If you’d like to read how I shocked every souk owner on my block when I lived in Ethiopia in 1973/74, read this old post from three years ago:
The prompt today is shock.
Okay, Forgottenman is making me post this story I just told him.
Remember a few months ago when I wrote the poem making use of the names of candy bars and different sorts of candy? Actually, one of the musicians at Open Mike has set it to music, but before that, I just read it as a poem at Open Mike. Tonight I went back and read three other poems, and afterwards a woman came up to me and said, “Remember when you read the poem about candy bars and I asked for a copy and you gave me yours?” I said yes and she continued. “Well, I went back to Canada and threw a party based on it. I filled a bowl with as many of the candies as I could find, then read the poem and whenever someone heard the name of a type of candy and was the first to raise their hand, they got to go to the bowl and take that candy bar or type of candy.” She said, “People loved it but said I didn’t read with enough feeling, so they made me read it again with feeling!” She was so excited to tell me this. Cool, huh?
Here is the candy bar poem:
The Ballad of Henry and Ruth
Before she met him at the candy store,
her days were empty and her life was a bore;
but when he offered her his Jujyfruits,
in just a moment they were in cahoots.
He was the drummer in a R&R band.
Down all 5th Avenue, he held her hand.
She felt his pulse beat pump a sweet love tune
and knew he’d be her Sugar Daddy soon.
Yes she met him at the candy store,
between the sucker rack and front screen door.
He nearly tripped over her Mary Janes
and crashed into a rack of Candy Canes.
The Double Bubble and the Tootsie Roll Pops
collided with the mints and lemon drops.
Their love was written in the moon and stars,
but realized beneath the Hershey Bars!
Oh Henry, she was crooning, and much more.
He loved this Bit O’ Honey down to the core.
Shifted his Firestick and they went for a ride
his Baby Ruth snuggled right up to his side.
She cried, “Oh, Henry!” as they hit the Mounds,
poppin’ wheelies as they did the rounds.
He was no Slo-Poke, tell you here and now,
so as he swerved to miss a big Black Cow,
The car rolled over on its Rollo Bars
crashing into six more hot rod cars.
“Atomic Fireball” said the words on his car.
Now how appropriate those two words are.
100 Grand it costs him on Payday
so he’ll be working every night and day—
his Red Hot mama working by his side,
for now his Sweet Tart is his blushing bride.
To enjoy the candy in more detail, click on any photo.
This advice to young men by Norm deserves to go viral. Please spread the word, but remember to give credit to him!!
I’m overdue for a good rant though, so today’s post isn’t very funny. Then again, neither is the subject: sexual harassment and inappropriate sexual behavior by men.
Warning: If foul language offends you then I suggest you skip this post.
For everyone else, settle in for this listicle – 8 Tips for Not Behaving Like a Sexual Predator – sarcastically written specifically for guys who still don’t get it.
1. Learn how to hold your liquor.
Alcohol is often referred to as a great social lubricant. Yes it’s good for getting conversations flowing, but as someone who in his younger days once woke up with his winter boots and a parka on in a someone’s bathtub, I can confirm…
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These bracelets, which I have on today, brought to mind this poem from two years ago that deals with (or at the very least, makes use of) today’s prompt word of “dubious.” I lived and traveled for many years abroad..a number of those years spent in Africa or traveling through Indonesia and this poem always reminds me of the thousands of artisans I met during those years, not knowing that later I would become an artisan myself.
The Stories Held by Things
Niata and Solchi sit in the shade of a baobob,
coils of bright plastic between them,
bright green, pink, white, black, green.
They do not touch the yellow.
They are afraid of it, perhaps,
or dubious. Yellow is the color of the water
that carried their sister away
as she called out to them,
helpless on the bank––
of the skin of their brother
who was surrendered to the water
to be carried away as well.
Yellow is not in their
as they wind, wind the plastic cord
into bracelets, forming designs
of checkerboards and crosses,
stripes like the stripes in candy canes
given in December by the missionaries.
Now a band of blue, then back to white lines
on black backgrounds.
They fantasize about
who would wear these bracelets.
A penny each, they are given for their efforts.
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Before I leave to get busy with paper, scissors and glue at Campamento Estrella today, I want to share this crafty tradition passed on by my mother. It was my favorite family tradition.
The Daily Post prompt was traditional.
Every year, my mom helped us make May baskets to fill with candy and leave on the doorsteps of our friends. As mentioned in an earlier post, we’d ring the doorbell and run. If the recipient caught us, they could kiss or pinch us—their choice.
Some years we bought fancy handled nut cups from the dime store and used them, but I liked best to make my own. One year, my mother showed us something special to use for May baskets. Her family knew how to make these incredible tissue-paper ornaments that, with a cupcake liner filled with candy glued into the bottom, hung down in a web-like form. We’d pin them at the top and when you held them up they would fall down in a lacy accordion effect so they were a foot or two high. The only way you could really get the effect…
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This statement by John Pavlovitz is probably the most eloquent statement of how many of us are feeling on this day after the election. http://johnpavlovitz.com/2016/11/09/heres-why-we-grieve-today/