Memory is the golden shore where summer waters lap. Where sanded children shriek like gulls, And mothers shade their eyes and search The ever distant beach for tears or missing faces in the surf.
There the castles build and fall, where triumph tragedy becomes. And sticky mouths suck greedy gulps of sugar-saturated pops— Rainbow colors melting down.
See criss-crossed marks burned into skin which will no permanent memory make To keep from repeating the mistake of measuring the sun by an SPF span. Boiled-lobster faces whine and belated zinc is applied in futile effort to rewind time.
Gritted bodies, tired, worn but happy with a day’s respite, Ride the chariot once more toward the sinking orb Which threatens little from its perch on the lip of the world, Leaving a flip flop token of remembrance behind.
You’ll find no ribboned concourse marking childhood’s end. It is fleeting, passing, and no trumpet heralds its demise. So, measure well those steps you take on burning sands They will the hourglass wind down and scorch tender flesh In haste to reach Lethe’s waters.
*I wouldn’t ordinarily have a footnote to my poetry. But I’ve never had this happen before. I don’t know what to call that little slice of word jumble at the top. I tried leaving it out and that felt wrong. I tried putting it in…even wronger. Is it a foreword? A prelude? A prequel? I’m not sure what to call it. So, I’m not calling it anything. It just is. And I hope that is enough.
While I was surviving the past six months, fun events still happened. They just were overshadowed by the dark cloud looming. Now that the storm has passed, everything is sunny skies…or should I say…bunny skies?
*
It was high noon in Bunny Town.
When trouble showed its floppy ears.
Some folks might say, he was itching for a hare-raising fight.
Others believe, the dastardly bunnies had it coming.
The lone bunny rider looked honest…honestly dangerous.
He dressed all in white…except for the mask.
Quite a quiet furry fury, indeed.
Clemson Cadbury—Clem to his friends—rode into Bunny Town one fine day.
He was wanting to put up his lucky rabbit’s feet and ease his saddle sores at the only hopping joint in town:
The Rabbit Hare Saloon
Where the phrase “Hare of the dog” takes on a whole new meaning.
The girls at the saloon were of the heart of gold variety.
They made a rabbit want to sit up and pay attention.
To push his fuzzy-tailed luck.
“Who was that masked rabbit?” The girls at the saloon swoon as he goes by.
But Clem only had eyes for the sweet, sloe-eyed school marm who taught the A, B, C’s of being a bunny.*
His heart belonged to that fair damsel–Flory-Dory Flopsalot.
A fragile flower of the Topeka, Kansas Flopsalots.
Clem would have happily laid his hat—or his heart—at Flory-Dory’s feet for her taking or stomping there upon.
But Flory-Dory’s uncle was the local sheriff and he put no faith in lone rabbits who just moseyed on through his town.
So Clem spent his lonely hours, pining for his true love, and sipping dandelion sarsaparillas at the Bunny Bar Saloon.
Until the day he tangled with the Black Bunny Banditos!
Who knows why town founders put the Peter Rabbit School right next to the only bar in town? You’d think they’d have thunk that through a mite!
Clem didn’t know, when he entered that bar that fateful day, that a gang of hardened thugs were also looking to play.
They were bad bunnies with bad attitudes.
And they didn’t care what kind of mask a bunny hid behind.
The Coney Brothers: Bippity, Boppity, and Beauregard—were wanted county-wide by the long-ear of the law. They were trying real hard to live down the sweet names their momma gave ’em. Particularly Piebald Beau—who threatened anyone who tried to tie a ribbon around him come Easter time!
Clem was nursing a carrot-infused herbal tonic and the saloon honey-bunnies were taking his orders—hopping to get whatever he wanted.
The three black-hearted bunny banditos entered the saloon.
Their tail spurs jingled as they hopped.
Bippity tried to snag his favorite coquette–Odette.
But Odette was batting her lashes at Clem.
Boppity yelled for his bunnymondaine—but Desbegonia had no time for the ruff-necked, lop-eared cur.
No, Desbegonia was dancing to and fro, making Clem watch her as she’d go.
Then Beauregard stepped through the door and stood there watching a minute or more.
He waited. He wanted. But his flowery filly—Daffydilly—was not to be found.
Except, wherever Clem was around!
Daffydilly sang sweet serenades to woo her beau…
(But not the rabbit by that name, no!)
Beauregard spit out his cheroot and hollered at his boys to scoot!
“No interloping jackalope claims our pieces of fluff!” Said he.
And off behind the saloon went the three…
Clem had no clue when he stepped outside
An ambush awaited his white-tailed hide.
But Flory-Dory knew!
From her chair near the window, she’d watch and sigh, whenever the handsome buck went by.
So, when the school marm saw her rabbit in trouble, she called for the sheriff on the double!
Sheriff “Lefty” Cottontail.**
Sheriff @bun_the_rabbit_619 courtesy of Websta Instagramer
Sheriff Cottontail was none to keen to confront the three rapscallions—despite their lawless ways.
He was a laid-back lawman who let other people’s bullets do the talking.
Sheriff Cottontail demonstrates his floppy philosophy of ‘laying down the law.’
But Flory-Dory wasn’t letting her lily-livered uncle get away with that!
“I’ll take on those ne’er-do-wells myself, iffn I have to!” Said Flory-Dory.
If she’dve had a spittoon nearby, she’dve spat in it for emphasis.
With this incentive, Sheriff Cottontail, decides it’s better to fight like a rabbit, than to be shown up as all fluff and no tail.
He hops to Clem’s side in the nick of time.
Sheriff Lefty (pictured right) and Clem
This weirdly appropriate duo brought to you by #Bunnyfest #Ameliaisnothavingit # Deskgram
The dastardly Coney Brothers had trussed Clem up in baling wire and dangled him by his stubby tail over a vat of sugar syrup.
“We’re gonna dunk you neck-deep in this here sassafras barrel.” Piebald Beau promised Clem. “When they find your sorry sack of fur, all will think that you fell in to get a drink.”
Then in flopped the Sheriff, long and fat, and squashed those Coney brothers flat!
It warn’t no time at all before the bad bunny brothers were rounded up and thrown into the hoosegow.***
But Sheriff Cottontail knew, it wouldn’t be long before those bunnies were back bearing a grudge.
The Black-Hearted Bunny Banditos
Bippity, Boppity, and Beauregard Coney were hardened by a life of crime and no amount of time spent stamping state license plates could sway them from their cattle-rustling ways.
So the sheriff hired his niece to be his stalwart deputy!
And if you want to know where I captured the pictures that I didn’t pilfer online, check out Klackle Orchards in Greenville, MI when fall rolls around again.
I started this post about ten days ago…but caught the flu so bad, I couldn’t finish writing it. I kind of collapsed instead. I am finally crawling back up on my personal hobby horse–the bedeviling holiday traditions that trap you in a tinsel choke-hold and won’t let go!
***
I won’t say that I am single-handedly keeping Hallmark alive, but of my entire family, I am the only one I know who sends holiday cards because I have to and despite the fact that I lost all religious affiliation years ago.
I have never been diagnosed with OCD (?Overly Cheerful Demeanor?), but it’s the only explanation I can find for why I put up a Christmas Solstice Tree, bake and decorate a bajillion festive cookies and, of course, send out the ubiquitous holiday cards.
It’s a sickness really.
I waited too late this year though. The holiday came and went (a Day Early) and I had yet to write out a single card. You’d think this was a sign! Maybe this year would be the year? Can I break the cycle?
Turns out…no. I can’t.
Four boxes of holiday cards at the ready—espousing nicely generic season greetings—printed family photo montage highlighting 2017 high (and low) points ready to go, festive stamps at hand, I sat at a table and manically wrote out a personalized greeting to everyone on my list.*
Did I mention I was suffering the worst plague at the time and, maybe, started hallucinating about half-way through the pile?**
To say some of my cards were a bit weird…well…I really wish I had taken pictures of some of the better entries. Fortunately, friends were willing to send me a few as proof of madness friendship. Seeing them now, they don’t sound nearly as weird as I thought they were at the time.
But, I do remember a few choice comments I wrote:
“Dear Boston-Family,
Please remember on New Years Day to toss a roast beef out your front door before heading out. This is to feed the dragon perched on your gables. It need not be cooked—many dragons prefer a raw gift—but a nice sear is also appreciated.
Do not forget to watch for acid-spitting lizards though. They are much more temperamental and you’d be advised to crawl out a side window to avoid them…”
The longer I wrote, the more like a cry for help some of the cards started to resemble:
Dear Chicago Friends,
“I do not understand why or how this tradition started?! Nobody writes physical mail anymore! What is the point? This is going to reach you well past the New Year and, honestly, I’ll probably have babbled ten times equally dull daily complaints on Facebook. Maybe next year I’ll just do that. I’ll Tweet my greetings! Except, that I am a Luddite, and eschew Twitter. Not just because a certain member of our government has made it his bilious verbal diarrhea playground…but because I have standards. Dammit.
I practically accused my California cousins of outright smugness in their choice of vacating Michigan winters for the dubious joys of living on the San Andreas Fault:
Then there were the feeble attempts at humor involving the likely contagion I was spreading this season:
Dear Philly Friend,
“…can you catch depression when you catch a cold? Mostly it’s the fact that I had all of my cookie rolled, cut, baked and nearly all frosted when this cold happened. As a result, I didn’t dare send them to anyone…for fear of spreading the contagion…
Apparently, I’m less circumspect with card distribution. Don’t lick this card. You’ve been warned. Probably too late though. You’ve already licked it haven’t you? Sigh. Oh Well, swift recovery to us both in 2018!”
Then I hit the wall I always hit after about four hours of writing inane holiday greetings (interjected with subliminal pleas for the madness to stop–see below). I start doodling to fill up the dreaded white space:
I have a list of about sixty people to whom I send cards. I had enough holiday stamps for about half of the list…after that, you got a Wonder Woman or Star Trek stamp depending on your likeliest affiliation. When in doubt, I used one commemorating the eclipse!
The later on the list your name appears, the weirder the card entry you’ll likely get. Also, the more my dyslexia and spoonerisms would crop up.
I can only imagine what the person getting this one thought of it all…
I am planning on writing a carol entitled: “May All Your Coccyges Be Bright!”
I have no choice. I have to send them. Then again, THEY have no choice, poor people, but to accept them. And secretly, I hope they like them and send me one in return. It is the obsessive compulsive gift that keeps on giving!
In the end…only Hallmark really wins.
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes*:
*I cannot send a blank card. Really. Unless I am at death’s door, so a few of you may have one of these rare creatures. When I hit that marathon writer wall, I autographed a few and called it good. I’m still shuddering from the absence of ink though.
**I started to feel a little human, but the persistent cough worried me. So I went to a med center and caught a completely different virus. If this piece is unfinished, I probably died mid-sent…
NaNoWriMo had me in its greedy grip. I barely won the 50,000 word marathon which took two intense days of non-stop writing (no bathing or socializing) to catch up the nearly 15,000 word deficit as I fell behind.
I struggled daily to write anything coherent because…
mYSoNHaSsTOpPEDSlEePInG
This doesn’t sound like the terrible thing that it truly is. It sounds innocuous and a charming reminder of the sleepless days when we first brought baby from the hospital without a clue as to the insomnia bomb we’d actually welcomed into our home…willingly.**
I’ve been planning on writing about stealing…no, liberating… uh…adopting, yeah, adopting a pet rock. I even have pictures of the day we unearthed it from a public park and lugged it home.
Too tired to share.
The visit to a restaurant in the middle of nowhere that just has to be experienced to be believed.
Can’t find the energy (or typing skills) to write that one either.
Then there was the whole time I nearly chopped my finger off. (Always with the exaggerations is this one…oh, my, that sure is a lot of BLOOD!)
So, instead, I will stumble like a drunk back onto the blogging stage and beg your forgiveness.
Until the doctor figures out the right tranquilizers***, I will be the babbling mess you are enjoying right now. Unfiltered and unedited and mostly unhinged.
You’re welcome.
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:
*I’m tempted to leave my post at that comment and call it good. But, I am just not that succinct.
**Now, whenever someone tells me they are having a baby, I have to muffle my snickering when I wish them well.
***Go to Amazon and search ‘Elephant Tranquilizers.’ It’s amazing what they offer as an option. Or go to the following link for one of the recommendations they gave me:
[While Kirizar is gallivanting in the back of beyond reveling in freedom…enjoy this rare glimpse of short fiction written for a contest that never wrote back to offer praise or accolades. The bastards.]
*
I was supposed to write it down. She told me to write it down…
“I’ve got it,” I protest. “Eggs, half and half and ham. I can remember three items.”
“There are four items! You forgot the shredded cheese. Cheddar…not American. So write it down or you’ll forget.”
She repeats the list while I scribble on the back of the junk mail I’d grabbed. I have half an eye on the Greenbay game while she’s nattering about the block association meeting.
“I’ve promised to bring quiche tomorrow. We have got to do something about the insect infestation…and who knows what kind of toxic spill cause the red fungus…”
Suddenly, she’s snapping her fingers in front of my eyes.
“Hurry, Fritz, or I won’t have time to make them tonight. Go!”
And then she’s shoving me out the door.
I’m halfway to my car when I glance down and see what I added beneath the word ‘Ham’:
‘Be Warned. It is coming. Prepare for midnight.’
The foreteller signed it with a cat’s paw. I don’t know why. Maybe the cats dictate to her? Why she can’t be bothered to get a cell phone like normal people…
But then, she isn’t normal people.
These thoughts chase me all the way to her bungalow on the fringe of a suburb suffering urban blight.
I climb out of my Ford Fiesta, which looks like a drunken frat party held a kegger in it, and march up the steps to the door with a gargoyle knocker. I nearly trip on the ubiquitous cats; the striped tom stares at me out of his one good eye and growls a warning. I repress the urge to snarl back.
The door opens.
“Hurry.”
I don’t even have a chance to speak before my mistress yanks me in. I have just enough time to scoot through before she slams the door shut in the tom cat’s face. And then she’s barking instructions while I’m still scrambling for a quill and parchment.
“Get the moss from a dead oak and circle the graveyard twice before returning.” She shakes a finger at me. “And don’t forget the toadstools. The prophylactic potion of the apocalypse is quite specific. You don’t want the world to end because you forgot!”
“Prophylactic…what?”
“Just go!”
I am half-bit by bugs when I finally leave the swamp. The graveyard is not far from the Stop-n-Go. The augured apocalypse isn’t for three more hours; I can spare fifteen minutes to run in. No problem!
After delivering the spell supplies, I race home to watch the post-game highlights. I’m just getting comfortable when I hear the shriek from the kitchen and a loud thump.
What now? I know I got everything on the list!
It’s only when I find my wife collapsed beside a pile of entrails that I realize my mistake.
Oh well…maybe there’s such a thing as a quiche of the apocalypse?
TheDustSeason 