Posted in Best Wishes, Books & Stories, Holiday And Celebrate, Movies, new year, poetry

Until Midnight

 

Well

Clothes are drying

I had no intention to do

But

The towel along the base of the sliding glass doors

Was damp

Frozen too and I thought

Could this be the reason for the slight uncomfortable breath

That bit of fresh air I didn’t need

On my toes

So I took it up and laid two more down

Tucked them all around and it felt warmer or was it me

It was late enough for reasonable rates

Utilities

So I began

And it just added to everything else I’d done today

Vacuuming, dusting, maybe now I’ll sneeze less

About time I’d say

Taking down decorations

Except a small bit of the tree

My grandson wanted to help out you see

He’ll be over again

Anyway

That is my day and my New Year’s Eve

Who says we have to celebrate the same

Between was a 1951 film where men wore suits to mow their lawns while tipping hats when ladies walked by

Later on a Hammer Classic Dracula

Then Boogie and Bacall

Or is it Bogie

Anyone out there at all

A New York Winter’s Tale

Now what I don’t know but I have a few left to choose

Making toast

A glass of wine

I’m fine

 

 

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Posted in Books & Stories, Music, new year

Breaking Into Song

Yawning awake or yawning I may just sit here for a while I haven’t decided. But, I’m a little chilly, sweater or bathrobe the biggest decision to be made. If only these could be the worst. Up I go. I could add time to the dryer too. Drowsiness sets in thanks to a mouthful of wine, single digits to teens stay outside.

Nothing intelligible so far or am I brilliant? There goes the heat. Reminds me of The Sound Of Music, a few of my favorite tings, things. I’m thirsty. Water. I can’t sit still. The bathroom again. My eyes want to close and there’s the bed.

Maybe the morning and then I don’t feel so bad schnitzel notwithstanding.

There I am.

Head in hand as my arm guides me to the table, slide stop, slide stop, slide stop… headache thinks it should be. Christmas tree lights in their last few days, new times wait in the wing. That’s it for now, mañana, oh; it already is.

Posted in Books & Stories, Culinary Art, new year

Forego The Early Morning Toast

Sunset, but how can you tell when there was no sun? According to the time of day the weather report said at this time it’ll be sunset. Take it on faith. Yeah, that’d be about it.

A quiet day after Christmas, perfectly frozen that 11 degrees feels like 1. In we stayed except to check the mail. Put the trash out a few days early confident no animal if it dared stray any further than a few feet in front of the door to do its business would be interested in necessarily scentless on account of being freeze-dried trash. Besides, I usually feed the sink-monster old food. Now what day will it be picked up when there’s a holiday? Later instead of sooner.

No worries as the lights dim. I’ll sleep, wake later on, put a movie in and sleep some more. When it’s light again with the promise of below zero I’ll bake this small round orangey-striped squash, I’ve had a note on my counter for a few days now as a reminder, and possibly finish off some leftover shrimp.

 

 

 

Posted in Books & Stories, Comedy Of Errors, Just Poetry

Holiday Cheer

 

After Hours

 

He raised the goblet to his mouth

It was red wine he’d planned to drink deep

But what were those specs

Skin of the grape not pasteurized

Sediment from the bottom of the barrel

Barrel’s bottom poetically so

That should smell sweet

 

But a closer look

 

They had tiny wings

All eight of them they do, or did

“Seriously?” he exclaimed to no one near

They weren’t moving

They’d had their fill

Died trying to finish it off

That’s a laugh

Like trying to drink the ocean dry

Not in anyone’s lifetime

 

What to do

About these squatters

Skinny-dipping D’Abruzzo pool

He got a spoon

Scooped one by one

Meticulously so

Commanding sternly

“Little bastard, spit it out!”

No response sealed fate all round

Tossed into the disposal

Into infinity ground, mashed more accurately so

Pulverized

The deed now done

He drained his glass without a sound

 

 

 

Posted in Books & Stories, Fiction & Poetry

My Christmas Stocking

 

Well Here We Are

Now I wonder if it’ll stay.

So far so good without Word. With the latest upgrade Word documents are lost, now you have to pay and for whatever reason the system isn’t putting anything through saying my request can’t be completed, so Pages it is. Why Lord, why? Nah. I’ll move along with the times. Actually I was trying to pay for a monthly subscription … fools. Get out your tools and fix the glitch.

Don’t want coffee, not in the mood for cocoa, fell more like apple cider, nope, feel more like apple cider. Maybe tomorrow…

But I remember 

Like a mythical creature I ran, my feet not touching the ground, or at least that’s how it seemed. Below zero it was and a perfect frozen world

Tres glistened , how about trees petrified from ice outlining each

Too much snow to remove

Frozen white everything was paved

I would not feel the cold

I was going home

Didn’t want to be with him anyway

From New York himself but this place poisens everything, or poisons

Nothing sagged on me that night

Firm and held high by default you could say

Or who I am

In my true form for no one to see I ran

To where I wanted to be

Didn’t know about blurbon shouldn’t it be bourbon manhattans

Back then

With bandaged thumb I can’t type

Is that why

Or did I have one

It’s after 1am which means nothing except I have lots of bad habits to develop over two weeks of Christmas holiday and the first of a new year

I’ll miss nothing first and foremost work

A cappuccino’d be good and fragrant through the place combined with pine scented wax slowly liquifying, liquifying slow

Now which one is better you think

A breath of winter

Tomorrow morning brings a promise of snow

We’ll see

Posted in poetry

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/having-coke-you

Having a Coke with You

Frank O’Hara1926 – 1966

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together for the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
                               it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I’m telling you about it

 

 

From The Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara by Frank O’Hara, copyright © 1971 by Maureen Granville-Smith, Administratrix of the Estate of Frank O’Hara, copyright renewed 1999 by Maureen O’Hara Granville-Smith and Donald Allen. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.

Frank O'Hara

Frank O’Hara

Born on March 27, 1926, Frank O’Hara was one of the most distinguished members of the New York School of poets.