The Night Before Christmas

(A visit from the Gray Mouse)

'Twas the night before Christmas at the cat lady’s house.

Every creature was purring, except for a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the cat post with care,

in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The kittens were nestled all snug in their beds,

while visions of parakeets perched in their heads.

And Mama in her chair with three cats on her lap,

had just settled her brain for a long winter's nap.

When in the next room there arose such a clatter,

she sprang from her chair to see what was the matter.

Away to the kitchen she flew like a flash,

where a cat was attacking a mouse in the trash.

She picked up the mess, “Oh that mouse had to go!”

right after a nerve calming glass of Merlot.

Then what to her wondering eyes should appear,

but twenty-two cats hauling ass in high gear,

pursuing a mouse so lively and quick,

he could turn on a dime, though the floor was quite slick.

More rapid than cheetahs the felines they came,

chasing after that mouse as she called them by name:

"Stop Fluffy! Stop Missy! Stop Simon and Mittens!

"Stop Patches! Stop Muffin! You’ll wake up the kittens!”

The mouse took a left at the end of the hall.

Hid your eyes now ‘cause fur’s heading straight for that wall!

As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,

when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

so into the baseboard the felines they flew,

each under the other; yes all twenty-two!

They created a pile of tails, and paws,

and noses, and whiskers, and ears, and claws.

Mama refilled her wine, and was turning around,

when back up the hall ran that mouse, kitchen-bound.

He was just a gray blur as he ran underfoot,

and she yelled at her cats once again to “Stay put!”

But her bundles of joy had begun to un-stack,

and were already planning their second attack.

Their eyes, how they darkened! Their claws, oh how scary!

It looked like a scene from an old Tom and Jerry.

Then Mama’s droll mouth, it drew up like a bow,

and then the Merlot, really started to flow.

With the stem of her wine glass held tight in her grip,

Mama finished her drink in four gulps and a sip.

Her face it turned red, she had air in her belly.

She hiccupped and burped, and it tasted like jelly.

She giggled a bit, then she pardoned herself,

and she reached for some catnip she kept on the shelf.

Then a wink of her eye to a peering gray head,

let the little mouse know he had nothing to dread.

Mama sprinkled the catnip. It went straight to work.

Cats pulled in their claws, and they started to smirk.

The effect of that stuff on a kitty-cat’s nose,

is the same as a couple Merlots, I suppose.

She went back to her chair, to her cats gave a whistle,

and they all climbed upon her, like the down on a thistle.

And I heard her exclaim, as she sank out of sight…

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

R.L.J. 2016

Pulling Beets

My garden has no rhythm,
‘cause I pulled up all the beets.
I put ‘em in a basket
to hand out as trick-or-treats.

Yeah, I’m the old man that
at Halloween most kids avoid.
They tried me once.
They tried me twice,
Then some got real annoyed.

So now they pelt my house with eggs
and I throw beets at them.
Last year I won. Oh it was fun.
My last shot was a gem.

It hit that Tommy Perkins kid
upside his big ol’ head.
His mask flew off,
and he went down.
Thought sure that he was dead.

But don’t you worry none,
‘cause every time I tell this tale.
I make it sound a little worse.
Next time I’m goin’ to jail.

And that’s the beauty don’t ya know,
of Halloween and fiction.
You can kill off half the neighbor kids,
and never face conviction.

Just make it gruesome, make it gory,
You can even make it mean.
Then slap your thigh and laugh,
and tell ‘em “Happy Halloween!”
 
The only thing that’s true is
that I picked some beets today.
And if you must know,
then I vacuumed rugs,
and stacked some hay.

Authors Note: The first two lines popped into my head while I was pulling the beets… The rest crept in while cleaning the harvest, vacuuming, and stacking the donkey's winter hay ;)

Broccoli

I ate a piece of moldy bread.
It’s been four days, I’m still not dead.
My pie was walked on by a fly.
I ate it, and I did not die.
Some bug spray got upon my plum.
But still, to death, I don’t succumb.

My spud with sour cream and chive
was tainted, yet I’m still alive.
I drank a beer with funky yeast,
and look at me, I’m not deceased.
I’m not deceased, not in the least.
But now I fear I need a priest…

for there’s broccoli in my soup du jour.
This time I’m gonna croak for sure.

Musings while Mowing

If you say “Thank you” to an apple tree, the tree will assume that it’s being thanked for its apples because producing and sharing apples is what’s expected of an apple tree. But if you thank it for something unexpected… like if you say, “Thank you Mr. Apple Tree for this fine patch of shade. It’s powerful hot out today, and I’m much obliged to you for offering me this cool place of respite from my labors,” the tree will not only be pleasantly surprised, but it will likely produce better apples in the future… better than it would if it were only thanked for its apples.

Now of course if you have a particularly suspicious apple tree, it might assume you’re playing mind games with it, in which case it may drop an apple on your head rather than improve its fruit quality. If this occurs, DO NOT attempt to humor your way out of the situation by yelling “Eureka! I’ve discovered gravity!” A.) because Newton didn’t yell “Eureka!” when the apple fell on his head. Archimedes yelled that when his bathtub overflowed, and B.) because this tree is clearly in no mood for your bullshit. Trees that have been toyed with in this manner have been known to drop entire branches onto their victims.

By the way… Our apple tree is producing its best fruit ever this year, but the plum tree is scattering immature plums all over the lawn. Jeannie even found a plum branch on the ground the other day. Clearly somebody besides me has been talking to the plum tree. Jeannie denies making any insensitive remarks. The tree is remaining mum on the subject.

Oh, the title?! Yes, these things occurred to me while I was riding around on the lawn mower today. And no, my mower doesn’t have a fuel leak, but thank you for your concern. Anyway, since this is, “Musings while Mowing” I thought I’d end today’s episode by giving you a couple of my lawn mowing tips:

1.) If you have a large onion in the pantry that’s beginning to turn, don’t put it in the compost pile. Toss it in the yard instead, because nothing smells better that an onion being mulched by a Briggs and Stratton on a hot August afternoon. .. A smell so nice, you’ll run over it thrice!

2.) This next tip is more of an operational tip, but it’s an important one. If you have a riding mower with a cruise control switch, use it. I know, we men think we can do it all and we love to press that gas pedal. But when you’re mowing the lawn you’re multi-tasking, and the more things you try to do at once the less you can focus on any one thing. So, take advantage of the cruise control function if your machine has it. This will result in less spilled beer while you mow.

Well I hope you’ve found these suggestions useful. Happy mowing, and don’t forget to pass out those unexpected compliments.

The Mourning After Dallas

The tragedy that unfolded in Dallas last night is not a competing tragedy with the reoccurring deaths of mostly black men killed by mostly white police officers. It is a part of the same tragedy. It is a tragedy of two races distrusting, disrespecting, and profiling one another; with members of each judging the whole of the other based on the actions of a few. The original sin cannot be undone. Forgiven or unforgiven, it can only be moved past. Only when America mourns equally for the lives lost on both sides of this tragedy will it begin to stitch the wound that continues to rip open with each violent incident. And until we do the deliberate work of stitching, the natural process of healing cannot begin. We must all be doctors today. Our needle and suture must be empathy and respect... Empathy and respect for one another.

Radical Corporate Terrorists

Trump won’t say it. He won’t utter the words. Neither will Hillary, or Barack. None of them will… “Radical Corporate Terrorists!” There, I said it; a phrase you won’t hear from apologists of free market abuse. They’re too politically correct to admit that some greedy capitalists are strapping exploding debt to people across the country. They’re terrorizing the middle class; reducing their numbers with every explosion, leaving them so sift through America’s ruins with the desperate poor. 

Radical Corporate Terrorists have infiltrated every county in the nation. When a student signs up for college they say, “here’s your exploding debt vest. Put it on, or you can’t attend”. When a person gets sick they blow up their insurance agreement and say, “Sorry, we don’t cover that. We cover other treatments, but not that one; not the one you need to survive… But if you’ll strap on this exploding debt vest we’ll keep you alive a little longer. But keep in mind that when it blows up it will financially devastate your family. It’s your call. We’re just here to help. Please fill out our survey”.

Every couple generations Radical Corporate Terrorists blow up the entire housing market, sending shrapnel flying in every direction, injuring everyone except those living at the penthouse level. The penthouse dwellers wander down after the fires are put out and purchase whatever they please for pennies on the dollar and rent it back the financially injured at inflated rates… because they can. And because their God, Money the Almighty, says they are the chosen ones. They have the right. Glory awaits them.

I’m tired of being politically correct. I want a government that will fight Radical Corporate Terrorism. I want a candidate who will acknowledge that “Radical Corporate Terrorists” are here, now, planning and carrying out attacks every day. I want to fight the real enemy for a change.

Arthur P. Dale

(While walking the dogs this afternoon my mind wandered and voilà, a poem was born.)

Arthur P. Dale was hunting for whale,
out in the open sea.
Said Arthur P. Dale as he looked o’er the rail,
“Now where do you think they be?”
Then up from the bottom, the jaws of one got him.
No man was more flummoxed than he.
And he woulda fought ‘em, yes he woulda taught ‘em
a lesson or two… or three!

But Arthur was bested, it was uncontested; 
Hors d'oeuvre a la abductee.
And though he protested while being ingested,
t'was nary a chance to flee.
Now Arthur P. Dale resides in a whale, 
out in the open sea.
Tonight he lay pale, somewhere near the tail,
a victim of hyperbole.