Author: poetrypause

r..i.p.

David Tober lost his life
 Jumping to his death;
 A leap resulting in the act
 Of taking his last breath.
 
 At eighty-nine his life was full
 Of excess from success;
 A humble man by all accounts,
 Never flaunting his noblesse.

 Sugar Foods he owned and ran,
 A New York company;
 Sweet ’n Low among their brands
 Now found abundantly.
 
 Fourteen hundred now employed
 From modest start of few,
 Door to door and phone to phone
 He worked until it grew.
 
 But Parkinson’s had taken toll,
 A busy man he’d been;
 It seems he couldn’t face a world
 He’d toil no more again.
 
 A graduate of Harvard Law,
 Meals on Wheels he’d start;
 His wife the editor of Brides
 And trustees both of art.
 
 In every restaurant everywhere,
 Ubiquitous is found
 The granules of his life and times
 Unfettered and unbound.
 

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On the beach in Malibu,
Far from herds of caribou,
Rolling waves and foaming mist
Wash away the memories missed.
 
In tidal pools of teeming form,
Anemone and starfish swarm.
Porpoise passing off the pier
Breech and breathe and disappear.
 
There beneath the moon and stars,
Gemini and planet Mars,
Drew I the breath of nascent birth,
And nursed the breast of Mother Earth.
 
Churning tides along the strand
Incessantly refresh the sand.
Carried to the open sea,
Silhouettes I left of me.

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circaa 2008
  
A film director passed away,
Unknown to most but he had sway;
Shot a film that’d change the way
Folks at home could love and play.
 
The film he made for us to see,
An icon of the industry;
Long before pornography
Went mainstream like the open sea.
 
A six-day shoot for little cash,
And for the big screen folks would dash;
Linda Lovelace made a splash 
When lots of skin the girl would flash.
 
A porno film that had a plot,
Twisted sure, but it was hot.
From the shadows viewers shot
To watch the film in public spots.
 
No more sneaking ‘round to view
Films of what we love to do;
From his film a business grew
An industry from that taboo.
 
Buried in the family plot,
A phallic gravestone marks the spot.
His place in movies, not forgot, 
Thanks to Deep Throat that he shot.

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Marie Douglas-David
Has filed for divorce,
Counseling didn’t help her,
It seems the only course.
 
Her husband, UT Chairman,
George David had agreed,
Accepting the petition
Until he smelled her greed.
 
The missus has no income
And claims she has to spend
Fifty grand and more a week
Meeting all her ends.
 
Eight grand a week to travel,
A thousand on her hair,
Four thousand and a half again
On clothes that she must wear.
 
Add to that her housing,
Her food and other wants,
Her week expensed in dollars
Would stun a debutante.
 
How’s she thinks her value
To play a divorcee’
Is worth that kind of money
To a man she threw away?
 
Delusion must impede her
Common sense and any thought;
She’s acting like a hooker 
Whose company is bought.

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Inspiration finds a home
In places sometimes strange;
The beacon’s light illuminates
Beyond its target range.
 
Frank Milio is ninety-three,
Near Sarasota lives;
Carlos Underhill is too,
Thus inspiration gives.
 
Frank and Carlos face the law
For both of them were caught
Within an undercover sting
By ladies that they bought.
 
Twenty bucks and thirty bucks
Respectively they spent,
Acquiring service that they sought
From ladies that you rent.
 
Carlos in his seventies
Had once been caught before,
And paid a fine to stay outside
The local lockup door.
 
Uplifting as a summer’s day,
And stirring as a star,
The pot of gold awaiting us
Where rainbow’s endings are.
 
When you’re feeling old and gray,
Remember these old coots,
Then load the cannon, light the fuse,
And see if it still shoots. 

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Jackson a kitten once rat-like
Grew to a size much more cat-like
  She was pleasant when new
  But annoying she grew,
No longer the kitten that I liked.
 
She whines at my feet without ending
Tripping me often upending
  When her body is stuck
  Between strides and she’s struck
By my feet, to the air the cat sending.
 
She’s constantly moving, in motion,
Back and forth, to and fro, locomotion.
  Neurotically bent,
  She’s devoid of content,
A source of eternal commotion.
 
An Olympian hairball contender,
Licking her fur ‘til she renders
  The flooring hirsute,
  The gold in pursuit,
‘Til each hair she has swallowed surrenders.
 
She walks on your back while you’re sleeping,
On your face, should you snore, she is creeping.
  A companion disturbed,
  Her gift to perturb
The one to whom she owes her keeping.

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An undersized village
In a township so small,
No one’s in a hurry
To do much at all.
 
The roadways are traveled
By tractors and trucks
And horses and buggies,
The deer and some ducks.
 
When you pass other folks
They give you a nod,
No pretense is harbored,
No phony façade.
 
They ask where you’re from,
They’ve not seen you around –
How’d you come to be here
In this town that you’ve found.
 
It’s Andy and Opie
Aunt Bee and the rest,
In a time between now
And the old wild west. 

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It’ll be a good life,
No traffic or cars;
No lights from the city
Obscuring the stars.
 
Cows in the meadows
Sheep graze in flocks,
Horses and buggies
Turning back clocks.
 
Flannel shirt farmers
And calico wives,
Children in families
Where families survive.
 
No water, no sewer,
No oil or gas;
On dirt covered roads
Rare vehicles pass.
 
Unending the world
Does further the space
Distinguishing now
From this time and place.
 
Where flora and fauna
Exist without strife;
A part of the whole -
It’ll be a good life.

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At Mission Park South,
San Antonio’s claim,
A hearse bore the dead
And the family all came.
 
A beautiful day
In a South Texan town,
The mourners had gathered,
All teardrops and frowns.
 
Assigned to the bier
To carry the dead
To the hole in the ground
Where prayers would be said,
 
Joe Rivas was ready
For the honor and task
To bear the deceased
As the family had asked.
 
He lifted the handle
And with five other men,
Transported in tribute
The man who had been. 
 
As they lifted the coffin
To place in the hole,
The turf artificial
Gave way and Joe rolled
 
Into the crevice
And Joe’s torso lay
In the spot where the coffin
On him would soon weigh.
 
Panic conspired 
To gather the men
Required to lift it
From Joe once again.
 
Joe’s been disabled
By a crushing defeat
At the hands of the dead
As he lay in the peat.
 
Mission Park South’s
Being sued by the man -
The hole was too big,
Too grand was the span.
 
Backhoes and sextons,
A vault of cement,
The mourned and the mourning
Joined in descent.

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A Michigan man
Who enjoys a few beers,
Frederick McKaney
Faces four years.
 
There isn’t much crime 
In the north of the state,
An exception, McKaney,
He can’t play it straight.
 
Not much of a crime
When compared to the crimes
Of the cities and boroughs
I’ve seen in my time.
 
But resourceful for sure,
No big city ways
Were called into action
For his criminal phase.
 
Nonetheless it went down,
And the weapons he’d pick
Were a fork and some poultry -
The pick of a hick.
 
He stabbed his dear mother
With a fork she had served
A dinner for two,
Which was more than deserved.
 
The neighbor who came
To assist dear ol’ mom,
Was assaulted by chickens
That he lobbed like a bomb.
 
The chicken was frozen
And left quite a dent
In the head of the neighbor
He chose to torment.
 
So he’s off to the hoosegow
To pay for his deed,
With a fork and a chicken
He’ll likely not feed.

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