D
L-M-N
And-O-and-P
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
I
Fall has started.
Students pile into their desks
as teacher begins the lesson,
with 32 apple gifts in her bottom drawer.
II
Wake up in the morning.
Walk down the stairs.
Grab an apple
among the bananas and
pears.
III
Sitting under a tree, dreaming,
disturbed by a falling fruit.
The apple that knocked your head.
The apple that discovered gravity.
IV
Lovers entwined in each others’ arms.
“I love you,” says one.
“I love you more,” says the other.
“You are the apple of my eye,” says the first.
The second smiles.
V
Kids running rampant,
touch football and tag.
Trading card games while eating lunch.
Lunch? PB&J;, a banana,
and Mott’s Apple Juice.
VI
One of the largest computer companies: Apple.
The Beatles music company: Apple.
Apples are the foundation of everything.
Makes sense,
right?
VII
The Disney hotel room was tan all over.
Even my 6-year-old brain remembers that.
The green sheen of the apple skin was
more appealing than the tan, for sure.
VIII
Apples, apple juice, applesauce, apple pie,
apple cider, candied apples, Redd’s apple ale.
So many choices.
So many variations.
None quite as good as the first one listed.
IX
The red on her lips matched the fruit’s skin
as she bit down into the juicy apple.
Within minutes she was down to its core
and mine.
X
Apply applesauce to the aforementioned area.
This isn’t a game, HeadOn.
It is just alliteration.
XI
The stanzas in this poem
couldn’t be more different
than apples and oranges.
Gotcha.
XII
Mi corazón se dispara a mi garganta
cuando yo te veo. Siento mi nuez de Adán se endurece.
Tus labios, rojos como manzanas,
se ven tan dulces.
Te extraño, Red. Y, finalmente,
te amo.
XIII
This poem brought to you by:
Mott’s Apple Juice, Redd’s Apple Ale,
The Beatles’ Apple, Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak’s Apple
Sir Isaac Newton’s Apple, Adam’s Apple,
God’s apple, my apple, your apple, he/she/it apple,
It apple bit the apple.
The core of this poem, much like the core of an apple.
Seeds throughout.
This poem brought to you by:
My 15” Macbook Pro Apple laptop.
And the author, moi. From my heart. From my brain.
This poem brought to you by apples.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
For any time the urge to wring
an autumn gourd, this one's the thing
Smashing pumpkins, not so nice
but Butternut Squash, an honest vice
Long and beige, hard and smooth
you'd never guess it's power to sooth
that underneath the toughest skin
is meat like pumpkin, seeds within
A steamy bisque for autumn's chill,
peel and chop them as you will
Dump them into four cups broth*
add apple, pear, or applesauce
a cup or two will do just fine
and while you stand there, have some wine!
sautee onions, a cup and a half
dump them in and cry or laugh
and now to add your seasoning stuff
cumin, curry, nutmeg, Fluff
hold the Fluff, that ain't the truth
best to pull that old sweet tooth
Bisque is savory, better than sweet
warms the cockles, heart to feet
save your sweets for pumpkin pie
the after-apple of your eye
Back to seasonings, see above
a quarter teaspoon, more with love
I add pepper and take a gander
some folks call for coriander
heat the whole thing to a boil
for me, my crock pot's always loyal
crock at high, about four hours
or low for six, and bring some flowers!
And now I'll play a little game
change my words to mean the same
if cook is butter and ****** is squash
then butter dat ****** and ****** dat gnosh
when you're hungry, under the wudder
ain't nuttin' better 'en butternut chudder
add some cream and squash your mash
mash your squash and whip your pash
I used a blender to make it creamy
cooked it down, so thick and steamy
add some butter, parsley's fine
butternut bisque with bread and wine!
Ahhhh!!!!!
*chicken broth
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC
On the hook on the back of a door
A pair of faded jeans hang motionless
Soon they will move again
But for now
We are left to wonder
Are they to cover the legs of a farmer
soon to be covered in the dust of the barn?
Are they to protect the legs of a construction worker
destined to wear the scent of concrete and wood?
Will they dance and stand on stage with the musician
drenched in sweat and smelling of cigarettes and stale beer?
Will they go to sea with the lobsterman
and be wet with the sea and smell of the algae that covers the lobster trap?
No
They will soon be sitting in small chairs
and smell of crayon and pencil and several kinds of lined paper
and applesauce and desk cleaner
for I am an educator
and these pants are mine.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 6:44 AM UTC
at two years old,
your curious hands
happened upon a bottle of
flea medicine
that lay waiting on the counter.
your mother was absent as usual,
off on an errand,
or walking the dog.
unwatched,
your enterprising fingers
eased the lid from the container,
and you poured the sweet-smelling
liquid down your throat.
the world was still so new to you,
and it seemed to be made for tasting.
who could blame a child
with a thirst for more than
mushy peas and applesauce?
two days later
they released you from the hospital,
your stomach pumped dry.
when you were six,
idly exploring the woods of your mother’s
sprawling estate,
you paused a moment from imagining
faerie queens flitting about in the greenery
to take rest on a log,
your undiscerning eye not betraying
its secret: within it was a nest
of wasps,
and thinking they were faeries
you dared not move as they
rose in a cloud above your head
and overtook you,
leaving your body peppered with
painful angry sores.
you fell to the ground.
a hired man,
strong and tall as the oak trees,
saw your quick descent and
ventured after you,
made a hammock of his arms
to bear you like a fallen soldier
back to your mother’s house,
his tough sun-leathered skin
immune to the assaults of the
faerie battalion.
at eight,
playing in the small child-sized house
in your aunt’s garden,
you sought to make stained glass
from the broken shards of the playhouse window.
having no tool at hand,
what better way to
shatter the clear, flat plane
than with your fist?
before reason could take hold of you,
you drove your hand
through the glass,
and the raw edges cut deep into your veins.
blood flowed in rivers
from your wrist.
your aunt, ever watchful,
rushed from the house to
stop your body’s catharsis
with a dishcloth.
the jagged unpainted shards
lay forgotten on the ground.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 10:05 PM UTC
My Brothers and Sister and Me
We all share the same genes
Though some hide it better than others.
Similarities And Differences are pronounced.
The apples don’t fall far from the tree
Though a couple of them bounced.
Apples baked into pies or
Thrown to the horses
Rotten and brown and wormy and
Delicious apple cider in the Fall.
Applesauce and apple butter and Appleton, Wisconsin
Looking for a job? Applications for them all.
Mountains, and mountains of books
Rivers, and streams of numbers
Hiking and running through canyons
Flowers and gardens and mushrooms and parks.
Shooting pheasants in the fields
Shooting stars in the dark.
Time will tell. Time will tell
Mom’s in Heaven, Dad’s in his own Hell.
Whose footsteps will you follow?
What size boots do you own?
Who most will you resemble?
When your own kids are grown.
We are laughing. We are laughing.
We are librarians and teachers
And accountants and staff and lumbermen always.
And still we all laugh.
“Thought one of you’d be a preacher.”
“Good money in that.”
Each generation’s gaps grow wider
As the trees grow taller the apples fall farther
Similarities and Differences well-defined
Still laughing. Still laughing at things
New genes swimming in the family pool
Some of the cousins can sing!!
PwL March, 2015
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 2:49 AM UTC
crawlways aching for the idiot. that's me. that's a little harsh. we're only even with the world, then I wake up and ask for applesauce, or applause, because I'm a great tesseract under a strong thumb. so, are you snatching the smoke from my wildfire, the iron from my soil? I meant from my soul? no, sarcasm is ok. now how to be unmade into mulch and microchips! it's a wonder what they think of me, the foxglove in khaki pants, fire to herself, moody animal - too hispanic for their sun. resigned to being the mouth kissed for good luck, the cave-eyed ******* of a piece of gold and a cup of mud. now, to give up the secret password -
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
Here
Is a timely
Noun to consider
From the Merriam-Webster page.
"Trumpery."
Note (at bottom) the list of near-antonyms;
what is the opposite of trumpery?
[Popularity: Bottom 40% of words]
trumpery
noun trum·pery \ˈtrəm-p(ə-)rē\
Definition of trumpery
1
a : worthless nonsense b : trivial or useless articles : junk <a wagon loaded with household trumpery — Washington Irving>
2
archaic : ****** finery
Origin of trumpery
Middle English (Scots) trompery deceit, from Middle French, from tromper to deceive
First Known Use: 15th century
Examples of trumpery
<claims for weight-loss products that are based much more on Madison-Avenue trumpery than on bariatric science>
Related to trumpery
Synonyms
applesauce [slang], balderdash, baloney (also boloney), beans, bilge, blah (also blah-blah), blarney, blather, blatherskite, blither, bosh, bull [slang], bunk, bunkum (or ******** claptrap, codswallop [British], crapola [slang], crock, drivel, drool, fiddle, fiddle-faddle, fiddlesticks, flannel [British], flapdoodle, folderol (also falderal), folly, foolishness, fudge, garbage, guff, hogwash, hokeypokey, hokum, hoodoo, hooey, horsefeathers [slang], humbug, humbuggery, jazz, malarkey (also malarky), moonshine, muck, nerts [slang], nuts, piffle, poppycock, punk, rot, ******* senselessness, silliness, slush, stupidity, taradiddle (or tarradiddle), tommyrot, tosh, trash, nonsense, twaddle
Related Words
absurdity, asininity, fatuity, foolery, idiocy, imbecility, inaneness, inanity, insanity, kookiness, lunacy; absurdness, craziness, madness, senselessness, witlessness; hoity-toity, monkey business, monkeyshine(s), shenanigan(s), tomfoolery; gas, hot air, rigmarole (also rigamarole); double-talk, greek, hocus-pocus
Near Antonyms
levelheadedness, rationality, reasonability, reasonableness, sensibleness; common sense, horse sense, sense; discernment, judgment (or judgement), wisdom
By: Robinson Bolkum
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
I've always been wary--
and celebrated my potential
Betrayal
and
Certain
death(.) (oh)
At The Juice Joint.
All wet. (incorrrr
--ect.)
Applesauce. (non
sense.)
All dolled up. Showed off my
Gams
And Big Jazz
(eyes).
Wanted to get spifflicated with some
Dolls
and
Jellybeans.
...my fella.
?
Didn't have enough clams.
Any of us.
We
're the new
Lost
...generation.
I thought I'd keep the bank open,
but
interest wasn't given
Cash or Check:
didn't really matter.
Might've been
the
cat
's
meeeeeow.
And
how.
Ahhhhh...
we all had our glad rags on.
the Daddies hit on all sixes.
Let's get ZOZZLED on some
jag juice,
dewdropper.
Deeeeeewdropper. ~errrrrrrrr.....
Though giggle juice is more apt
...for me.
Leave the Mrs. Grundys at home...no fire extinguishers allowed.
How ironic.
You were the extinguisher.
Bring Your Own Knife
, we said.
It's a Stabbing Party
, we said.
I didn't want to handcuff you. Didn't want to exchange manacles.
("No, I'm no one's Wife, but OHHHHH, I love my Life.")
I percolate.
I percolate.
I percolate.
I'm not your quiff.
...not your sheba...or a vamp.
Just admire my
chassis
if you will.
they
all
do
The engine'll purr
for you,
~~if you turn the keys just so
Everything was
Copacetic.
Copacetic...
For a time.
(get'hotget'hot!)
Caesar's here.
Hussssshhhhhhhh...
...speak
~~eeeeeaaaaassssyyyyy.
And then I realized.
I'm tired of being Caesar
( . )
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 7:32 PM UTC
Here.
Here is where the mumblings stop and the singing begins, even if its off-pitch and bad toned, its beautiful and real and home. I can feel it in my bones, the resounding yes that this is where I belong. These people may not hold my soul, they may not be the closest to me, and I may not fall in love with them. But I love them still, and they are my family without blood, they are my green family, smiling beside me, trying to make a difference.
We all believe that the world could be a better place, and we all dare to dream that maybe, just maybe, we could make that difference. Its a magic I've never felt before, being silent in a room and just feeling intoxicated with comfort, like no eyes are watching and no words must fill the silence and no monsters are peeking over my shoulders.
The weight of the world is gone and I feel at peace, dipping my fingers in applesauce, being as me as humanly possible and for once not being judged and not having to explain and simply living.
Belonging in a silent room. I never knew it would come to this day, but it has. Its a day I've dreamed of, a day that has always touched the tip of my tongue but never quite been tasted, at least until now. And now it is here, bare before me, and I am reveling in its beauty. If I could draw, I would paint you a picture, if I could compose, I would write an Aria, but alas all I have is these silly little words to caress the eyes and sooth the soul and hopefully make a little difference someday.
Because that's all anyone really wants, right? To matter. To have it all matter, life, happiness, career, future, past, present, death. No one wants to go out like a light and have no one miss their warmth, everyone wants at least a shiver of something once they are gone, and to have everyone know they made something or someone better.
We're dreamers, my people and I, and I think that's what binds us; our endless capacity for hopes and dreams and combining the two to pray for a place better than the one we have today, not one worse tomorrow.
Tomorrow things may change, tomorrow I may not feel the same way as I do today, but today?
I belong is a silent room, and it is glorious.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
1969 Cult Mentality: Charles Manson
is asking you to “leave a sign… something witchy” at the scene of the
crime. You listen because you believe he is Jesus. You smear the word
“Pig” across the door.
1978 Cult Mentality: Jim Jones
is asking you to drink grape Kool-Aid infused with cyanide. You do this
because you have been convinced that he is “Christ the Revolution.” You
inject your child with the toxin before gulping it down.
1997 Cult Mentality: Marshall Applewhite
is asking you to tie a plastic bag around your head after you consume a mixture of phenobarbital, applesauce, and ***** You do this because you believe dying will take you to the spacecraft flying behind
Comet Hale-Bopp. You make sure you have a
five dollar bill and three quarters
in your pocket for the interplanetary toll.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:38 AM UTC
Everyone sat
criss-cross-applesauce
in our hearts.
Perfume is made
with dead things, right?
I try hard to sound
important,
when I write ********
because
there are bodies
reading this ********
And bodies grow and wither.
They thrive and survive.
They get married
and die alone.
They die.
To become dead.
Perfume is made
with dead things, right?
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
Dear Shyla
I keep the suicide note that you've forgotten you wrote our mother folded up in a small wooden box in the corner of my bedroom
It's there so that on my worst days
When I've run out of friends who will listen
I can remind myself that other people feel this too
And after all we've been through apart sometimes our depressions and our mistakes are the only way I can remember we're related
Dear mom
I've hidden a diary you kept while struggling through your ill-fated relationship with my father
In it there are weight loss goals
Vows of marital celibacy
Existential questions
But mostly just a whole lot of why's leading you to answers you wanted to hear
While all of the things you needed to say you left in the blank spaces between the lines on the pages you never made it to
Your favorite thing to say after the divorce was that you were grateful to no longer have to walk on eggshells to protect his feelings
It has been twelve years and you still can't admit the feelings you were trying to protect were your own
And your feet still hurt
Dad
I have an envelope of pictures of you and I
From when both of us were oh so much younger
In each of them you are smiling at me
And in every one of them I am smiling back at you
I don't remember most of them I was quite very young
And for quite very different reasons I can imagine you would have a hard time remembering them as well
When I flip through the envelope I'm left sitting criss cross applesauce on a tore up linoleum floor
Staring at the scales of justice
Weighing the honest love of a drunk
Against the stoic rejection of the sober man you've become
And I am ashamed with how often I choose love
I am the keeper of this family's pain
Somebody has to
Someone has to admit it's real
One of us has to stare at the elephants in the room and see them
To know how each of us actually feels
Dear family
We are nothing more than four misfitted human beings
Tied together with tin can and twine telephones
By an astronomer, who in an effort to console himself,
Confused a congregation of lonely stars for a constellation
And eventually that is going to have to be enough
For each of us to love ourselves
To carry our own pain
I can not keep carrying all of this for each of you
I have my own pain
Which on most days is more than enough
I assure you
On most days
It is more than one man should
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 1:25 PM UTC
When my daughter asks me to French braid her hair
I will smile with my eyes and tell her
to sit criss-cross applesauce on her bedroom carpet,
letting silk tresses flow down her back,
beckoning to be weaved into everything
I still do not know
how to tell her
I will paint her the colors of the past
upon the beaming canvases of her eyes,
the colors of Matisse, and Monet,
Rembrandt’s best,
I will teach her to find devotion
in the security of her own skin,
music in the way she weeps quietly to herself
when she gives away all her love
to a world who cannot accept it
And one day,
long after the braids have been released,
I will wipe away her tears and tell her
that the masquerade is over,
that sometimes, baby girl,
the festivities will hush
but the carnival always comes
around again in the summer
She nods
with inherited apprehension,
she does not believe me
Darling, my darling,
you do take after your mother
after all
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
Criss, cross,
Applesauce
The class sat
Watching me run
Watching me play
Not advising me to sit down
Just waiting for the teacher
Because they aren't worried
about my hide
They want a free show
As the teachers hands let go
For they were more worried
About being entertained
Than my now tanned hide
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
A booth Made out of Fed-Ex blocks
Tongue depressors Still lingering with the taste of fudgesicle
Diagnoses Of cat-scratch fever
Of applesauce flu
Of –itises and –idias
One end of a jumprope
Held to one ear
And the other
Tracking the thump of a human heart
When the only illnesses
Were those of a sun-spent day
And playdate fatigue
We were all doctors
We could all
Save
Lives…
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 5:44 PM UTC
Criss cross applesauce
we sit without a care
your fingers smell of cookies
though your hands have played in dirt
i think of you this day
as it pours His chilling rain
and wonder when the sun will show
so we can meet again
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 12:22 PM UTC
For any time the urge to wring
an autumn gourd, this one's the thing
Smashing pumpkins, not so nice
but Butternut Squash, an honest vice
Long and beige, hard and smooth
you'd never guess it's power to sooth
that underneath the toughest skin
is meat like pumpkin, seeds within
A steamy bisque for autumn's chill,
peel and chop them as you will
Dump them into four cups broth*
add apple, pear, or applesauce
a cup or two will do just fine
and while you stand there, have some wine!
sautee onions, a cup and a half
dump them in and cry or laugh
and now to add your seasoning stuff
cumin, curry, nutmeg, Fluff
hold the Fluff, that ain't the truth
best to pull that old sweet tooth
Bisque is savory, better than sweet
warms the cockles, heart to feet
save your sweets for pumpkin pie
the after-apple of your eye
Back to seasonings, see above
a quarter teaspoon, more with love
I add pepper and take a gander
some folks call for coriander
heat the whole thing to a boil
for me, my crock pot's always loyal
crock at high, about four hours
or low for six, and bring some flowers!
And now I'll play a little game
change my words to mean the same
if cook is butter and ****** is squash
then butter dat ****** and ****** dat gnosh
when you're hungry, under the wudder
ain't nuttin' better 'en butternut chudder
add some cream and squash your mash
mash your squash and whip your pash
I used a blender to make it creamy
cooked it down, so thick and steamy
add some butter, parsley's fine
butternut bisque with bread and wine!
Ahhhh!!!!!
*chicken broth
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 10:12 AM UTC
A man and a woman stand in a yard
their fingertips touching slightly.
She sits between them
criss-cross-applesauce
hands in her lap
voice off
like she was taught in school.
Mom and dad have a secret.
She thinks there is a surprise waiting for her in the house.
Katherine
Katherine Anne
Katherine Anne Seymour
Katie
There is something abnormal about you
cell deep
malignant and capable of killing.
If we could take it out of you
and put it somewhere else
like a star or the highest branch
of the tallest tree
somewhere so
unreachable that we could ignore its pain
we would.
But Katie
Katherine Anne
Kitty Cat
we can't.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC
Stop the shaking
You have to stop the shaking
The pills, even though they’re right next to you, they seem unreachable
You reach, struggling to grasp the orange and white bottle with a quaking hand
Your hands, they tremble, as you struggle to open a lid
While your mind screams at you “Make it stop”
Stop the pain
Stop the pain
Stop the pain
You’re not sure which bottle you grabbed
you don’t care
Hydrocodon-Acetaminoph
Naproxen Sodium
They both work
They’ll both help, numb
After several attempts to remove the lid, you succeed
Drag yourself out of bed with a pill or two in your sweating palms
Through the hall and dining room
into the kitchen
Grabbing a bowl
dropping said bowl, your shaking is worse
The pain always makes you shake
Don’t bend down
You won’t be able to get back up
Grab another bowl
Place it on the granite counter
Grind the pill into dust
Add yogurt or applesauce
whatever’s accessible
Force your weakened body to open its mouth
swallow
Don’t throw up
Swallow
Don’t throw up
Breathe
Stumble back to your bedroom
Fall into bed
Fall
Fall into the drugs
Fall into the numbness
Sleep
You stopped the pain
For now.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
To be in the top of that familiar old tree , throwing apples down for my friends to eat ! Gathering her yield for Dad's fried pies , ammo of choice for crabapple fights ! Lip smacking best jelly you've ever eaten , warm milk with applesauce when we couldn't get to sleep ...A quick snack while mowing the yard , cornbread , sweet tea and apple butter !
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC
Black coffee
2 eggs looking at you
buttered Wonder bread
morning paper
horn rimmed glasses.
neatly pressed short sleeve summer shirt, with a Fruit of the Loom tank.
work trousers and oil resistant black shoes
Old Spice, and Brylcream
Howdy Doody in the background
the screen door slams
a white Ford Farlane 500 starts up and pulls away
awaiting the sound of the Ford
wash up for dinner
pork chops, sauerkraut
applesauce
green beans
evening paper
maybe the Flintstones or Dragnet, but always the Friday Night Fights
late night visits to the fridge for a sip of Malox.
My Father does not believe there is a heaven, or hell
he says when you die, you just die.
But I don't believe he ever knowingly lied to me.
He voted for George Wallace, but he also Voted for Barack Obama, twice.
He served in the Army during World War II, and still cooks hash brown potatoes every Tuesday night for his local American Legion, where he also plays poker and most of the time wins. When I asked him how to win at poker, he'd smile and say... "Luck." When I asked him how do I get some Luck, he said "count your cards."
He doesn't want a funeral, no music, no wake, no one to say anything about him. He wants to donate his body to science. And cremate the rest.
He says, "shut up and let people tell you who they are."
"Everybody is OK son , most don't know it though."
"Never count your money in public."
He has a small tin on the kitchen counter full of twist ties, hundreds of them.
There are shelves in the basement full of canned food and paper goods.
Depressionites are always ready for the next one.
When my Father and Mother go to their class reunion, they are the only ones left in their class.
I asked him what was the hardest thing about being 95, and both of them said, "all of our friends are gone, all of them."
My Father is 95 this year.
Happy Father's Day Dad
Thank you for letting me ramble here, I feel so much better. I am ready to have my eggs and coffee now."
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC