Tag Archives: poetry

May 7, 2012 · 8:51 am

Family versed

Day Two in the re-exploration of family heirlooms and personal relics being exhumed from the crypt:

I am honored to be in possession of a very special book–written, illustrated and hand-assembled by my Aunt Linda. I am not sure what I did to deserve this treasure, but I’m sure glad to have had it for nearly 50 years. The cover is made of sturdy cardboard, covered in amber-colored burlap. The pages inside are typed on onion skin paper. The pictures are drawn in black felt-tip pen.

Every two pages there is a story, and a drawing that goes along with it, written lovingly about someone in Aunt Linda’s life. I’d like to share two here.

The first one, I presume, is about her daughter, my cousin Lesley, whom you met here about a year ago.

Good morning, dear Jesus, this day is for me.
It’s time to be up and about.
“Morning time, Mommy!”, “Morning time, Dad!”
That’s what I’m going to shout.
There’s a number of things that I’m hoping to do
And things that I’m planning to fix,
So wake up, you sleepyheads, get me some juice,
It’s almost a quarter to six.

This one’s about her Goddaughter, me:

I met a girl names Monica (a very pretty name),
And since I’ve talked with Monica I’ve never been the same.
Though she is only five years old she knows her ABC’s,
Can count to ‘most a million, and always uses “please”.
She has a dog called Gretchen who is unlike any other,
And next to Gretchen she loves best her father and her mother.
I like to listen to her jokes – we have a lot of fun –
And she often helps her daddy when he just can’t think of one.

This project helps me realize how amply I am blessed. Now on to digging deeper into the treasure chest.

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May 3, 2012 · 7:55 am

Sign here

I’ve hit the mother lode (note, not mother load) of mementos.

My husband has been cleaning out our attic, and my box of collected treasures has emerged from the clutter. I’ve scooped out just the first layer, so let’s call this post the first in a series. There are sure to be more.

In this tranche were all those charms I thought I’d lost, some religious relics, including my First Holy Communion book, an Immaculate Conception medal and an honorable mention certificate from Saint Dominic’s Catholic School in Shaker Heights, Ohio. There were a few old pictures, lots of cards and letters and my photo album from summer semester in Spain.

My favorite relic to be unearthed was an autograph book I got as a souvenir of Disneyland when my father took me there in 1969. I scored no celebrity autographs, unless you count that of the five-year-old daughter of the TV comedy writer with whom we stayed in L.A.

I didn’t wear a watch on that trip. I do remember asking my Dad what time it was about every 10 minutes. When I let him sign the first page of my autograph book, he wrote, “It’s twenty after ten.”

My Uncle Henry made note that he signed it on the weekend man first walked on the moon—which had nothing to do with the poem he penned:

Saint Monica, Saint Bernadette,
Her patron saints, don’t give up yet,
For though you’ve seen the demon’s taint,
You’ve seen the promise of a saint.
Imp or angel, bad or bonnie,
In equal portion, that’s our Monnie.

The other pages hold what we all know as autograph book rhymes. Things like:

Don’t worry if your pay is small, and if your jobs are few.
Remember that the mighty oak was once a nut like you.

Remember the girl in the city. Remember the girl in the town.
Remember the girl who ruined your book by writing upside down.

See you in the ocean, see you in the sea.
See you in the bathtub. Oops, pardon me.

When you’re in heaven and it gets hot,
Pepsi-cola hits the spot.

When you get married and live in a hut,
Send me a picture of your first little nut.

When you get married and you have twins
Don’t come to me for safety pins.

It tickles me and makes me laugh
To think you want my autograph.

Never kiss by the garden gate
Because love is blind but the neighbors ain’t.

When I turned 50, my father gave me his mother’s autograph book, which is dated 1927 — 42 years before I had christened mine.

Allow me to share a few ditties from my grandmother’s crackled pages:

Lock up thy heart, keep safe the key,
Forget me not, til I do thee.

I wish I were a bunny with a little tail of fluff.
I’d climb upon your bureau and be your powder puff.

Some write for money, some write for fame,
But I write for the honor of signing just my name.

Down by the river there lies a rock,
And on it is printed, “Forget me not.”

If you get married and live upstairs,
For heaven’s sake, don’t put on airs.

It’s now 43 years after Disneyland and this place is my autograph book. Won’t you please sign it?

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November 15, 2011 · 7:51 am

Stream of unconsciousness

It’s interesting where roads lead. Sometimes a little free association can take us down an amusing path to sparkling treasure.

For me, the starting point was ballroom dancing. As a freelancer, my flavor of the week can be just about anything; this time, it’s dancing. Often when I start a new writing project, I go to sleep with ideas swirling about, in hopes a few will collide and stir creative copy. Other times, it’s just dust.

While listening to the radio on Sunday, I sang along with Procol Harum’s “A Whiter Shade of Pale,” as I had a thousand times before. It’s a beautiful song. This time, though, I wondered what in the world it meant that “We skipped the light fandango.” I thought about it. Could the phrase be a variation on “trip the light fantastic?”

I always considered trip the light fantastic to be ritzy and glitzy, from another era. I’ve never found occasion to use it in conversation, and certainly never understood where it came from or what it even meant exactly. (For you younger readers, it means to dance nimbly or lightly in a pattern.)

On Monday I woke up mulling my latest writing challenge. Might there be a place for tripping the light fantastic? I looked it up to ensure I understood the meaning and origin of the expression. Good thing too because I learned that, not only did it come from Shakespeare’s The Tempest, but “tripping the light fantastic” was sixties drug lingo.

I continued searching. And I found a most delightful poem by John Milton, L’Allegro, published in 1645. It’s 150 lines long; I’ll share just the first excerpt that popped up:

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and youthful Jollity,
Quips and cranks and wanton wiles,
Nods and becks and wreathed smiles
Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it, as you go,
On the light fantastic toe;
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free …

Don’t you just love it?

Later in the poem, I found bonus words I’ll tuck away, should I ever be hired to write about beer:

To many a youth and many a maid,
Dancing in the chequer’d shade;
And young and old come forth to play
On a Sunshine Holyday
Till the live-long daylight fail,
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale.

So here’s to A Whiter Shade of Pale.

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