There once was a hair dresser in a hard hat
who heard cannon fire, loud bass, and rumblings that
made me ask, “Is the end near?”
She said, “Oh no, but I fear
your hairdo would scare all nine lives from a cat.”
Category Archives: Workshop weekend
Workshop weekend: limerick: “Hard hat hair dresser”
Filed under poetry by author, Workshop weekend
Workshop weekend: Haiku: “Figure of speech”
Cute as hell, she said.
Figure of speech, she said.
I figured as much.
Filed under poetry by author, Workshop weekend
Workshop Weekend: Story poem: “Signs”
Love on the rocks
Love lies on the rocks
White Orchids in the air
Angels flying high above
ministering without a care.
Ol’ Fred’s doing fine.
He’s feeling all aligned.
Club XYZ and Time Warped tea
are there for you and me.
Hang out at Time Warp Tea Room and Club XYZ on Central St.
Love lies on the rocks
White Orchids in the air
Letters flying high above
Tea cups and room to share.
Fred’s learning ol’ Tao Tai Chi
For all his friends to see,
Or maybe glowing body yoga
With those who already know ya.
Taoist Tai Chi Center. People from the street can see classes in session.
Love lies on the rocks
White Orchids in the air
Ol’ Fred’s lost his love.
Soon I’ll join him there.
Fred finds his Color-ama
It points the way to drama,
Poetry and Mystery,
Science and History.
Color-ama on side of building. Arrow points to back of Central Street Books. To the right of the Color-ama is the entrance to Glowing Body Yoga.
Love lies on the rocks
White Orchids in the air
Books glowing in the window
On Central Street, it’s there.
Side of Central Street Books. Glowing BOOKS sign in the window.
These birds up on the awning
End your endless longing
For cupcakes and tasty treats,
Oh crumbum you just can’t beat.
Love lies on the rocks
White Orchids in the air
Magpies flying high above
ministering without a care.
Look up and see the Magpies above Magpies bakery where you find cakes, cupcakes, and crumbum that can’t be beat.
Fred sends his hair to college
To gain a little knowledge.
Or the Chop Shop crew
Can do his do and do his do anew.
You can get your hair cut or styled at the local “barber college” where students are learning the latest techniques, or go down the street to The Chop Shop.
Love lies on the rocks
White Orchids in the air
Scissors flying high above
Snipping without a care.
The scissors of the Chop Shop in the foreground and the Rx of the Relix Variety Theater in the background, a venue for music, comedy, and the Knoxville Horror Movie Festival.
Antiques lay all around;
Friends bargains to be found.
No need to go to town
With all that astounds.
Love lies on the rocks
White Orchids in the air
Ol’ Fred’s lost his love.
He no longer has a care.
Three Rivers flows on in
Where a day old store had been.
Ol’ Fred shops for deals
And food to make his meals.
Three Rivers Market, a member owned, community oriented market and deli. Buy groceries or even buy a meal.
Love lies on the rocks
White Orchids in the air
The Rooster’s flying high above
Crowing without a care.
An ice cream cone that beckons
With fantasies and seconds
And Relix down the street
Show shows and hold Fred’s seat.
Reportedly one of the few remaining Freezo dive in for food places in the U.S.
Love lies on the rocks
White Orchids in the air
Ice cream flying high above:
Things to make Fred stare.
White Orchid, a place for wedding dresses and other wedding items. Maybe the place to go after you find your love on the rocks.
Love lies on the rocks
White Orchids in the air
Angels flying high above
ministering without a care.
Love lies on the rocks
White Orchids in the air
Ol’ Fred’s lost his love.
He no longer has a care.
While Fred in the poem is a person, there is a Fred’s Alignment & Service on Central St. A good place to go for all sorts of car work, to get it and keep it “all aligned.”
Filed under Photo by author, poetry by author, story poem, Workshop weekend
Workshop weekend: “My mother the DEET”
My mother the DEET
Just couldn’t be beat
on those Spring and Summer days
When the ‘skeeters so fine
would fly in and dine
on my flesh and be eager to stay.
I would itch and twitch
and conjure like a witch
and try scratching the bites away.
But that would only make worse
their evil curse
brought on by these biters’ ways.
I still use it now
so I won’t be cowed
when those bloodsuckers come my way.
If only the taste
would not make my face
twist up and turn my spit to clay.
Bo, oh no, you say
that’s not the way
to apply this wonderful DEET.
It is not a delicacy —
plain, fried or fricasseed —
so from my meals it should retreat.
But it’s hard to apply
to my skin, though I try,
with these bags taped to my hands and feet.
Filed under poetry by author, Workshop weekend
Workshop weekend: limerick: “Strange tale”
There once was a writer from Nairobi
who had a strange tale that she told me.
About the dark of night
when Aliens came for her “delight”…
and then produced copies, which she sold me.
It was a dark and stormy story….
Filed under cartoon by author, limerick, poetry by author, Workshop weekend
Workshop weekend: haiku: “Hair”
Hair on my pillow. /
Touching it, I feel your touch. /
Day begins anew.
Filed under haiku, poetry by author, Workshop weekend
Workshop weekend: Saturday story: The blathering idiot and Spotted Dick
The blathering idiot darts up to a stocking clerk in a grocery store.
“You’re Spotted Dick, where is it?”
The male stocking clerk looks at him. “Come again?”
“Your Spotted Dick,” the blathering idiot said. “I need your Spotted Dick.”
“But I don’t have one.”
“One? One what?”
“Spotted dick, sir.”
“But you’ve advertised that you do.”
The clerk’s face turns red.
“I have not!”
“Yes, you have.”
“No I haven’t!”
“Yes, you have advertised that you have Spotted Dick.”
The clerk blushes. “That’s not what I advertised, sir.”
The blathering idiot stops, looks at the young man, a couple of small clusters of acne on his check and chin, and slowly realizes he may have been misunderstood.
He spots another clerk. This time a woman. He walks up to her. “Have you Spotted Dick?”
“Have you tried aisle nine?” she says and then quickly walks away.
Canned Spotted Dick; find it at your local grocery store. Just be careful whom you ask.
“Thank you.” The blathering idiot walks over to aisle nine. It is an aisle of coffee and tea and some drinks in pouches, but there is no Spotted Dick. He stomps up and down the aisle twice and is about the curse this store, the earth, even the universe itself when a woman walks by, Spotted Dick in her cart, near the top, the name in plain view.
His face lights up. He points at the can. “Madam, do you know what you have?!”
She looks him up and down. “It’s not what you think.”
“I know what it is.”
“It’s not disgusting or lewd.”
“Where … did … you … find it? I must have it.”
“It’s the last can and you can’t have it.”
“It’s the last can and I can’t have it?”
“That’s right.”
“No it’s not. It’s the last can and I can have it.” He reaches forward, snatches it out of her cart, and runs to the front of the store. He hears the woman wailing and sobbing, screaming to anybody and everybody that somebody has her Spotted Dick.
The blathering idiot is almost out of the store when he is stopped by an off duty police officer working as a security guard. The blathering idiot has his Spotted Dick firmly clutched in his hands. He told the checkout clerk he didn’t need a bag. Zoey was waiting. It was all she wanted to patch things up between them. It was British, she said, and she wanted to help celebrate the Olympics. She showed him the ad and off he dashed to the store, barely getting his clothes on.
“Sir, I need to see some ID,” the security guard says.
“What?” the blathering idiot asks. “I paid for it fair and square.”
The guard nods. “I’m sure you did, but I still need to see some ID. I’m afraid I am going to have to cite you.”
“For what?”
The guard looks down at what the blathering idiot has clutched in his hand. Then he looks down below that. “Sir, your fly is open and several people have spotted … have seen your spotted….”
Filed under blathering idiot, Saturday story, Workshop weekend
Workshop weekend: Sunday silliness: “Justice absurd”
Source: http://www.knoxnews.com/news/2012/jul/16/kpd-probes-shooting-of-man-in-underwear/
Knoxville, TN: What do you say to man in his underwear, lying in the street, shot in the back?
A bit of law and disorder on the streets of our fair cities.
On July 16, 2012, one Mr. B. was involved in a shooting incident that left him in the street of Washington Ave., dressed as described above. In need of medical assistance, the 30-year-old male was taken to the University of Tennessee Medical Center. Since Mr. B. has been “less than forthcoming” in helping the police, little else is known at this time.
One can only assume that the childhood exercise of show and tell has taken on an adult spin: show more and tell less.
Butt not to be outdone or maybe undone is a better choice of words here, a man in the West Tennessee town of Dyersburg, TN, complained to police when an accused prostitute took $40 from him, but did not “deliver the goods” so to say.
and
http://www.stategazette.com/story/1870129.html
On July 5, 2012, a 62-year-old man contracted for services with a woman half his age at the corner of Bowen Lane and Hornbrook Street. She then runs off with the money. He reports her to the police, who have a talk with her. She claims the money was for drugs – crack cocaine – and that she gave the money to another man, who then ran off, too.
The police cited her for prostitution and cited him for patronizing a prostitute. Both are misdemeanor citations. The second, still at large, unknown man has not yet been sighted.
Court date for Mr. Senior Citizen and Miss Rock and Roll was scheduled for July 20, 2012.
Now, I ask you, was the man in the underwear the mysterious second man? Granted, Knoxville, TN, is about 350 miles from Dyersburg, TN, but between July 5th and 16th this second man could have made it across the state, and might even have been making contact with an as yet undisclosed third man.
After all, in today’s economy, you have to stretch every dollar as far as you can.
Filed under absurdity, Sunday silliness, Workshop weekend
Workshop weekend: haiku: “the old man”
The sun peers over
my shoulder, an old man who
gives heat as advice.
Filed under poem, poetry by author, Workshop weekend
Workshop weekend: Saturday story: “The Kibitzer and the Kidd, part 9”
[Editor’s note: Parts 1 – 8 of The Kibitzer and the Kidd are available by clicking on “Kidd” or “Kibitzer” in the tag section. This is science fiction western with more than dollop of humor and satire.]
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“The Boss wants to see you,” said one of the men blocking the Kidd’s way.
They were both tall, thick, and none too brightly dress. In other words, they fit the typical definition of goons.
“Tell him I have an opening next Tuesday and I’ll pencil him in.”
One goon looked at the other one as if they were seriously considering this offer, and that’s when the Kidd made his move. He ran toward then, feinted to the right and then to the left, and then charged right toward them, intending to split the space between them. But a loose board sprang up from the floor, tripped the Kidd, and he tumbled into one of the goons, almost knocking the goon backwards.
Soon the second goon was behind the Kidd, pinning his arms to his side with the first goon pulled a dark hood over the Kidd’s head and tied his hands.
Then they started jerking him across the floor.
The Kidd thought he heard a floor plank say, “Had to do it to keep the plot going.”
It was then the Kidd realized he was looking at the plank with his right eye. The left one was covered. Soon they were both covered and he was lifted up and shoved outside.
The air felt noticeably cooler, as if the evening were sighing at the folly of humans. But there were also sounds: clanging and banging, voices raised and footsteps running along the wooden sidewalk. Somebody bumped into the Kidd, slumped by him, and continued running without even saying “excuse me.”
The Kidd thought he heard someone shout “Fire!” and “Spreading!” but he wasn’t sure from which direction.
Were they headed toward the fire? Were these goons going to throw him into the flames?
“There’s somebody trapped inside.”
“It’s only that Kidd fella.”
Two voices, both soon gone.
He was being lifted again. One goon on each side.
“Open the door,” the goon on his right said.
“You open it.” the other one said.
“The Boss is waiting.”
“Then open it.”
The Kidd kicked his legs around until he felt his boot hit something.
The goon on his left groaned.
The Kidd kicked again, aiming as best he could.
The goon let go and cursed.
The Kidd turned and kicked at the other goon while he worked his hands free. They had not tied them well. He then reached up for the hood.
He was free of the hood and the other goon at the same time. He turned to run and immediately bumped into a third person, who looked uncomfortable and displeased.
“You have come all this way to see me and now you want to leave so soon.” It was a statement and not a question.
“I came here for cough drops,” the Kidd said, “and a hot toddy. Whatever festering range war you have is none of my concern.”
“Global warming is everybody’s concern.”
The Kidd stared at the man. He was tall, stocky, and looked very much like Al Wayne. A step-brother maybe? Or was this some sort of joke with the same guy pretending to be two different people? That way, he got all the good lines.
“Let me introduce myself.”
“You are Al Wayne’s evil twin, John Gore.” It was a statement and not a question.
“Don’t interrupt the Boss!” one of the goons said and shoved the Kidd toward the surrey’s open door.
The Kidd tripped and fell to the street. The air was clearer down by the dirt, not as much smoke and burning odor, though it stank of the shit recently dropped by the horse pulling the surrey.
“Goon!” Gore said. He then reached out and helped the Kidd back up. “Please excuse the manners of my aides. Sometimes their enthusiasm exceeds my expectations.”
Gore brushed some of the dust off the Kidd’s upper arm. He then climbed inside the surrey.
The goon’s nudged the Kidd toward the surrey’s door.
“Let me go so I can help a friend who might be trapped in that fire. Then I promise I’ll come back and we can talk all you want.”
The goons kept the Kidd boxed in. He nudged away from the door, but the goons clamped hands on him, lifted him up and threw him inside. They then slammed the door shut.
The Kidd scrambled around the tight quarters until he was up on the seat opposite Gore.
“I will send my aides,” Gore said. “They can handle the situation better than you or I.”
Everybody wants to talk to me, the Kidd thought, but nobody says very much.
Reluctantly, he agreed. If nothing else, once the goons were gone, he could escape, albeit, without his sidearms. No plan was perfect.
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(To be continued….)
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