By PDMACpayday loans

“We Are All Water” – Yoko Ono

 
The Army of Morning Dew-Drops has a tradition
Of concealing midnight tear survivors
Hiding them scattered through the ranks
Tears quietly referred to only as “Salty Cadets”
Rank upon rank, and row upon row
Every drop glistens and gleams as the garrison musters for dawn
The Generalissimo turns a saline blind eye

Filed Under Poetry & Essay
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Birthday at Five

My wife and I took our grandson to another five year old’s birthday party. Our main job was to say “Hello, thank you” and “Goodbye, thank you”. For this we would each be paid a piece of cake. Also we would be our grandson’s on call adults if needed (which we were not). Our hosts were welcoming and very gracious. They had planned many fun games and activities. A great deal of thought and work had gone into the event.
The party was outside and moved along at a fast pace that was perfect for a group of eleven excited boys who wanted to run and play.
The Birthday Boy’s two older brothers coordinated the games and entertainment. They were good sports about helping out with the younger kids. The boys attacked the piñata
not only with bamboo poles but with Super Soakers as well, which I had never seen done before. When it was time to completely demolish the piñata I noticed one boy was wearing a John Coltrane shirt. An unusual choice for someone so young. I sought my wife’s hand, gave it a squeeze, and thought of our grandson, and two grand daughters. Then Coltrane came back, A love Supreme.

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Yogi’s Cat

She was a terrible waitress and we didn’t care. In her charming shy English she and my wife were discussing the history of immunization and plague, while her cousins covered for her. She was a doctoral student specializing in possible future pandemics. Since relatives were putting her up for the semester while she worked at the local university,
it only seemed right she should help out in their small Thai restaurant.
To include me in the conversation, she nodded briefly and said “I like your shirt very much. It is like the song”. She smiled, I smiled, my wife smiled , and I had no idea what song she meant.
My shirt was a lightweight plaid cowboy shirt complete with pearly buttons onto which my wife had sewn 70’s embroidered cats. Two little cats angled over the pockets playing different musical instruments. I tried to think of “shirt song” and did come up with Donavan and Elvis Costello tunes before our waitress gently prompted “you know,” and in her small lovely voice sang “Everybody wants to be a cat……”. The theme song from the “Aristocats”. The Disney animated film for praising cat lifestyles that came out shortly after “Lady and the Tramp” was such a hit. My wife knew it and started to sing, so did the cousins who joined in and in a true Broadway moment a surprising number of the other diners sang along. Only a few people new the song beyond the chorus
and even fewer knew the second verse, but people smiled and hummed along.
One of the cousins brought our food, our waitress gave another little nod and left.
My wife divided brow rice between us, and seemed to think all this was completely normal. I thought what a strange shift in our time-space continuum there had been. Singing a song from a cartoon movie I hadn’t thought of in forty years. Yet who could appreciate all this? Maybe if Yogi Berra had a cat. Deja vu all over again. Meow.
Doug Mathewson

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Lend a Hand

Depending on the season Gus-Boy worked construction or fixing cars.
Place he bent wrenches fixed up donated cars and gave ‘em away. Just old cars to get you to work or for folks with kids who lived out in the hills,
Painted his name on the trunk of everyone so if he or a friend saw it broke down, they’d know to stop and lend a hand.
Doug Mathewson

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Qui etes-vous

Emily said, “I am nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too? ….
I am not Charlie’
nor The Prophet’s son.
Just a friend of Emily’s,
and that is quite enough.
by Doug Mathewson

Filed Under Micro Fiction, Poetry & Essay
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Wilhelm’s Job

Since Wilhelm was the oldest, his job was wiping snot from Grandfather’s great
walrus like mustache. Wilhelm often waited until long drooping strands were dangling off
Grandfathers chin. Grandfather did not care for Wilhelm. Wilhelm did not care for Grandfather.

Gretchen, the youngest, just knew in her heart she’d knife the old man before she’d take over Wilhelm’s job. She stabbing Grandfather would make their mother very sad Gretchen knew, so she daydreamed about burning their little house down while everyone was asleep.

Wilhelm’s middle sister, Little Martha, told all this to the blind man who sold postcards in front of the Cathedral. They were close friends. Little Martha picked out all the postcards that he sold. She told him they were religious paintings by Renaissance Masters depicting Saints, Holy Miracles, and Bible stories.

They were actually photos naked muscle men. The pictures were well done, Mediterranean sunshine gave a warm tone to the oiled bodies of these young men.
Most often they posed to display their striking physiques. Sometimes they were kissing or just holding hands.

by-Doug Mathewson

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Modern Medicine

The new vet diagnosed our old cat’s as being hyper-thyroid,
and prescribed a medicated cream to be applied twice daily.
The cream comes in felt tipped applicators. Two twist of the
base puts the proper dosage on the tip, and you gently rub it
inside the cat’s ears. This beats trying to get a pill down her by far.
The applicators are expensive! I’m thinking we could supplement
the medication with a high-liter. Alternate the two for a placebo
affect. Besides, Kitten will be so cute with florescent yellow ears
and coal black fur. Just the perfect picture for our Christmas cards.

by Doug Mathewson

Filed Under Micro Fiction
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Schools and Government Offices will be closed.

Hangings have always been good for business.
The She-Scouts made little nooses to sell.
The He-Scouts will roast sausages stuck on sticks.
Tomorrow they’ll string up the guy who slipped all
those nasty annoying little spinning pinwheels into Apple
computers. The turnout should be huge.

.
Doug Mathewson
 

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November 3rd

I bought a ice cream sandwich and a lottery ticket at the gas station on my way to vote so it wouldn’t be wasted trip.
 
doug mathewson

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Montreal

Yellow hybrid Prius taxi cab.
Windows open airport to hotel Grand Prix.
Tall Nigerian driver shouting French.
Shooting his hands left and right pointing out
bars, restaurants, clubs, and galleries.
Places where an uncle or a cousin works.
He promises me special treatment, special prices.
“The common, the ordinary, these are not for you.”
he adds, as we run every red-light.

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