Long Ninety three Poems
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When we were young and growing through our teens, we've all had our favorite teachers. I've had a few teachers that made the grade. But I must say, there was one woman teacher in particular that was at the top of the podium for me. Because I always kept to myself, she probably had no idea that she was my favorite. I was that curly-haired shy boy who never did his homework on time. That being said, she always passed me with mediocre grades, C's and B's. I never minded those grades, as long as I passed I was cool with that. To me, she could have failed me and she still would have been my favorite. She was always so nice and wonderful. I remember saying to myself " Boy, she reminds me of my own mother...nice, sweet, and kind" Just a lovely woman she was. Well, about ten years ago I had read in the local newspaper that sadly she had passed away at the age of ninety-three. In her obituary they had mentioned her surviving loved ones, those that were proceeded by her, and some of her favorite things she liked in life. One of her surviving daughters mentioned how she loved children and she enjoyed teaching. She had also mentioned that one of her favorite students was a curl-haired boy who never handed in his homework on time. ( In the newspaper she mentioned my name, but I won't reveal it to the judge of this contest). I was shocked to see that, and my grin covered half my face. Although this is a bit sad, I was very happy that the both of us were each others secret favorites.
happily, I cried
it touched me deeply...inside
rest in peace - Miss Jane
Hey, Write Me A Happy Haibun Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Caren Krutsinger
6-21-2019
by Robert (Bob) Moore © 2015
I have a lovely quilt, that my wife stitched for me
she said ‘twill keep your legs warm, while you’re watching TV
don’t know how old she thinks I am, I’m only seventy three
but she said “it will be good for you, especially your sore knee”
She made me a cushion too, so comfy I would be
I think she has the notion I just sit and watch TV
it has a chess motif on it, cause I like chess you see
a Castle and a King, they could be just the key
I use the cushion every day, to play chess, and watch TV
but I don’t use the quilt much, it gets too hot for me
so on the back of the chair, that’s where it will be
and will stay there till I need it, maybe when I’m ninety three
the hospital corridors were as quiet as death
until loud male-sounding footsteps slapped down the hallway
I peeked out, expecting to see a doctor
I saw no one; but the footsteps were coming
click click click click click click
they stopped right at my door
a chill went through me
I thought of Mr. Eisenhower
was he okay? should I go check?
too late for that, a ghastly voice whispered
directly into my left ear.
I knew what jumping with fright felt like now.
except I was frozen, I could not even scream.
an unknown entity followed me that night
to the nurse’s station, the water fountain,
the soda pop machine, I felt it was a ghoul
not a poltergeist, not a friendly entity
I fell asleep briefly while charting.
My head jerked up as I came back.
“Better check on Mrs. McFee,” the voice hissed.
I was terrified; paralyzed with fear.
Mr. Eisenhower was okay, but Mrs. McFee had vanished.
No one ever saw her again.
a ninety-three-year-old woman who could not walk.
I thought that I knew everything
Had learned all there was to learn
I thought I had a world of knowledge
Then I turned into a man of twenty-one
I thought I had reached a ripe old age
And was thankful that I was still alive
I thought that my best years were in my past
Then I turned into a man of thirty-five
I thought finally I had reached my prime
There was nothing left for me to do
I thought all objectives had been met
Then I turned into a man of fifty-two
I thought there was nothing left to give
Nothing new left to explore
I thought my passport could be put away
Then I turned into a man of seventy-four
Now I realize there’s much more to learn
Much more living I can achieve
I know there are accomplishments still to come
As I turn into a boy of ninety-three
They scheduled my wedding for Friday the Thirteenth
It was the only opening the scheduler had seen.
I said to my fiancé: I can't go through with this
It's bad luck and bad karma, give you a farewell kiss.
My fiancé started crying, said my love wasn't real-
A bat flying out of my toilet shouldn't break the deal.
But my crystal sends vibrations, there wasn't a real choice
And my fortune cookie paper said, "live free and rejoice."
(chorus)
They say its superstition, its medieval, and it's sad
But I walked under a ladder, tripped over a black cat
A mirror cracked when I preened in front of the glass.
So on this marriage, sweetie pie, I have to take a pass.
So my fiancé took me to Sedona, where the energy vortex lies
I met a red rock oracle, where the green pines frame the skies
He told me I could break the superstitious ties that bind
I could marry my fiancé and I could ease my mind.
So now we've settled in New Mexico, by the hills of Santa Fe.
We've got thirteen kids, and I wish I'd run away.
I take care of them because my spouse has joined a cult
I'm scared to complain; the guru would take it as insult.
So every Friday the thirteenth I count unlucky stars
While thirteen little bicycles are scattered in the yard
So if you meet bad omens, friends, take some advice from me
Run to your Ferrari, push the pedal to ninety-three.
He puffed the magic dragon
Till he was ninety-three
And frolicked in a smoky mist
Beneath the ganja tree
With little pipes and papers
He loved to huff and puff
It made him think such silly things
And munch a bunch of stuff
All red-eyed he would travel
With puff deep in his pouch
To blaze a trail thru rain or hail
Or tatered on the couch
But then one day of sorrow
He could find no puff no more
And from then till the morrow
Was jonesing on the floor
Without his lifelong friend
He died lonely in his cave
Tho everyone that knew him
Laid sticky hops on his grave
Now he puffs the magic dragon
Above both you and me
And frolics in a smoky mist
Beneath the ganja tree
Something terrible has happened to the entire world, we've lost Christopher Lee.
He was Count Dracula and he was also Saruman in The Lord of the Rings trilogy.
He starred as Francisco Scaramanga in a James Bond film and as Lord Summerisle in The Wicker Man.
He believed that his greatest performance was as Mohammad Ali Jinnah, the founder of modern Pakistan.
He starred in two Star Wars movies as Count Dooku.
He was a talented actor, a singer and an author too.
Sadly, this fantastic thespian has died at the age of ninety-three.
People are shedding tears as we say goodbye to Christopher Lee.
(Dedicated to Christopher Lee who died on June 7, 2015.)
Ballad of Smorgasbord Cat
Once upon a hot July night
Smorgasbord Cat was born, not right.
The only kitten born with clothes,
She came out wearing pantyhose.
Blue bellbottoms when she turned eight,
Made her feel insanely great.
Her siblings bullied her for fun
But she was powerful, this one.
She’s odd, her mother told her dad.
But she’s so good, and seldom bad.
Where did she get her name? He asked.
I do not know, her mother basked.
Smorgasbord Cat soon ran a club,
She sold drink and delicious grub.
Her relatives all bragged her up.
She gave them each a special cup.
That cat lived to be ninety-three.
And now just between you and me,
I admit I gave her that name.
On a bet at a poker game.
Smorgasbord Cat has her own song.
Cross-eyed face, and red tail, long.
Yes, bawdy and funny, was she.
Married five times, litters of three.
Happy, joyful lots of fun,
Smorgasbord Cat, truly best one
At her funeral everyone came.
No one knows where she got her name.
It had been ninety three hankering hours
since we had last spoken.
A little rift had set our bond adrift.
This pacing evening, I heard
a sudden drop in my front door mailbox.
Thinking it was the wind, I didn't respond quickly.
The sound of a shutting car door followed.
It took minutes for curiosity's reach to
cautiously retrieve an unstamped envelope
with only my name inscribed on the front.
With a careful tear of the lick trail and
the crispness of this rare letter unfolding,
my senses delighted in your unique imprint.
I could smell your sloughed skin,
with a whiff of your Old Spice cologne.
I could almost feel
your fingerprint ridges upon the edges.
Your energy weaved
throughout factory bleached fibers,
each intensely pressed midnight line
looping and riding
on a mystery journey waywardly
into my long awaited heart.
Each jagged lift and dip
likened to a pair of doves amidst their mating ritual,
playing a game of tag and chase.
I heard your tenor tone with each soothing syllable.
Your yearning sang a sonnet
of the reasons your heart stirred for me.
Flatteries lifted me on floating wings
and kept me soaring as you recalled
all our pleasant experiences and
apologized for our few misleadings.
You pleaded that we would
withstand misunderstandings
and embrace each other's differences,
connecting our opposing puzzle pieces
to frame a work of art.
I pictured the moment you
passionately placed your pen upon the page.
Perhaps you hovered over every word,
crumbling up rough drafts.
Perhaps your awakened emotions free-handedly led
your whimsical words to perfection.
Your intentions were clear and confident,
certain of what you wanted,
and I was sure,
even before your passionate persuasion,
that I wanted the same.
12-24-19
No one knows,
where time goes.
The days slip to weeks and months
and male models no longer seem like youthful hunks.
I wonder where will I be
when twenty years from now, I'm ninety three.
In looking back these odd seventy plus years,
is revealed the all in both happiness and tears.
If health remains in check
I'll glad and happily look back.
After all this time, writing both prose and rhyme
I'll relax my bones though crackling and metering time,
Dustily collected in my poetry books
you can read about my decades of gobbledygook.
Clear in those poems you will find me hiding
in my garden spot still writing.