i remember

i remember the good old days the old fashioned ways when a dog was a dog and a cat was a cat and nobody had a problem with that i remember mr jones’s store it isn’t there any more i remember old mr jones with his twinkling eyes and creaking bones i remember old mrs jones scooping and molding ice cream cones the nickel for the cone burned a hole in my pants the screen door banged and the shadows danced i remember charlie chan in a double feature with tarzan w c fields with his thumbs in his vest and john wayne riding through the west i remember stoves with coal and swimming in the old swimming hole a dog named bud who came when you called and the full moon shining over it all i would give your information age with its trillions of bytes of hate and rage its temples of steel and towers of glass to see bud running through the tall green grass

nothingness

a nothing apple falls from a tree on a nothing hill beside a nothing sea the nothing sailors on the nothing boat laugh at the reporter and won’t give him a quote about the nothing princess who never drowned in the nowhere river in her nowhere gown never and forever and all the same the score is nothing to nothing in the nowhere game the nowhere cats and the nowhere dogs howl like houdini in the nowhere fog locked in a trunk with a nowhere lock the clock strikes midnight on a nowhere clock the bubbles float on the nowhere surface of the nothing river with no end or purpose on the nowhere horizon of the nothing sky sweet sue sings softly in the sweet bye and bye

the worst story

i was walking down euston road when i was suddenly confronted by sinclair, usually the most undemonstrative of men. “have you heard about tremayne?” he blurted out. “why no, “ i replied. “i have not heard anything about tremayne. what is there to hear?” “it’s dreadful! “ sinclair exclaimed. “positively dreadful1 the worst story in the history of the world.” i hardly knew what to say to that, but before i could summon up a response, sinclair went on, “meet me at the club tonight and i will tell you all about it.” “i will be sure to do that,” i replied, and sinclair went on his way. leaving me in a state of some small curiosity, though, truth be told, i hardly knew tremayne, or had given him any thought since our schooldays. the night was a dark and rainy one, and i set myself beside the fire at the club with a stiff brandy, and waited for sinclair. but he did not show up, and as the fire burned low and was replenished and burned low again, i fell sleep in the chair. when i awoke, i was assured by the steward that sinclair had not shown up. so far as i knew, tremayne was not a member of the club, and when i enquired i was assured that no such gentleman was known to the staff or had made an appearance. i went back the next two nights, with similar results, though on neither night did i wait quite so long for my unpunctual storyteller. in fact, i never heard from or of sinclair again, or learned the dreadful fate of the unfortunate tremayne. i did, however, develop a slight stiffness in my lower back, which i have never entirely lost.

immortal

by brig. gen. percival t sternwall let the stars fall from the sky let empires wither and die though away the heavens roll i have an immortal soul! let the skies be filled with thunder and worlds be torn asunder and a million trumpets blast you will not have heard the last of my spirit as it flies to a world that never dies that never doubts and never grieves the world of those who believe! o skeptics in your hovels who before eternity grovel and crouch in darkness and gloom there is life beyond the tomb!

fate

the fire was burning low. thurston and beresford were the only members of the club still in the room. “you know,” said thurston, “i was reading something in the gazette this morning.” he paused. “i can’t now remember what it was, but somehow it put me in mind of something. something that happened a long time ago. to a fellow named stafford- wiggins. i don’t suppose you would have known him?” beresford made a sort of grunt which thurston took as indicating that beresford had indeed not known stafford-wiggins. “no, i didn’t suppose you would,” thurston continued. “he was a young chap starting out in the service in the corps - the diplomatic corps - at the same time as myself. which, of course, was not exactly yesterday. anyway, all of us - all of us young fellows starting out - thought stafford-wiggins was quite a comer. so, one bright spring afternoon old sir edward chandry - who was in charge of sort of shepherding us through our apprenticeship - invited all of us - all of us young chaps - to the races. at ascot, if i remember correctly. one of the things that impressed us about stafford-wiggins was the amazing talent he had for arriving at any event or appointment at exactly the right time - never so much as a minute early or late. so, all the rest of us had gathered in front of the track with sir edward and lady chandry, and we were waiting for stafford-wiggins. the more forthright among us had been laughingly assuring sir edward and his consort that he would most assuredly arrive just in time. and sure enough, he did just that. a few of the fellows began chaffing him good-naturedly as he stepped down from his coach, straightening his jacket and getting ready to pay his respects to sir edward and lady chandry, whom i happened to be standing just behind. “that young man,” lady chandry observed in a low voice to sir edward, indicating stafford-wiggins, “does not know how to wear a top hat.” this was bad enough, but worse was to come. “nor,” lady chandry added , “will he ever.” “i am afraid you are right, my dear,” sir edward agreed as he put on a smile and stepped forward to greet stafford-wiggins. sentence had been passed, as quickly as a leaf might fall, and of course there was no appeal or any notion of one from the condemned. i remember that i made a few successful wagers that afternoon, which needless to say made more of an impression on me than any thoughts - deep or otherwise - i might have had about poor staford-wiggins. in due course, stafford-wiggins was posted to the balkans or spanish guyana or some such. for all practical purposes, he was never heard of or from again. “ thurston paused again, “funny, isn’t it, how a single - what would you call it? not even a misstep, really, can determine a fellow’s fate.” but beresford did not reply, as he had fallen asleep.

lonely

by alice marston sternwall everybody hates the lonely don’t let them tell you otherwise you are having a nice conversation then you see the desperation in their eyes all the years of solitude come rising up like foam in the flickering beams of your sympathy they finally see their way home their dreams and sad opinions flow through the night and into dawn their clutching hands reach out to you but you are already gone perhaps when you lie dying in a little room alone you will give a thought to those desperate ones and regret your heart of stone

a ballad

he world is bad but should be good robin hood slept in king john’s wood king john was bad, but robin was good let us sing a song of robin hood o merrily merrily merrily we go all of good cheer we be fair robin doth dwell in the deep deep woods dwelleth there doth he the king put a bounty on robin’s head and swore to hang him from a tree o merrily merrily merrily we go all of good cheer be we maid marian rode by the castle gate she caught the bad king’s eye all merrily she rode away between the forest and the sky all merrily we ride away with robin and his merry men and we’ll stay in the wood be it understood until the good times come again friar tuck stood up with a flagon of ale he drank it down right strong o merrily merrily merrily we go singing this merry song

farewell song

in the depths of heaven the ocean roars shed a tear, shed a tear for the circus is no more * the sun sets over the highway the last track drives away the clowns watch the trucks disappear and head off to begin their new lives as panhandlers and fitness gurus and hedge fund managers all except one, chunky, the oldest of them all who is determined to find the last pie baked by the last widow on the last windowsill and hit donald trump or vladimir putin in the face with it the big tent has been cut up to make napkins at burger king the bareback dancers pack their bags and they too hit the road back to philadelphia and cleveland to get jobs as life managers and creative consultants the ringmaster and the magician make plans to start a maoist alternative to breitbart the magician’s apprentice goes back to a trailer park outside elko nevada to take care of her 12 younger siblings moe, the cook, lies down by the side of the road and cries manny and mac and mose, the roustabouts, enroll in management courses at the university of phoenix the elephants go back to africa the lions go back to mars the horses run away over the playgrounds filled with needles the lion trainer and al the acrobat hatch a scheme so complicated it can not be described here. suffice to say they will not settle for a few lousy billions ed the elephant keeper buys two bottles of wine and a chicken salad grinder, toasted, with cheese, and starts hitchhiking to the northwest territories alice the acrobat stuffs the trapeze into her bag, with plans to call it a work of art and get at least 15 million dollars for it they all make plans to meet again for a reunion at the arby’s roast beef outside las cruces new mexico in 2047

ars poetica

poetry is hard to write and if you write some every night most of it is hopeless glop into the garbage to be dropped poets who live for all time only write one or two lines that anyone really remembers the rest are only ash and embers their names are known, but ninety-nine percent of their well-gotten rhymes are no more read than the reports of arizona traffic courts no other human occupation produces such a tiny ration of success to total nothingness with no excuses to profess so, poet, persevere the world will shed no tear you must weep for your own self as you moulder on the shelf your failure to communicate is only humans’ common fate like all you take your lumps as darkness triumphs