I painted this oil painting looking West on Highway 3. My home town in Iowa is just beyond the next hill.
On The Highway
Leave dirt roads behind…
On the highway you go faster.
Pavement gives you ease to speed.
In fact, why use that two-lane road?
The Interstate is faster.
Limited access off and on…
The legal limit goes up to 70…
Or even 75…
85 with no cops around.
Straight over the horizon…
Into the mist-blue distance…
You are not really going anywhere…
But you will get there faster!
Filed under humor, poetry, strange and wonderful ideas about life
Framing the Picture (a poem about autobiography)
I pop out of bed and look in the mirror
And there is horror in that picture
Wrinkles, spots, and a crypt-skinned leerer,
Stare back from that ancient mixture.
It isn’t so terrible to be really old.
But you have to learn to live with the mold.
And it makes me long for when we were young,
When the sounds and feels of Spring had just sprung.
Remember how we were limber and spry?
And fully intended to write our names on the sky?
But looking back the picture will shift,
Deeds that were done shine brighter with fame,
With polish and retelling, the purpose to lift,
We remake the picture by placing the frame.
The picture is called That Night in Saqqara I Was Taken By Surprise. It is built on the themes of life versus death, youth versus age, fear versus courage, and probably other things that I never thought of because the interpretation is not entirely up to me. I can indicate that the Mummy Imhotep has suddenly come back to life. The picture on the wall behind him is supposed to suggest what he was like in life, at least in his own mind when he had it carved and painted in his tomb. The boy Tanis is supposed to appear startled, but not afraid. He wears the Ankh around his neck that symbolizes life and resurrection. If the mummy kills him, as horror movie monsters once portrayed by Boris Karloff are apt to do, the mummy himself is proof that the dead live on in some way. The god Horus on the sarcophagus is practically kissing Tanis on the lips The hawk-headed god is also leading the procession on the side of the sarcophagus, which you may interpret as having the naked boy in line with the others following the god of resurrection and life. But all of this drivel is me telling you what to see, and you are welcome to disagree with all of it. Truth is our own to define. And we define it by putting a frame around it and saying, “This is what you should look at.” Aren’t we the silliest of creatures when we lie to ourselves and tell ourselves that we can actually do that?
This is called Wakanhca’s Daughter. Wakanhca in the language of the Tetonwan Dakotah Sioux means “lightning dreamer” or, loosely translated, “Magic Man”. But the interpretation is again up to the viewer. The brave in the foreground could be that magic fellow since the shield he carries has figures on it that represent a bolt of lightning and a man flapping his arms. The girl, however, is white-skinned and fair. Possibly my own daughter rather than his? Except the Princess wasn’t born until years after this was painted. The stag, as well as the two Native Americans, is illuminated in a way that is brighter than what you might expect from a night of thunderstorms. Is he a warrior’s spirit animal? He is not behaving like a real deer or elk. And is he looking at the girl, or the warrior? Consider too, these framings;
So, what, in the end is all this nonsense about “framing the picture”? We are the authors of our own stories. We get to set the whole thing in a frame of our own making. Does that mean anything important? Oh, probably not.
Filed under autobiography, humor, Paffooney, poetry, Uncategorized
“Who am I?” the Walrus said,
“I have to know before I’m dead.
And if the Cosmos will not say,
I’ll ask again another day.”
“You are a simple Disney clone,”
Said Cosmos when we were alone.
“You draw and color with your brain,
And tell some stories despite the strain.”
“You taught a while in the Monkey House,
And learned that students like to grouse,
But in the end will love your class
And will give you medals made of brass.”
“And your poems are filled with Angel words,
Both quite profound and yet absurd,
Because your mind soars far away
On winds of wild romantic play.”
“I guess that I can live with that,”
Said Walrus as he grew quite fat.
“And Mickey is the name I write
To sign my pictures in the light.
And that is all I have to say
To write myself in the crazy way.”
Filed under humor, Paffooney, poetry, Uncategorized
Okay, people, I am not a poet and I’m sure you know it… But sometimes cartoonists rhyme for no good raisin… and make bad puns too. Today I will share with you a bit of versicular (verse+ick+ular) goofiness that I tend to call poetry. I am putting some in my vault, here; Poetry in the Vault (Mickey’s House of Fiction)
Sleeping Beauty (a Silly Poem of Love and Illusion)
In the dark and in the light
In candle flame and purple night
The beauty sleeps and fails to heed
The young man’s life of lust and need
What happens next is often sad
The want, the hope, the love so bad
And fluttering faery wings of light
Carry life and love and fuel the sight
With never a thought to what could be
If only love would call to thee
And wake the sleeper from her dream
To make the two but one to seem.
Hear the Music (a love poem)
The singer sings his song,
And wants the world to sing along,
Though the world has gone all wrong,
And the darkness stays too long.
The singer warms and croons,
Under bright romantic moons,
And carries hopeful tunes,
To the listening dolts and loons.
Can a song bring truth to light?
Can it help us win the fight?
Does it ease the world’s plight?
And set the wrongs aright?
Yes a song can save the world,
Though the truth must be unfurled,
And the listeners’ ears are twirled.
So the hurts will all be pearled.
Mickey at the Wishing Well of Souls
I found a country well, and I thought I had a quarter,
But I fished in pockets hard, and found nothing for the warter,
And since I had to warp a line to make the poem rhyme,
I figured I would just look in, because I had the time.
I looked into the warty water which sat there still and deep,
And could not see the bottom, and I began to weep.
The water was clear and dark and black,
And the only thing I saw… was Mickey looking back.
And nothing of the wishing well, its magic could I see,
For only there just staring back, the secret thing was me.
Mental Pie
I’d like to offer you a piece of my mind,
Though not a lecture, rant, or complaint,
But rather a piece of mental pie.
Its taste will be very sweet, you will find,
As I’m constantly thinking in ink and paint,
That gives you wings and allows you to fly.
The Cookie
Once I had a cookie… But every time I took a bite, It became smaller and smaller…
With each bite I had less and less cookie left.
But when it was gone, the sweet taste of it…
Lingered on… as memory.
Icarus (A Song Lyric with No Tune)
“You never believe in me,
You only hear the lie,
You never believe in me,
You never even try,
You never see the good in me,
You only fear I’ll die,
You never hear the words I say,
You never tell me why,
You never care how I plan,
Or why I touch the sky,
You’ll never lift me up,
You never let me fly,”
That’s how it always was,
Between my father and I,
Until the day I reached the sun,
And burned my hands on high,
And so it is he’ll never know,
How much his son was worth,
Because he couldn’t understand,
The day
I fell
To Earth.
Grumpy (a poem about Grumpy life)
Dang it, you old grumpy man!
You annoy me as only a grumpy man can.
You grouse and growl and sometimes howl,
And pace the house like a cat on the prowl.
You worry me, weary me, and generally nasty be,
And of course you are… yes, you are… naturally me.
So why do you worry me, weary me, moan and make bother,
Now that you’re old, and you sound like your father?
Because you are cranky now, creaky with age,
And know you now, soon, the book’s turning its page.
And, though you complain, you do love your life,
And, loathe you will leave it, and your sweet-smiling wife.
*Footnote* I was in a foul mood when I wrote this poem, but my favorite team, the Cardinals, won a football game with a last second interception by Tony Jefferson in the end zone.
*Double Footnote* Yes, my wife will be smiling when I am gone because I am so GRUMPY!
*Triple Footnote* Yes, I was talking to the mirror in this poem. I took the picture in the mirror and then reversed it on my laptop.
*Fourple Footnote* Yes, I know. Too dang many footnotes. Dang it!!!
Filed under humor, photo paffoonies, poetry
Puzzle Fizzle (a poem about pieces)
When life shatters into a potpourri of pieces,
One must pick up possibilities,
And puzzle them back together… into poetry.
Yesterday was the bottom of the valley of a hard week. I have to climb another mountain to get out. And I can’t afford the psychiatrist I need because the health insurance we have gave us strict guidelines to follow for choosing one, and no one in our area fits their requirements. My car is showing warning lights again, and I am afraid to take it in. It runs fine. But I don’t need that warning light giving any of the local mechanics the idea that they can charge me large fees for car parts and service hours when they might not actually be needed. Money is running out and I do not have the good enough health required to get even a part time job. I write a lot. But my writing career at this point is an expense, not an income. Many shattered pieces to this puzzle. But I did finish the putting together of the latest grand Paffooney, the portrait of Mary and the Invisible Captain Dettbarn.
So, how will I put everything back together? My family depends on me doing so. The old puzzle piecer must never give up and must always keep puzzling, fitting bizarre piece to jagged hole. You may have noticed that this post is short of the 500-word goal, but a picture is worth a thousand words, and I have created two original pictures for this post. And there is poetry pieced together by the penultimate alliteration of the proud letter “P”.
The Man Who Had Bird Knees
I once knew a man…
Who had knees…
That bent backwards, like a bird’s…
And this man…
Could only walk…
Like a limping, lame old duck.
The children all laughed…
And pointed at him…
When he passed them in the park…
And it made him smile…
And laugh to himself…
That his handicap made them happy.
Every single night…
He oiled his weary knees…
And tried to fight the pain…
And every single day…
He used his silly legs…
To do the Chicken Dance for kids.
And then there came a day…
When the bird legs came no more…
To be noticed by kids at the park…
And the parents all learned…
That the poor man had died…
And the whole world brought him flowers.
The next day in Heaven…
St. Peter saw a man…
Whose knees bent backwards like a bird’s…
And all of Heaven laughed…
As he did the Chicken Dance…
While angels clapped in Heaven.
The thing I find to be most witlessly true about both poetry and life is that things can be funny, and make you laugh, and at the same time make you cry on the inside. Humor is hard to write because it can be both happy and sad at the same exact moment. How do you define that quality? The bitter-sweet nature of nature? That’s saying it in a way that is both contradictory and odd. It can give you a wry smile at the same moment it both confounds and confuses you. So better just to shrug your shoulders and tell yourself you know it when you see it… and this either is or isn’t it. Sorry if I made you think too hard, cause I know that sometimes thinking hurts.
Mickey at the Wishing Well of Souls
I found a country well, and I thought I had a quarter,
But I fished in pockets hard, and found nothing for the warter,
And since I had to warp a line to make the poem rhyme,
I figured I would just look in, because I had the time.
I looked into the warty water which sat there still and deep,
And could not see the bottom, and I began to weep.
The water was clear and dark and black,
And the only thing I saw… was Mickey looking back.
And nothing of the wishing well, its magic could I see,
For only there just staring back, the secret thing was me.
I apologize for inflicting poetry on you when you probably came here looking for goofy stuff to laugh at. But my poetry is just like all my word-mangling and picture-crayoning. It tends to be goofy and weird and walking a tightrope over a shark tank between chuckle-inducing and tear-jerking. You probably can’t even tell which is the poetry and which are the burbled brain-farts of commentary that pad this thing out to five hundred words. Four hundred and ninety six, actually.
Why I Must Write
Life is simply poetry,
And I must write it down.
Without the rhyme and beat of words,
I am a hopeless clown.
But if I can but set the theme,
And manipulate the sound,
The music of the world is mine,
And Meaning is unbound.
Here is a simple truth about why I write. I believe I have the power to define myself, a power that not even God can take away. I hope to leave words and stories and poems and drawings behind to speak to others, especially my children, after I am dead and gone. That is a writer’s immortality. And you should probably know that as a retired school teacher, I have over 2,500 children. But even if none of them ever reads a word of it, or looks at one of my Paffooney pictures, I will have made poetry enough to be me. And that is really all a writer does.
Here are a couple of poems of mine;
Broken People Parts (a goofy poem from messed-up Mike)
Sometimes people break,
And then, they fall apart,
And it takes a jigsaw master,
To Puzzle back their heart.
And if a foot falls off,
Quite busted on Monday’s hump
They may be legless, headless, limp
And lying in a lump.
But no face is ever busted
To a point of no repair,
And lips are pasted back in place
With a smile that wasn’t there.
When Comes the Dawn?
We never seem to see it coming,
When the dark times are here,
Depression, black… is out of whack,
And everything looks drear…
And then a glimmer… maybe hope?
When will the sun appear?
But gray men in their dread gray suits,
Make the paperwork loom near…
And we must fill out in triplicate,
The forms you sign right here.
This dawn you want is pink and blue?
The proper form, my dear…
Sign it, scribe it, write in ink,
And make no mistake appear
And then you write and write and write…
To make the dawn shine clear.
Fog in the City (A Melancholy Poem)
It doesn’t come in on cat feet.
That’s probably Chicago you’re thinking of.
It comes in on the sound of screeching tires…
and ambulance sirens…
because of all the idiot drivers…
in their silver-gray WASP rockets…
that don’t know how to slow down…
or turn on their low beams…
for safety in the big, cold city of Dallas…
where the air is yellow…
except in the fog…
and rush, rush, rush…
business never waits…
for a foggy day.
Toy Tyger (a silly nod to William Blake)
Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright!
I see thee holy in the night,
This for that, and that for this,
Shoot the gun,
And never miss!
A sillier poem there will never be,
And Tyger! Tyger! this poem’s for thee.
So, ultimately, here is my full understanding of poetry; Poems are made by fools like (Joyce Kilmer), but only God (with help from Mickey) can make a ME!
Sometimes people break,
And then, they fall apart,
And it takes a jigsaw master,
To Puzzle back their heart.
And if a foot falls off,
Quite busted on Monday’s hump
They may be legless, headless, limp
And lying in a lump.
But no face is ever busted
To a point of no repair,
And lips are pasted back in place
With a smile that wasn’t there.
Catch a Falling Star 
Morning Has Broken
Today is off to a miserable start. I heard on the radio that David Bowie has died. Ziggy Stardust… the Goblin King… The Man Who Fell to Earth… the Thin White Duke…is gone. And even though since high school in the 1970’s I have never been quite sure how I felt about his music, I wept. The man was a musical maker of lyrical poetry. He could make you feel really really terrible… but he always made you feel. And he made me depressed as he led me through the Labyrinth… but he also made me soar… on the wings of a barn owl. It was about facing the darkness and finding your way. Finding the way out. Singing the Little Drummer Boy with Bing Crosby, but not actually singing it… making peace on Earth instead. Sometimes things are just so weirdly beautiful it hurts.
I dropped my daughter off at her middle school, and then Jody Dean & the Morning Team played this on the radio.
I wept again. Darkness is my old friend… I have lived with and through depression after depression. My own… my wife’s… my children’s… And it is a miracle I have lived this long without succumbing to the Darkness. It took Robin Williams. It took Ernest Hemingway. But somehow, the Goblin King always goaded me onward, to find the answer at the end of the Labyrinth. “You… you have no power over me.” And then I am okay once again.
I captured the dawn once again this morning. Once again I failed to truly ensnare the subtle reds and pinks and purples that were actually there. But there it is, anyhow. The morning has broken. The blackbird has spoken. The morning is new.
My heart is still sore this morning. The dog didn’t help when she spilled the trash to get at the napkins with bacon grease on them. We may have a dog-skin rug as a doormat later today. But David Bowie left so many words and ideas behind to comfort me. Is he one of those “neon gods we made”? Of course he is. But as the owl flutters off in the closing credits, we can take comfort in the knowledge that no one is ever really gone. And we can always anticipate some… Serious Moonlight.
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Filed under commentary, music, photo paffoonies, poetry
Tagged as battling depression, David Bowie, depression, loss, love and life and laughter, music, photo Paffooney