There was an old man from Keokuk,
Who suffered a spate of bad luck,
He said with a grin,
When he finally got in,
I couldn't buy a break for a buck!
September’s Apples
By Frank Daub
September apples rest in the cellar,
barely in the light,
mellow,
turning cider
beneath their shining skins like cinnamon wine.
I bite one –
juice bubbles out
to the edges of my mouth.
There is sweetness first.
Then at once the tart September taste and
the white circle roughly broken from
the red round.
How long, I wonder, before the white darkens.
The white goes nut colored
before
I can finish peeling the red entirety --
Or
after I’ve taken the first bite.
What is it that makes us put apples in the cellar?
To keep them Autumn-like, extending the
crispness of a season bringing harvest?
This, or it does something to their flavor that the sun can’t finish.
I try to remember how the apples tasted when the old man and I pulled them
from the tree.
They were cold.
A little less mellow.
They are sweeter now.
Being buried was good for them. Buried in the deep cool of this cellar,
away from the sun.
At evening the old man would play
As if colors sighed themselves in strings
Like a rainbow he lit the room
With every note or tune
Love and loves beauty, echoed out
Like water to flowers
His violin spoke like it was alive
Like telling his music in words
To those who would listen and enjoy
Outside in the streets the sound
Rang out for miles
His dedication to his art
Came from within his very soul
He creates a magical world of sound
As each note is played with love and deep attention
His mind with only one thought
His music, his solace
Played through a heart that comes alive
With each passing note played
Each night he would play until early morning
At day when he could
Never tiring of his creations
Under his guidance the Violin became alive
It spoke to him, and he listened
That’s what made the Music so wonderful
They created it together
With love and perfect harmony
Together
The ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ yellow ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ dust
across the ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
¦¦¦ old man's ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ room ¦¦¦
came back ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ to steal
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ and ¦¦¦¦¦ change,
to open ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
to break ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
and share ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ overflowing,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
wrapped in ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ gold ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ the ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ music ¦¦¦ gone. ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ his ¦¦¦¦ voice broken
with the weight of all
those lost ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ --
"If you knew ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ That music
made ¦¦¦ each day ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
forever ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
darkening ¦¦¦¦ dusk.
The music ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ would laugh
¦¦¦ until it went ¦¦¦
¦¦¦ days began and ended
without the ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ fist,
without the old truths
of blood ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ without
the loud cries ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ without song.
There was an old man who didn't know he was old.
Offering to help ladies carry their load
He'd tinker with their car or buy them a drink at the bar
But if he got fresh, they'd get in distress and shut him down cold for being so bold
A Grandfather and Grandson
Together as a team
Preparation in the uplift
Wisdom expressed
Grandfather words, “LISTEN WELL TO MY TEACHINGS”
Commodity takes courage
Efforts and Talent that will follow
Elements of exploration
Believe in yourself and rule out can’t
Successful is an eventful moment
Endeavors ever after
Knowledge in wisdom wonder
Through the eyes of one’s observation
An Old Man teaching his Grandson an inspiring lesson
Can do principle
Attention given
Out of the mouth of Doubt came the revelation of assurance
This is a true story
My Grandfather has gone to glory
I am the Grandson
Commodity from his knowledge became my reality
Well trained and wonderfully prepared
I am my Grand Fathers product
Survival tool
Having understanding being no Fool
My Grandfathers last words, “You are going to remember this Old Man”
Good reason in never forget
His loss I regret
Lifelong sustaining life into the ever after.
Five decades ago, one dusk after field duty
I stood at Moirang Lamkhai by the roadside
waiting for the passenger bus.
No bus came the last one might had gone I feared.
Then I spied an old man, dhoty hitched to knees,
shirt of cotton coarse sleeves long.
Bare foot he strode in the hush of the twilight.
I hailed, " Uncle has the last bus gone ? "
" Yes, it has gone, no more tonight." he replied,
" Homeward bound ? Don't worry stay at my house tonight."
No hotel in the bazaar but a pure hospitality.
We walked the road, his voice was gentle.
" See how the land developed - going on the road
feels like going on my home's floor (earthen)."
Then Gopaljee Sharma,Asstt Registrar C.S.
rolled in by office jeep post duty.
He called me aboard : I thanked the kind elder,
bade farewell, returned to my residence.
Now Moirang Bazar boasts hotels.
But such a kind hospitable old man,
which was the characteristics of people in the old days,
is not seen again.
There was an old man from Timbuktu
Who had a breath that smelled like poo
He had lots of money
But halitosis isn’t funny
His laughter made people spew.
OLD MAN FOX
Old man FOX in his La-Z-Boy chair
feeding his fuse all day.
Conditioned by hatred and fear,
rotting his brain away.
A hate harvested fear mongered,
MAGA cult minion,
used, abused, and bamboozled,
and spoon fed his opinion.
He's hillbilly born, shamed and scorned,
a social ne'er-do-well.
A narcissistic cover charge
to a special place in hell.
He never learned the social graces.
Left to fend for himself.
He fought to rise, and tried to hide
his background on a shelf.
The more he tries the less he'll change,
irrelevant of class.
Packaged and polished bigotry
Twas taught to him en masse.
His southern charm, meant to disarm,
obsequious and fake.
A since of freedom as pale as his skin
bought by a man on the take.
A Grandfather and Grandson
Together as a team
Preparation in the uplift
Wisdom expressed
Grandfather words, “LISTEN WELL TO MY TEACHINGS”
Commodity takes courage
Efforts and Talent that will follow
Elements of exploration
Believe in yourself and rule out can’t
Successful is an eventful moment
Endeavors ever after
Knowledge in wisdom wonder
Through the eyes of one’s observation
An Old Man teaching his Grandson an inspiring lesson
Can do principle
Attention given
Out of the mouth of Doubt came the revelation of assurance
This is a true story
My Grandfather has gone to glory
I am the Grandson
Commodity from his knowledge became my reality
Well trained and wonderfully prepared
I am my Grand Fathers product
Survival tool
Having understanding being no Fool
My Grandfathers last words, “You are going to remember this Old Man”
Good reason in never forget
His loss I regret
Lifelong sustaining life into the ever after.
There once was an old man in love,
Who was smooth as a cue ball above,
As he looked for a gift,
He rode up the lift,
He said, " If I saved my hair, I could knit her gloves!"
I have counted mornings
not by calendars
but by the stiffness in my hands
and the patience of the kettle.
Once, I believed
life was a ledger of later—
save the laughter,
postpone the journeys,
wait for a day
that wore perfection like a crown.
But time, that quiet thief,
taught me arithmetic of another kind:
subtract hesitation,
divide sorrow by kindness,
multiply wonder wherever it hides.
Now I rise
not to chase youth
but to greet the fragile, golden present—
this breath,
this light leaning through the curtain,
this sparrow rehearsing joy on the sill.
Seize the day, you say?
Ah, do more than seize—
taste it.
Let it stain your fingers with meaning.
Call the friend,
Forgive the wound,
Walk where the sky is wider than your worry.
Love without the timid grammar of “someday.”
For I have learned,
as twilight gathers softly at my door,
that a well-lived moment
outshines a thousand careful plans.
And if tomorrow comes,
welcome it.
But today—
today is the miracle.
My grandson loves being on stage
And with characters he does engage.
In his middle school show
He let everyone know,
By his actions, he was of old age.
Old Man Jenkins* was his latest part
And he nailed it from right at the start.
With a walker he moved,
Stooped and slowly, and proved
Comic instincts will set him apart.
For he stayed very true to his role,
Which, of course, is an actor’s real goal.
Though he wasn’t the lead
I think he did succeed
To win praise in the spotlight he stole.
*from “Sponge Bob, the Musical”
I stood in the door of dads work shed. The sun was pouring in the windows and dust was floating.
In corners cobwebs hung like wisps of threads. On his bench an untouched coffee mug and a pen,
a sketch of something he had been working on. Tin cans held nails and screws, hooks held his
old, well used tools. It looked like he had just stepped out for a minute but he would not be
coming back for he had left for heaven this day.
as a child I sat
on that wood bench bathed in sun
and good memories
Old man winter ~ you are way tooooo cold for me.
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