Seems I’ve lost my mind
Out past the point of caring;
I’m sitting here quietly,
So why is everyone staring?
I need’ve have yelled,
And I hate to shout,
But can someone please direct me
To the door that leads out?
Putting this house on the market,
Gonna get back to the parishes;
Find that bend in the river
And live in a light that nourishes.
Maybe find that creole girl—
The one with a heart of crawfish and gold!
She’d be settling to take me on,
The real sad truth be half-times retold.
Seems I’ve lost my mind
Somewheres way over there;
I’m sitting here so quietly,
But man, how the arresting officer does stare.
He don’t know I’m heading home,
Once I get the next clear chance.
Hey ti’ fille:
Twas the barest wee knock on the old lady’s front door.
Agatha Agnes made her way, slow, from the divan to answer.
Things this past year for her had left her tired and sore:
Bisquick Cat had been ill, while her Bob finally passed from cancer.
Peering from her peephole Agatha Agnes could just see
The head of her little girl neighbor with her new winter bonnet;
And couldn’t help but wonder what new evil this could be.
Patiently, the little neighbor held a box with a big green bow on it.
Agatha Agnes pulled slowly open her door of oaken ebony
And said to the little girl struggling with the mighty box:
“Leslie Katherine, what on earth have you brought to me!”
The little girl then blushed hot crimson from bonnet to her socks.
“Murry Chwistmus,” tried Leslie Katherine, offering up the bundle.
“Why, thank you,” answered Agatha Agnes, taking the box in hand.
Finally freed, Leslie Katherine bolted the porch skipping off in a trundle.
Agatha Agnes slowly went back inside to see about this present too grand.
Back in the divan, our old lady went to pull off the grand green bow,
Then pulled apart the plain white paper on the box, and opened the flaps:
Lifted out from the packing peanuts a large silver frame made a show—
An old black and white portrait of Agatha Agnes next to her Bob in his riding chaps!
Later Agatha Agnes would learn the story how this last Christmas present came to be:
Bob realized his cancer would soon win and wanted to surprise his bonny bride.
So, retrieving the silver frame with his old college degree inside from U of Mississippi—
He took her favorite picture of them happy and young, in love, and slid that inside.
Bob had met with the neighbors and asked Leslie Katherine for a special boon:
To present the box to Mrs. Jefferson, at her convenience, on Christmas Day.
The Cabbotts readily agreed, even though it was an early hot, summer June.
But they remembered; and after lunch, Leslie Katherine had made her careful way.
Real Love is timeless, despite those events that cause breath-catching with maybe a spilt tear.
Cherish all your loved ones, be passed or present: Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Bless me back to Ol’ Mississippi
Calling on the phone is Helen Tippie
She’s a nurse byootiful, suitable, and something exquisite
All her patients love her and can’t wait for that next visit;
But we be sending best hopes for that man of hers—
What’s going down is a sad bad curse;
With wishes and prayers that he gets all better
Cause he’s a lovely man, like an Irish setter.
And now let’s end this poem all quick and nifty
Gotta take this call from Helen Tippie—
Sally Gossamer Wingstep really kinda hates her name—
Why not Prudence or Eleanor?
Something with a little heft or fame?
“Sally” is so so simple, and just a bit syrupy
Like someone maybe alien or from part of Mississippi!
Sally Gossamer Wingstep loves her German cousin’s name—
Katja Bunche Starlight!
Now THAT sounds like someone of real fame.
“Sally” just slumps all over, like an overlarge butt,
Like someone pretty rustic from the environs of Connecticut.
Sally Gossamer Wingstep would like to know your name—
Alexander? Margaret? Lillian? Alphonse?
Changing hers might be part of the game.
For now she’s just “Sally,” sad but too true,
Now, if she can just get over this horrid flu!
The light is failing
As are my eyes;
Put away all those becauses
That came with you lies.
We’d wet the drain;
I’m not all that sure
I ever want to see you again.
The year is ending,
As is my sentence down here.
How far to the river’s bend
And all that southern good cheer?
Stay in Kalamazoo:
A reunion in Cyprimont
Is all I will need of you.
My glass is empty
Just like my heart;
Were we really all over
Right from the start?