Uncle Bob's Words

Words, poetry, stuff like that

Archive for the month “January, 2017”

Sheet Music

Sheet music.  That’s what we called it.

The enthusiastic and athletic love we made

In those heady early days. Good days all,

Even with those satin sheets that kept

Sliding us off the bed.

Slide in

Slide out

Sheet music.

Incense

Incense gets me every time.  Not the crappy shit

From the craft stores.  Begone, cherry and vanilla!

Sandal, patchouli, Nag Champa scents.

They make me comfortable, at rest and

Call back memories of my so dazzled 70s.

The headshops and meditating and those

Small rooms with many rugs and pillows

To recline on high and in love, quietly.

UFOs and Aliens

Q: What attracts UFOs?

A: Strong body odor.

Q: Have aliens contacted us?

A: Yeah, and speaking of body odor…

Q: Did they give us any technology?

A: Krispy Kreme donuts.  You’ve heard of them?

Q: Why do UFOs have blinking lights?

A: Aliens enjoy variety.

Q: Have aliens abducted humans?

A: Yes, but they consider us boring.

Q: Have they done all those animal mutilations?

A: They say, “Yuk!”

Q: Did aliens build ancient sites?

A: No, they’re more, er, artistic.

Q: None at all?

A: Well, they love wine.  They were encouraging.

Q: Wine?

A: And grass.  Remember those flashing lights?

Q: Are they stil  around?

A: Yeah, they saw a movie…

Q: What movie?

A: “Close Encounters of the Third Kind”

Q: What’s up with that?

A: They thought it was a comedy.  They’re out in Hollywood now.

Q: How do you know all this?

A: I googled it.

The Fine Winter Coat

My mother was small, four feet eleven on a good day,

Made smaller by an aging spine.  When she was younger,

She made her own clothes, better to fit into, but shoes,

That was another matter and a good winter coat, forget it.

So, when my brother and his feckless wife breezed through;

He taking her to study for a new career in New York,

She told mom that she’d bring her a fine new coat

That would fit just right. Mom eagerly believed her.

Then, six months later, just before Christmas time,

They came sailing through going back to Nashville.

Mom was excited.  She eagerly awaited the gift

She knew was coming.  The new coat, the warm coat.

And they gave her a sweater.  A dumb damn sweater.

Mom was older then and the disappointment showed

So clearly that the heat drained away from me.

Betrayed.  Like a kid under the Christmas tree

Looking askance at, not a doll, but some socks.

My brother saw it, too, but his wife nattered on

About New York and so forth and so on.

My brother tried to jolly mom along, but, no.

It was done and they left and mom almost cried.

I hurt for her hurt.  But, I thought, that’s what

You get for believing and for being that trusting.

Years before, when mom asked two skeevy men

To rent a truck and take it and me to another town

To pick up all the family furniture we’d stored there

When we moved.  They brought me back but, then,

Left with the furniture.  All of it.  All of her life.

Later, the policeman, kindly, but truthfully, told her

“You were very gullible, ma’am.”

 

 

Untitled

So, you spend an hour or so wondering if a certain seme

With a hook for a hand was fascinated by a certain uke Peter.

Weird, no?  Well, Barrie’s marriage didn’t go very well, did it?

And you figure if something like that is a back story, then

Go a little deeper, so to speak, and discover a matrix

Lying on a substrate of, what?  What is a substrate

For a matrix?  Quanta with a plot?  Dark drama?

And just where does dear Wendolyn fit in?  As a beard?

There you go down another rabbit hole as a gravity well

Written by a man who liked to take pix of poppets.

What fun.  What fun that we can do this.  Wow.

Trouble is, change the characters, rename the names,

Make the sword that pierces Peter a metaphor meant

To show that Right can prevail and keep the world

From some young-appearing person who just would

Never grow old, not any more, not any more.

That’s something entirely different.

Art

I’m thinking about photography and about art.

A friend once told me that photography was art.

This was when film required a certain expertise.

Still, I quietly kept from laughing in his face.

The art of an artist is the result of work –

A lot of work for a really good artist. True.

Eye to brain and brain to fingers holding

A pencil or a brush with intent to create.

Intent to create, not content to fail, but often do.

There is no lipstick that can make a photograph

A work of art.  Like, dude, there’s no work there.

 

(this webpage gives lie to some of the things I wrote above, but it’s a good article.)

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