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Won’t Ya Be My Ballantyne?

January 28, 2020
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Two days ago on Facebook I posted a Bad Pun Brain Teaser. I asked my audience which John Denver song was the favorite of Belfast resident Leland Finn. I added that the first person with the correct answer would be the subject of a custom-crafted, illustrated acrostic poem. The acrostic would be a pun on some form of the winner’s name.

Quite soon after I posted, Jessica answered correctly with “Leaving on a Jet Plane.” Friends, please take a moment to try to deduce why Belfast resident Leland Finn would regard “Leaving on a Jet Plane” as his favorite song.

Got it? No? Well, Jess DID get it–that the (nonexistent) Leland Finn, also known as Lee Finn, might love airplane travel so much that “Lee Finn on a Jet Plane” might tickle his fancy.

Anybody groan with displeasure? I did, again, and I wrote the damned thing. It is not just a Bad Pun–it is a WRETCHED Pun. But it made a good Brain Teaser for the agile brain of Jessica “Hot Jess” Ballantyne.

So a deal’s a deal, and Jess, Congratulations, and I hope you like it!

Won’t You Be My Ballantyne?

What a Pleasure ’tis to B
On a Role with scones and tea
Ne’er a Worry e’er a Thrill
‘Tis a maid with looks to Kill
Yesterday in Slam’s arena
Awesome Tactics meat and Vegan
Bittersweetness to a T
Esoteric artistry
May this Worthy Lass long reign
Young and gleefully Insane

 

breakfast with the more-than-funny man

January 26, 2020
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out of respect and admiration for the subject of this post, valley performance poet bill campana, lowercase will be used throughout, in the style (if not with the astonishing wit) of bill’s outstanding poetry.

bill took me to breakfast this morning. it was part of a deal we’d agreed on to put a ceramic vase i’d made, and bill had seen in my blog post “foom-bozzle-wozzle, part 3,” on long-term loan to bill. it is now in bill’s possession, and i’m proud as can be.

bill and i go back more than ten years, back to my early days of poetry performance, when i was still nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, and bill was supplementing his income with serious money earned by winning poetry slam competitions. in 2010 bill was the host of a the open-mic poetry event “sound effects,” and in may of that year he decreed that may 2010 was “gary bowers month.” that decree incentivized me to write, and perform, some of my best poetry.

pondering why he “gary bowers month”ed me way back when, bill attributes it to impulse: “i just did it.” but once he did it, he stuck to it, and riffed on it, and made a real something out of his impulsive throwaway thought.

and that, i think, is some of what makes his poetry enduring and deep, and much more than funny. under the hilarity is solid structure and soul.

as for the breakfast, at the ranch house grill on east thomas road, it was magnifent. we both had the signature dish of the day, a pork chili verde omelet, with hashbrowns and toast–i had sourdough and bill had the rye. conversation bounced around from bill’s grandfather, to lingering terminal illness, to personal health, to connecting with grade-school friends, to books, to the three stooges, to lou grubb and his progeny, to local tv persomalities, and on and on. one of many interesting facts: in the first grade, bill read thirty books. by way of reward his teacher sent him a fancy book, and inscribed it “to william.” it was a book about dinosaurs. so bill was into dinosaurs long before “jurassic park” roused public interest in them.

i am going to rent a car and take bill to the matt’s big breakfast on 32nd street and camelback a couple of weeks up the road. “we should do this more often,” one of us said, so we will.

Christy & Gary & Saturday & sundaes & Sandcutters

January 19, 2020
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This is Christy White. She is now, and has often been, the President of the Arizona State Poetry Society. Sometimes she has been its Treasurer. I have known her for about ten years, and a few times I’ve participated in poetry-sharing meetings she has conducted at the Mustang branch of the Phoenix Public Library. We see each other at spoken-word poetry events as well, both of us being enthusiastic participants in open mic.

Early last October Christy asked me if I’d be willing to be a featured “Poet/Artist” and cover artist for Sandcutters, the poetry anthology that ASPS now produces annually. I was glad to agree, and I invited her to harvest my blog for whatever she thought would be fit to print.

Yesterday, Saturday, we met at the Arizona Center, at Cold Stone Creamery, so that I could treat her and myself to a sundae, and she could treat me to the 2019 edition of Sandcutters. Christy had the Apple Dumpling Sundae, and I had the Chocolate Delight in the I Love It size. (I did in fact love it.) We talked about poetry, personal histories, The Vagina Monologues, Neil Diamond, Elvis Presley, and this and that and other things for about an hour. Christy is a spellbinding storyteller and her playfulness is complemented by a beautiful, mischievous grin.

And we took a couple of pictures, I of her and her of me holding her anthology featuring my artwork and poetry, and the poetry of a host of creative, talented people from across the country as well as from the Valley of the Sun.  Teens and oldsters, New Yorkers and small-towners, all participated–it’s a wonderfully diverse crop.

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Here I am on Page 142:

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There’s more of me, and MUCH more from about five dozen award-winning poets, between the covers of this fine publication. The hard work that Christy threw into the book shows on every page. And it can be a fine addition to YOUR library for the unbelievably low price of Nine Dollars US!!! If you’re interested, please go to http://azpoetry.webs.com. Or if you’re in the Valley and want a free sundae to go with your purchase, let me know with a reply to this post, and I’ll see to it!

Ma’am, I Exist

December 23, 2019
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Here’s a Stephen Crane poem in its entirety, courtesy of the Poetry Foundation:

 

A Man Said to the Universe

A man said to the universe:
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”
****
Three things strike me, fifty years after I first read, and was enamored with, this poem. Third, the Universe is conversing with the man as if the man were NOT part of Herself. Perhaps the man feels lonely and he has codified his loneliness, and sense of rejection, into this imagined conversation.
Second, She has a voice. How does She speak? Does She implant thoughts in the man’s head, does She make air vibrate, or did She employ corporeal form à la Dr. Strange’s odd compadre Eternity, who resides in the universe of Marvel Comics? Or is the man imagining it all?
But first and foremost, the man addresses the Universe as “Sir.” I think he is wrong to do so. The Universe is forever gestating, creating phenomena without end. And all of Her creations are still in Her womb, for She IS the womb.
So, playfully-or-not, I reboot Crane’s notion, thus:
Gary Said to the Universe
Gary said to the Universe,
“Ma’am, I exist!”
Here is some proof:
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I finished that just this morning. And here are some vessels, Ma’am, made from your very own clay:
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Ma’am, I just want to say I’m grateful to be here.
And ask you: Did God make you?”
“Yes, we are,” replied the Universe.
“As to your question,
We can but reply
‘Here we are.'”
“I don’t understand,” I answered.
“You cannot understand,” She replied.
End of reboot, except to say
I’m neither believer nor atheist,
And this is Exhibit A.

My Amazing and Heroic Aunt Diane

December 16, 2019
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Here is a true and recent story about my Aunt, Diane Householder Norrbom.

A couple of weeks ago Diane’s sister, my Mother, Jane Stoneman, had half her power go out in her house when lightning struck quite nearby. Supposedly all fuses and breakers were checked. Two major electrical firms, George Brazil and Parker Brothers, were called for diagnosis and help. The George Brazil estimate came in at $14,000. Parker Brothers wanted $11K. Diane drives over from California. Finds a fuse box no one checked, including the two prestigious firms listed above. Finds replacement fuses in a drawer. Hey, presto–full power.

But it gets worse, then better. Some signs all is not right. Home security batteries need to be replaced, plus at least one surge protector. Diane goes to Home Depot. “Picked up a guy there who said he was an electrician,” says Diane. She took him to Mom’s and he finds that the intermittent-outage problems that are still occurring are due to APS (Arizona Public Service Company, Mom’s power supplier) not doing a good job when they switched Mom to a “smart meter.” They call APS. APS checks, ACKNOWLEDGES FAULT, and makes things right. Mom’s house’s wiring fully restored. Diane spent a LOT less than a grand–maybe between $250 and $500–to completely fix the problem, and update the maintenance on the alarm system’s backup power to boot.

At the same time, she got Mom a new, dependable yard guy, who worked tirelessly to clear tree-debris and get Mom’s yard back on track. She did a boatload of other things too. All in one long weekend.

So this is my salute to her. It’s awfully clumsy. Diane is Beautiful, but my portrait of her is off the mark, because, as always with those I care deeply about, I tried too hard and clenched up. But the respect and love is there.

In the poem, I call her an “Uber-Mama.” That’s not saying she drives an Uber. It’s saying she’s the Mama of all Mamas. Heck, she’s even playing Mama to MY Mama at this point. She has a power of attorney, and thank Heaven she does–enough said about that!

I also compare her to Top Ramen, that favorite of college students, because Dirt Cheap Yet Gets The Job Done. It is extraordinarily difficult to get Diane to agree to be reimbursed for the many things she’s done on Mom’s behalf.

The poem refers to a “passe-partout.” A Passe-Partout is a key that will get you through any door. I have barely scratched the surface of all the doors Diane has opened along her journey. She is an incredible survivor, and beloved by many.

My Amazing and Heroic Aunt Diane

Matriarch and Uber-Mama
Youngster (in your 60s)–you
Are like noodles of Top Ramen
Much like Heaven/passe-partout
And your Deeds are truly Legend
Zapping Evil Right and Left. I
Illustrate your fine Agenda
Nipping-budding Waste & Theft. In
Grace nigh-Wiccan Pitch & Blende

 

Blast from the Past: 22 September 2007

November 11, 2019
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It’s been a long time since I posted, and I have many things that I’m working on, but nothing current suitable to publish. But going over REALLY OLD files, back in 2007 when I was doing Journal Pages faithfully every day, with not much regard for calligraphy but some for inked color, and I ran across this fable about a meet-cute with a short guitar-playing guy and a really tall girl…

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I remember that I was using the finest-point pen I could find–might have been a Rollerball or a Razor–and a set of Faber-Castell ink markers for the color. I also had a thing about presenting the date a different way every day, sort of like Will Eisner did with his SPIRIT logos.

And I remember yearning.

Operations

Of music, sacred smiles, and nagging doubt:
Pitch-perfect was the Evening. And the Girl:
Enchanting, very tall, she was about
Revealing hidden Power. Glide, and Whirl,
Allay the fear a young heart has, of Breaking,
Tend to her own as well. She Bends. They Kiss.
In no time her in height he’s overtaking,
Obverted through the Atmosphere, he’ll miss
Near-Parity. He slides back down to Smaller,
Since their sould need no Height to make them Taller.

INKtober 2019: Injury

October 29, 2019
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“Hit me like a punch in the stomach.” A punch in the stomach can rupture a spleen, as Stephen King demonstrated in one of his novels.

The wrong words destroy confidence, break friendships, and bruise our psyches. Sometimes words are used with vicious intent, but not always. Sometimes it’s negligence. All too often, there’s a misunderstanding.

Let us remember, Friends: words can be weaponized. We have more destructive potential than we realize. So keep your powder dry, but keep your safeties on. Life is about nurturing, connecting, and joy, and not injuring.

INKtober 2019: Ride

October 28, 2019
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Hang on, Kids. We are about to go on the Ride of Rides.

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Ride’s over, Folks! But don’t leave just yet, please.

Somewhere in all that noisy mayhem is a TRIPLE-acrostic poem. This one:

Ride Ride Ride

Rapt ball to First–an easy grounder
I‘d like to with the World go rounder. I
Done declared that need for speed
Entangled LIFE to supersede

Why do people pay good money to get on carnival rides and be whirled and tilted and inverted and sped around so much? I suppose there are many reasons. Two of mine are 1) They are the epitome of “in the moment” 2) They provide a means of brief escape from the Real World and its nightmares.

There’s a song by Vanity Fare [sic] called “Hitchin’ a Ride” that’s been playing in my head since I started this page. My brain is an often-wiseacre jukebox, sometimes infuriatingly so, but this time it served me well. Just when I started this very paragraph I went to YouTube, found the song, and it has just finished playing on the laptop I’m typing on. Without my asking, YouTube then queued up “California Dreamin'” by the Mamas and Papas, and that is what is playing now, and California is where I was born, and where many of my family members live. Welcome to The Ride of My Life, Friends. 🙂

PS: Simon and Garfunkel are now singing “The Sound of Silence.” Sometimes Silence is blessed and golden, especially after a long, bumpy ride. 🙂

INKtober prompt: Coat

October 27, 2019
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Friends, you deserve a better visual offering than this, but the World Series game today is more than halfway over and I want to see the rest of the game and it was either get this done too fast or not at all. I will try to take my time tomorrow to make up for this hasty, sloppy pudding of a page.

Coat Rote Mote Note

Covering the Earth a coat of molecules that span
Overcoated O.G. does a Hoodlum if he can
Antics of a coated pervert in a room to let
Take us to a cheesy plate with coat of vinaigrette

Father

October 21, 2019
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Father

My father was improbable. ° He was frightfully young–seventeen–when ° He and my not-yet mother ° Succumbed to that irresistible ° Primal Urge and got my ° Older brother started. Not-yet-Dad ° Was reluctant to step up ° (And I don’t blame him–he ° Was told he had nothing to fear ° And he knew what a Fork ° In the road Marriage ° And Parenthood were.)

But he did step up, ° Leaving some dreams in dust ° And realizing others ° He had not had before.

That is why I exist. And having learned ° Of my improbable origin ° I resolved that any child I conceived ° Would be wanted ever so much.

And the dream I had ° Was realized. I am a father. My daughter ° Is a Miracle. The improbability ° A beneficent Universe grants ° Fulfilled the most important ° Destiny of my life.

My daughter wants no children. ° She dreams her own dreams. ° She has my approval, and applause.