August 1st, another burstHowever, it was not gaudyJuly’s end found us immersed:On it was borne a BODY.A dead one is a dread, accursedIts sight makes one feel shoddy!Bob’s gaunt framewas the first cadaver I had seensince
Ed’s at City Hospital morguein Boston March 1989.
The chill runs deep.And for days at a timeYou do not sleepStuck deep in your mindAs you mind your breathIs FEAR you can findOf your OWN looming deathNot far behind.
Bob had left home and left it to the Trust.
The summer now is nearly behind usThus back to the grindIs where you will find us!
With tourist season in full swingThe tourists don’t careAbout a damn thing!They mull and wanderPonder and mingleWith dollars to squanderIn groups or just singleCameras-a-clickin’Snapping some picturesSoon they will frikkin’Cause traffic strictures!
Back to that grindAnd by inductionWhat they will findIs lots of construction!
Now is the time for all good rollers,graders, bulldozers, excavatorsand ancillary controllersstill toiling like gatorsamongst hairy procrastinators to soon be gone.
Boo-hoo! I findSo much to doAnd falling behindOf work I’ve a slew!So back to the grindI just informed you!
Radio OFF as I head up the hillAt Olympic$ I scoffSuch commercial SWILL!Rounding off cornersRelentlessly close‘Oer green painted bridgesMy auto to hostOh, fair sunny dayI say, “Make the most.”Thus, out in the frayTo stay so engrossed!
This a.m. I popped the elderly 2100CDin the hatch for a
toss to Ben’s place,where the wheelchair-bound repair mavenperforms small
engine wizardry most days;just not today.
When thieves come to roostOut in rural home densSweet solace reducedUpon which life dependsAs this boy deducedIt alienates friendsUnwillingly juicedTheir intrusion portendsThat we get a boostWhen their wretched reign ends!
While bowling, Dan got hit for 4 hundred last month, as we
pegged someone who knew him, his abode, his comings & goings, and plumbed
the mother lode, which, for a petty thief, was a damn good haul, being fungible
assets, and that’s not all: The cretin got away, didn’t take a fall, whilst his
hapless quarry was having a ball.
Bleach-whiteShrink-wrapped marshmallowsNext to glittering, uprightVerdant cornrowsBrag the best hay yearOut of the last seven, andRendered hereStacked damn near to heavenSure as a shucked earFrom that dozen, elevenIn pendulous purple prose!
Why not crank up the heat some more?Free sauna – a treatWith sweat galore!The poor man’s saunaAs they sayBut I won’t gripeAnd will repayWhat Mother Nature just took away!
Just when I had startedIt commenced to rainAnd needlessly thwartedThis day’s stellar gainBut we have tomorrowto go at it again.
Al’s oaks had sizable leaves in predictably dense
quantities: Large, obovate, healthy dark green, chock full of water weight.
We noted how oaks do incredibly well here, flourishing while
nearly every other tree species suffers one or more maladies, awaiting
pestiferous invasions that could spell doom.
Today’s gig: Continue roping out the oak hanging
precipitously over Al’s gazebo, and from which looming lightning had sent this
grunting sloth rappelling earthward yesterday, exasperated & not even ⅜
completed the arduous, challenging task.
It was rain that intrudedWhen we didn’t askCould it not have transudedthis whole parched July past?
A local musician named O’HarePassed away, oh yesterdayNot well they say he’d fare.
At 55, his life was doneIn a wisp of timeHis time had come!
This good fellow’s life curtailmentPrecipitated by a‘Longtime heart ailment’will surely not go unsung!
While my own heart goes out to himAnd his familyI puzzle my own heart’s survival @ 56.It has not been treated handily.
These thoughts abatedI went about the day’s bizAs work was slatedNot subrogatedBesides, I had to whiz.
Everything else went fineUntil I hit the porcupine.
The bloodied-nose of porcupineBegets this proseThat’s not sublime.He was nailed with right front fenderSo assailed, sure death to render.
Thinking backI should have slowedYet did his trackBisect the road!Though it bore no yellow lineDead-center waddled porcupineWho moved snail slowAs if in mudI’d sooner forego that awful THUD!
I rolled aheadThen turned aroundHe wasn’t deadThat much I found.
I fetched a ropeFrom the backseatHoping to lasso Porky’s feetAnd drag him off the cool asphaltTo side of streetIt was NOT my fault!
Just had to look at yesterday’s slateIndeed to ensure it wasn’t too late!50 is nifty but 60 is better;Acupuncture at 11Me a needle go-getter! Thus with that healingMy belt tucked underThe workday’s congealingNot reeling with blunder!
TCM’s not the only creedBut attractively closeTo all that I needAt least in terms of all things medicalIn other words, read:I’m damn near heretical!
Shame on me, thenThinking outside the boxOf medicineThat’s ‘orthodox’.
In closing I have a score to settleExcuse me while I push on this pedal!
Morning brokeSo better get walkingNeither jokeNor engage in talking.Rain has lainOh, pitter-patterNothing gained, too late to matterEven though Jim said todayThey culled 1900 bales of hayTomatoes green, and it looks a lotLike they’ve all been set to rot!
My, oh my you’re so irascible!Your voice-mail, guy, is so erasable!Yikes! Biting scorpion temper tasted,To get me gone, no time is wasted!A horrible way, indeed if you willTo start the day, such a bitter pill!But it’s preferable by farTo political swillSo there you are!
Split the ashHey, that was easy!Won’t need to crashAnd like that cheesySlogan pasted to our dear Staples®Ash spits easier than those maples!
Had you driven byOn southward fareYou’d see me spryIn my underwear!
Splitting ash logs in the drizzleSwinging maul in double-dareBefore day’s fervor began to fizzleI NEEDED to be out there!
Before you chide me, GoldilocksOr deride me, insult or swear;I ardently think outside the boxAnd handily escape this lair!
A Delaware friendSo hale and heartyBid “Davey please attenda grand First State Party!”
Most probably for and by said friendWho in the first placeThe invite did send!It came wrapped in a Facebook pageHe’s still making musicAt his ripe old age!
So was this chap bemusedthat I declined?I would not be enthusedFor 350 mile grind!
“So sorry,” I winced“Don’t mean to be crass!”He seemed unconvincedI was way up in Mass!
Say I left right nowFrom the chilly Bay
StateNo seein’ howI wouldn’t be late!
Gran rarely sent usA ‘Nana-gram’To show just how small we were;Grandildy, however,Vastly outdid her|His purple prose did proffer.
He encouraged young nerdsTo stretch their expressionsWith many mellifluous words;So adjectival were his penciled lessonsAt times so verbose, ‘twas absurd!
And ‘Grandildy’, yes,Was his real-life nicknameAnd he’d readily confessHe had NOT won the game. For in the DepressionHe had lost home and wealthA deemed likely regressionOf his mental health!
But he soon retiredAnd hugged the pool hallWhile his letters inspiredThe likes of us: small.
Close to noon and pretty soonI’ll relate what was on this date.Another hot and humid swoonis champing at the slate.
A headline crossing my line of visionBespoke a fine and local
rescission:Area residents wind power debate!Hells bells, we already have that;it’s called TALK RADIO – and none morebellicose than in an election year,especially THIS one!Aye, if only that forcefully puffed Co2could be harnessed
for useful purposes!
Meanwhile, on one of the few decent roadsleading into town,
Dena’s dead maple sparis being actively carvedby an accomplished chainsaw
ON this day in 1963,Our Ed-Z was bornFor a time he lived free.
I’ll never forget the hours he playedWith big brother TomWho was close to his ageThey spun, jumped and rumbledBikes, balls, BB gunsOur eardrums were humbled‘Cause Ed-Z played drums!
This decidedly vigorousBoyhood was hadFor Ed-ZThe bike riding, drum playing lad!His first band, ‘The ‘Nicators’Lasted quite awhileAnd since they were FOURTheir name made us smile!
Then came ‘The Maytags’Man, those dudes kicked some buttWhile booking some venuesWhich had quite a glut!
Summer hangs onLike a dangling leechBut I wish it bygoneLike a plucked ripe peach!
Hummingbirds flitBut the gnats still nibbleAnd I give not a shitFor political quibbleOr tax forms of MittAnd related drivelSo ball that all upRoll it into a lumpAnd hasten to truckThe mess straight to the dump!
What about me?I respond at insistence:Just chugging alongWith stubborn persistence!
Politics nags; I bid it no flatteryAs energy flagsQuite like a dead battery! Rustie’s right front tire needs airLusty, she won’t expire, won’t care.
On this day in ‘56Davey H joined the frayWith his infantile leg-kicksHe popped out on that day!
Though it could be saidHe was not full of mirthAs doc tugged his headYikes! Forceps-pulled birth!
So 56 then begat 56 nowWhat a crazed ride it’s beenOf late, then, and how!
Riding the camelOf boredom, depressionA brain ergo trammelledwith pliant aggression.
Drinking, not thinkingSmoking and jokingThe devil was winkingMuch fun he was poking!
Living in ‘burbsMuch fuss was madeReading those blurbsHell, at least he had shade!
Silvie the 20", ostensibly 4 horsepowerNot so gussied-upBut rather frumpy, lumpyGrass munchin'
machineHas been our babyFor years of
We picked her upOff a
Lawrenceville curbSchlepped her up
northAnd for what all
it's worthIncluded her inthis fine blurb!
As small engines
go, Silvie's has received comparatively royal treatment, with frequent oil
changes, a new air filter around the 4-year mark, and one of those newfangled
overpriced spark plugs just today! On the downside, to her detriment, she was
run hard mowing the south side, two hours without her air filter!
On this fine day,A remarkable
lady turns 93,Immersed
in the frayAnd
not with glee!
as the late Betty White once quipped:“Old age ain’t no place for sissies.”But
the quote was originally attributed toalso late Henry Louis Mencken, who couldcrankily wear this Yiddish moniker: “Mensch”.
here in the Western world,as Donald Fagen sang, reality isn’tas the song
portrayed.Old age permeates this place,saturates the atmosphere with bitter
sadnessand ruthlessly carves quarriesin my elder’s sallow textured face.
slightly hardened brown trail mars carpet twixt bath and bed.
Back to the farm, where 7 years agowe planted two Dawn
Redwoods,which, in keeping with DNA and destiny,will try and become huge.Both these and the Ginkgo are THRIVINGin the chilly north; drought summershave not stunted their velocity one iota.
I posit this: Such ancient specimenswill stave off oxygen
deprivationas CO2 increasingly chugs into the atmosphereand we
handily accelerate stripping florato make paper towels and cheap furniture.
When Armageddon has singed every human hairon the planet
and all else is imperiled,Metasequoia Glyptostroboides andGinkgo Biloba will
be left standing!
Ugliness, dissension as standard fareWhen you turn your attentionDamn near anywhere!And should you wish to hear or careI’ll have no part of it, I SWEAR!So permit me a bit of snide derisionWe’re gladly unglued from television!55 was still aliveIn sound health we got our kicksAnd the speed at which we’ll drive56, played pick-up sticksWinter’s kindling to derive.Now living life as country hicksHandily, surely we’ll surviveAssiduously avoiding politicsBro and sis, I do not jive!
So forgive my use of slangAs I slam out this harangue!
Unruly Isaac was hurricane Irene’suncanny 1-year sequel,slamming
the ever-vulnerable Big Easy.But who bats an eye anymorewhen Mother
Nature bashes ashore?
Irene deluged Vermont and Massachusetts rivers,leaving a
muddy trail of soupy carnage in her wake.
On August 29, 2011 I stared aghastat the roiling brown Deerfield
in spittin’ drizzle,watching whole trees, propane tanks, boats,canoes, and
probably some kitchen sinksbuoyed atop angry whitecaps.
A wigged friend, still reeling from radiationand chemo,
ambled toward the waterfrontwith what little remained of her strength,and we
chatted lightly, sharing fear and uncertainty.
With an energetic startTo a whirlwind dayAnd reasonable rampartsOver which to layBrick, block and mortarWhilst giving no quarter;The ensuing edificeOf this gadget hoardershall not hereby be delayed.
Things were certainly looking greatFor this country boyAfter a 20-year waitIn which he’d hopedThat with any luck itWould be a New HollandWith both forks and bucket!Indeed, that careerHad just come aliveWith this rugged skid steer –a 985!
She didn’t look as beat up as some unitslisted at auction
sites,and price comparisons were befuddling bites.
Waiting to procure the machine was agonizing on this arid
day, though things went more smoothly than expected, with no need to be
dejected.The friendly bank teller brushed off bank vs. cashier’s checks
comparison/contrast queries, noting firm recipient liquidity guarantee in
As to mundane machinations, the tow truck, not to be
confused with two truck, was put off ‘til morning as an affable tanned yard
mechanic laid claim to ‘only turning wrenches’, ergo shinnying off the buyer
inquiry hot seat whilst giving a highly informative walk-through, including a
scintillating overview of the unit’s highly inaccessible battery compartment.