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Showing posts from November, 2009

Pardon Me

Tom Turkey is slated
for execution at midnight.
They are heating up the oven as we speak.
His dream team was up all night.
They are trying to reach
the President, but so far
not a wishbone of luck.
The priest, Father Killjoy
was summoned
and
asked poor Tom if he
had any last words.
Apparently the people from Butterball
are evil vultures.
He is so stressed out, he couldn’t even muster a gobble.
Now his Hen is beside herself.
It seems that
his suit
is full of holes,
and she has no bread left
to stuff it with.
Trussed up like he is
I’m afraid he is
on his last leg.
At the eleventh hour
he is sweating pullets.

Thanksgiving Aphorisms

Thanksgiving roller coaster
sustains safe limits.

Tom turkey auditions
break a leg.

Holiday meals raise
cholesterol, expand waistlines.

Pumpkin pie spice
trafficking is legal.

Thankful for blessings
mindful of woe.

Pets receive calming
classical music medication.

Family happily reunites
sing karaoke songs.

Parents, children, grandparents
unite, feed village.

Holiday feast bonds
reflects tolerant trend.

Mashed potatoes ditch
surround turkey gravy.

Stuffing packed in
chubby bird satisfied.

Tom turkey debuts
on center stage.

Thanksgiving prayer,
oven hot, refrigerator cold.

A Special Ride

I was about 35 when I experienced my first Mule Ride.
Rather naive I thought that it would be uneventful,
but that is my nature.
The day began rather pleasantly
with a leisurely breakfast
of fresh island papaya,
macadamia nut pancakes
and piping hot Kona coffee at the Midnite Inn.
located in the sleepy one horse town of Kaunakakai.
Molokai, the Friendly Isle,
was a place we had reroofed a lot of the local Church’s.
We decided on this day to play tourist
along with my father in law and
mother in law; visiting from the mainland.
Today we would venture down
to Kalaupapa on a mule.
We were intent
on visiting the leper colony
on the isolated northern peninsula.
Riding down on a mule
appealed to us as an exciting way
to accomplish this goal,
spend a day learning more
about Father Damien,
now St. Damien
and all about his life
dedicated to helping the lepers.
Since I had limited experience on horses,
I informed our guide
that I was indeed a beginner.
They immediately led me
to what looked like
a docil…

Guarding the Perimeter

Another night of rockets’ red glare
and bombs exploding in the neighborhood.
Drug addicted welfare recipients live across the valley.
They are gearing up for New Year’s Eve in November.
Bruno and Zeus
need an appointment with a Psychiatrist.
They can’t understand
why they have to sit still
and have their ears be assaulted
by exploding aerials, bottle rockets
and high pitched screeching thunder.
Bruno stands up on the screen door
speaking in his
native tongue.
Bellowing
to let him in, the world has gone mad.
His sharp nails poke
into the screen mesh
inviting local insects
to buzz in and have a bite.
Broken shards of blue fish pottery
are scattered beneath a window.
Gone are the peaceful nights of yesterday,
our complacency lights up the blackest night
but the fight has reached home,
we are running out of caves.
Pretty soon we will have to stock up
on ammo and draw straws
for who gets night watch.

Give Thanks

for the lemony papaya
tangy and sweet,
fresh from the tree.
For the freshly squeezed
orange, frothy and tart.
For the Shama’s flutelike song,
rich and strong.
For the fountain pouring
into the spring fed pond,
cold and clear.
For the way that the Japanese Koi
leap out of the water,
glistening orange and white
dancing to a distant rhythm
in a foreign tongue.
For the way that the three large
South American Pacu
generate waves,
their fins
expertly carving the surface,
exposing tender chins
succulent and white.
For the rain that
cascades down
the mountain
forming streams and
quenching the thirst
of the stately palms,
satisfying their need,
and especially for the one
who cradles you
in this nest,
built with a tender love
warm and secure.

A Day to Reason

I
prepare
today to
go and sort through
shelves of poetry
and philosophy. To
find enlightenment in a
dusty tome. Within precious pages
rests the ancient sage ready to reason
engaging me with his lecture on
thinking. Enlightening me with
the motives behind the aim
and the logic that drives
civilization
today in a
race, against
dismal
times.

Coco Chanel

born 1883 in a brothel
in France
she was raised in an orphanage
from twelve years old,
where she was trained as a seamstress,
after the death of her mother.

Fiercely determined,
she overcame the stigma of poverty,
orphanhood and illegitimacy.
Gabrielle “Coco” Chanel
never married,
but had affairs
with influential men of the time.
While living with one of these men, Etienne Balsan
who lavished her with the rich life,
she began designing hats as a hobby
for celebrated French actresses.
This soon became a deeper interest.
Her style of
simple elegance
was associated with the 1920’s Flapper,
a new breed of self confident
young woman that
challenged
the accepted status quo.
She gave women back their bodies;
bodies drenched in sweat
and freed them from their corsets
and padding.
Simple, comfortable and revealing,
the trademark of an icon.

A Love Poem

You are the
Silversword
high
on the cliff
of my longing.
I suffer when we are apart.
Aloof in your lunar terrain
your maroon cluster fascinates me.
The biting winds
challenge my desire
shield you from my furry touch.
The Hawaiians call you ‘ahinahina. (very gray)
You are succulent with your silver hair.
I pollinate you and
dream of us
swimming with the tide
in a welcoming sea.
Our progeny,
a panoramic
plethora dotting
the landscape
of Haleakala.

Day Lily

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Hydrangea

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Ohia Lehua Blossom

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Cosmos

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Shama

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