I’m just mad about Saffron.
Saffron’s mad about me
I’m just mad about Saffron
He’s just mad about me
They call me mellow yellow
They call me mellow yellow
They call me mellow yellow
So mellow, he’s so yellow, Quite rightly.
Today’s post brought to you by Donovan, and probably copious amounts of narcotics he was smoking.
Filed under Photography, Poetry, The Son | Comments (21)
A poem for the snow day.
Variations on a Theme by William Carlos Williams
1
I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer.
I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do and its wooden
beams were so inviting.
2
We laughed at the hollyhocks together
and then I sprayed them with lye.
Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing.
3
I gave away the money that you had been saving to live on for the next ten years.
The man who asked for it was shabby
and the firm March wind on the porch was so juicy and cold.
4
Last evening we went dancing and I broke your leg.
Forgive me. I was clumsy, and
I wanted you here in the wards, where I am the doctor.
TheHuckabugh-ugh-ugh
Aches: Head, ears, back and neck
Coughing, sneezing, sniffling wreck.
Groaning, Mouth breathing, is Darth Vader in the room?
The Den a dark, Elmo filled tomb.
We all succumb one by one,
A green eleven on The Son,
Ears like cotton for The Husband too,
More sleep, more naps, never enough for Hey You.
Liquid decongestant and pain pills,
The old blue quilt for the chills.
Kleenex and Halls stay on the job,
On the couch, three puffy blobs.
The humidifier’s vapors try to sooth,
My hands on his sheets try to smooth.
Live on hot tea and soup in bread bowls,
Does being sick together bond our souls?
Have I mentioned we have been sick here at The Huckablog household? Even The Dog has a cold. We have turned a corner, finally.
A poem because I am now a SAHM
Here’s a poem by Philip Levine.
What Work Is
We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is — if you’re
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it’s someone else’s brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, “No,
we’re not hiring today,” for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who’s not beside you or behind or
ahead because he’s home trying to
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you’re too young or too dumb,
not because you’re jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don’t know what work is.
