bb
May I copy your last and email it to a friend?
My Fat Cells
MY FAT CELLS
By BumbleBeeBoogie
I have these little fat cells
that attach themselves to me.
They love cream cheese and bagels
and live above my pudgy knee.
Nothing makes them fatter
than a crusty warm baguette.
If threatened they just scatter
to a place I'll soon forget.
I'd bring my little fat cells,
to a friend's summer soiree .
I'll tell them to behave themselves
Or they can't come along with me.
TICK, TICK, TICK
By BumbleBeeBoogie
Here I sit before my computer
gathering thoughts, trying to muster
words hiding in the recesses of my brain
to record my existence, but all's in vain.
They will not come before
the closing of the office door,
when the day's work is done
and before a meeting still to come.
Half-hour poems, that's what I write,
if they don't work, I'm done for the night!
Peace Corps Heros
I wrote this for my employer before I retired last year. He was in the Peace Corps in Africa.
PEACE CORPS HEROS
By BumbleBeeBoogie
They arrive
and often become homesick.
They wash at the riverside in Wuro Himadou,
returning to the village from the peanut fields
to prepare millet for dinner as instructed
by a sixteen year old girl.
They ride crowded busses from Ayorou to the Mali border,
the engines overheating in 110 degree temperatures,
stalled for hours by rainstorms as the Touregs,
Lords of the Sahara, ride their agile camels
through the muddy ruts.
They shiver in a minibus
along the snow-covered pass from Kabul
to Hindu Kush at No Ruz time,
the ancient equinoctial New Year,
to visit the ancient Buddhas
sculpted from the sandstone cliffs at Bamian.
They wait all day for the Togo Bush Taxi's departure
(it won't leave until it's really full)
for a journey of a few hours.
Frequent stops for tire changing,
watering goats riding on top of the taxi
and bumping along on dust-caked roads
will get them to their destination---
if it doesn't rain.
They barter for pots displayed along the streets
of Dhurbar Margh in Bhaktapur,
the sound of the potter's wheels
echoing through the open air factory
as the chattering men shape mounds of
clay into perfect red and black pots.
They learn to create Bengali silk embroidery
from patient women practitioners of the ancient art,
learning to choose compatible colors of thread,
then hand washing, drying and stretching the silk
over a wooden frame to hang in a place of honor.
They hunt for bargains in the weekly straw market
in the Andean city of Cuneca,
choosing Toquilla hats made from hemp by the
indigenas women from the Ecuadorian countryside.
They try on huipils, the traditional Maya woman's blouse,
and drape a colorful tzut over their shoulders or heads
and wander through the market stalls that mingle
the Roman Catholicism and Maya rituals.
They buy Persian carpets of thousands of hand-tied knots,
with designs adopted from the Gashgai nomads,
made by twelve-year old girls in small adobe houses
in the village of Abadeh in the spring
when the trees are covered with pale pink buds.
They relax with the young boys of Koza after a long day
of harvesting crackling stalks of millet.
Juicy mangoes are enjoyed as the eerie flute music
floats over the Cameroon countryside.
They marvel at the Papua New Guinea mothers
comforting their children as they move from
stone tools, jungle hunting, and spears
to tinned fish, coffee trees and airplanes flying overhead.
They chuckle at Carbon's Poto-Poto market place
mixtures of Nikoumou, greens that are fried in palm oil
with onions and fish and spiced with Piment pepper sauce,
with Italian pasta, Belgian potato chips
and South African produce.
Then they come home
and remember,
and are remembered.
HOW COOL IS COOL?
By BumbleBeeBoogie
Don't be misled by the impressions you hold
about people you think of as shy, not bold.
How cool is cool? Hey, you're in for a surprise.
That gray-haired lady might be the last you'd surmise
to be the coolest, most secret adventuress
name on Harley Davidson's mailing list.
She may secretly sigh over the long-haired studs
in their skin-tight black leather bike duds.
EGO TRIP; A riddle for solving
EGO TRIP (A Riddle for Solving)
By BumbleBeeBoogie
It had four score and ten years
of pent-up, surging power,
like stallions pounding the earth,
raising furious dust clouds
as they escaped their corrals.
Throbbing, thrusting energy
propelled the earth-bound missile
toward the innocent people
in its hell-bent path.
The lure of gold couldn't stop it,
it only lunged forward
in an age-old macho challenge
over and over again
until a red ball of fire
stopped it
in its screeching tracks.
It paused, snarling and hissing,
waiting, sulking,
its power thwarted
as the innocents proceeded.
Finally, satisfied
that the order of power
has been restored,
the omnipotent emerald eye
gave it leave to proceed.
Edgar
Edgar, of course you may send your friend my poem. Thanks for thinking it worthy of sharing with others.
BumbleBeeBoogie
The hands that hold so firmly
Have shaped the course of time.
They never age, nor falter
They just play out the rhyme.
And all shall come to this and more,
And when we kneel to pray,
We'll find that hands and beauty,
Are the eyes that always stay.
Letty
Letty, what a lovely addition to the old hands theme.
---BumbleBeeBoogie
BBB, When I looked at the pictures of you and all your cohorts at the Westering Gathering, I was captivated. Such a diversity.
How gray was my valley,
For stealing another's verse like this;
Never mind my poetic sally;
Ya'll 're honor bound to boo and hiss.
Whereas a thief of thoughts has no choice,
A writer could and should not rob another's voice.
I think I shall never see
Another hack like me.
Dogs and trees go together with ease.
And Kilmer's got to love it.
As far as hacking, hewn, and such,
Just tell them all to shove it.
jackie, as Richard Burton once said to a female reporter. You aren't so bad yourself. Thanks.
When I think about the morning still
Over the fog ridden bay,
When I drink my coffee, take a pill,
And contemplate the new day,
I am mindful of the thoughts that chill
And make old people gray;
And I resolve that I never will
Let me be that way.
Looking through my memories
moving dust and recalling
the days I left these here
tome filled tombs
that unless recalled
ferment
into unknown mysteries
Doug
Hey Edgar, good site with a lot of talent hanging out ... waiting to sprout...... sorry, that just popped up
Yes, Doug, this is a wonderful thread for opening bottles that tend to be corked for a while. Often I refer to this type tapestry as "The Thread that Runs so True", a tribute for Jesse Stuart, and a special gratitude to Edgar and all who write here.
Into worlds, diverse and compelling,
A captured heart with courage
Dispelling the fear.
A gentle disclosure of under exposure;
A lens with a tear.
