Category: Writing

Echoes of a Vanished Era

Poetry Writing

Echoes of a Vanished Era

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The Rhinestone Cowboy has lost a stud,
His stallion left him stranded in the mud.
Houdini made his greatest escape,
The magic vanished with him that day.

No more Blockbusters or RadioShacks,
Elvis has left the building, no turning back.
Gone are the days of CDs and iPods,
Michael moonwalked to the stars, against all odds.

You can’t find payphones or call collect,
Good luck watching movies on VHS.
Muhammad floated like a butterfly,
But his sting has been put to rest.

What happened to Teddy Ruxpin,
Ever since Toys ‘R’ Us went bankrupt?
Doves cried when Prince’s purple reign ended,
He’s now dancing in a purple heaven.

Ziggy Stardust now “Ashes to Ashes,”
I don’t even know what’s the new fashion.
Icons fade, but memories are everlasting,
Never forget, it all goes so fast.

July 30th, 2024

Journal Writing

July 30th, 2024

What Brought Circ-us Together

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I didn’t write the book on love, but a romance novel—that’s an entirely different story. I totally feel like that’s something I could do, but in my case, it would definitely need to be a romantic comedy. Let’s see if I can come up with a meet cute and a rough outline for one. It obviously needs to be something far-fetched, you know, for comedic value. Here’s what I have so far:

“Everybody Loves a Clown”

Sir Charles “Chuckles” McJester, the Duke of Merriment and Laughter, is a clown for a traveling circus. He makes children merry with his hilarious antics, but behind the painted-on face, he is truly sad. He longs for a woman to marry and have his children. Someone who can bring him merriment for a change. All that changes when he meets Violet Bliss, an animal rights activist set on shutting down his circus.

It’s love at first sight when he sees her passing out flyers in the fairgrounds. He works up the courage to approach her, his oversized shoes make a flopping sound as he walks. Chuckles hands Violet Bliss a flower. As she bends over to take a whiff, he squirts her in the nose with water. At this point, she is pretty displeased, but he quips, “Hey, it’s just a splash of affection!” In an attempt to redeem himself, he makes her a balloon animal, which she then pops. He jokes, “Guess that relationship was full of hot air!”

Any kind of romantic future for these two seems bleak until Chuckles starts helping her sabotage the circus. Violet Bliss starts opening up to the possibility of romance. Things are going great until Chuckles’ ex-girlfriend, The Bearded Lady, gets jealous and decides to do some sabotaging of her own. One night, after Violet Bliss sees Chuckles and The Bearded Lady in the kissing booth, she decides to break off the affair.

As their big-top love seems to have hit rock bottom, Chuckles discovers Violet Bliss has been kidnapped. He soon learns it was Barnaby Barnum, the circus owner, fed up with Violet’s attempts at shutting him down. Chuckles, with the help of The World’s Strongest Man, a trapeze artist, and a miniature horse, comes to her rescue. He explains what she had seen was another clown meant to look like him kissing The Bearded Lady. “It was all smoke and mirrors, and a lot of beard wax!”

He then tells her that when they first met, she popped his balloon animal; now it was his turn to pop something. He gets down on one knee and proposes, saying, “Will you be the ringmaster of my heart?” They get married at the fairgrounds where they first met, with a bear on roller skates as the ring bearer. Together they change the circus, removing all the live animal acts. As they ride off into the sunset on a unicycle built for two, Chuckles can’t resist one last joke: “I guess you could say we’re the main attraction now!”

So, what do you think? I realize this might not exactly be romantic comedy gold and is a little fruity, but at least it wasn’t about fruits or vegetables this time. Am I right?

Earth Song

Poetry Writing

Earth Song

By

In the heart of nature, green and serene,
To which every vein of river will lead.
Beneath the sky so vast and blue,
Take a deep breath, it is all here for you.

The whispering leaves, the rustling trees,
The hush of the forests and their secrets.
We tread lightly on paths of earth,
Heavy footsteps make the creatures stir.

With every step, let’s keep it clean,
For all walks of life, not just human beings.
Together, we can make a change,
Even a little goes a long way.

In harmony with nature, hand in hand,
Hearing the earth song, we start to dance.
For a future bright, let’s act today,
Be the light and bring dawn to this new age.

With care and love, our planet thrives,
It will bring tears to Mother Nature’s eyes.
And in her joy, we’ll find our peace,
As thanks for our humility.

Together we’ll protect and mend,
Bring healing all across the land.
With mindful hearts and open minds,
Together, our spirits will bind.

A promise to nature, pure and true,
We will give back everything that we use.
In this shared journey, side by side,
We’re all brothers and sisters in this tribe.

In the heart of nature, green and serene,
We preserve the beauty that we’ve seen.
Beneath the sky, vast and blue,
We’ll keep our world forever new.

July 27th, 2024

Journal Writing

July 27th, 2024

Corn Paper and Corny Jokes: A Match Made in Pun Heaven

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As a writer, putting words on paper sometimes feels like trying to peel an onion without crying—a few tears are inevitable. My nemesis, writer’s block, loves to show up uninvited, but sometimes I find myself worrying about the trees that sacrificed their lives for my corny jokes. I mean, who wants to go down in history as the Grim Reaper of trees? Plus, history books are pretty paper-intensive.

One day, a brilliant thought struck me: Can you make paper out of corn? We already turn corn into fuel and soft drinks, so why not paper? Picture it: writing corny jokes on actual corn paper. The pun potential is through the roof!

After some intense research (by which I mean a quick Google search), I discovered that you can indeed make paper from corn husks. I aim for my anecdotes to be not only ridiculous but also mildly educational, so here’s how it works.

Step one: shuck the corn. Step two: shuck the corn into the trash because we’re making paper, not dinner. Aw, shucks! Just kidding—we’re making both! Besides, I’m not exactly sure tossing ears of corn into a garbage can is how you play cornhole. If it isn’t, then boy have I been playing it wrong. Step three: collect the husks, but make sure you remove the shanks. They are neither useful in papermaking nor edible. You could try feeding them to some pigs, but they’d likely just turn up their snouts and say, “No shanks.”

Next, toss the husks into a pot with some soda ash. Now, I know what you’re thinking: new soda flavor? Not quite—but it can be used as an intermediate to manufacture corn sweeteners. Once boiled, blend those husks into a pulp. We’re definitely not making corn smoothies either. Then, spread the pulp on a screen, press out the moisture, and let it dry overnight under a heavy weight. Congratulations, you’ve made corn parchment! Or maybe just the wrap for a tamale?

At this point, you might be wondering, “What’s up with this guy and vegetables? Last week it was tomatoes, now it’s corn.” Well, fun fact: tomatoes are actually fruit, a berry to be precise. I told you this would be educational. But still I wonder, what the heck then are grape tomatoes? The truth is, I’ve been on a plant-based diet lately, so I’ve been vegging out. Anyway, now I can proudly say that these corny jokes are written on corn paper—eco-friendly and pun-approved!

Stay tuned for next week’s installment of this Plant-Based Digest where we discuss potatoes, our best spuds.

A Melody of Joyful Nights

Poetry Writing

A Melody of Joyful Nights

By

Sweet music, sweet as buttercream cake,
Filling the air with notes that never break.
It plays like children on a hot summer street,
Their laughter mingled with the melody’s beat.

Let’s be free from worry and celebrate,
Dancing in twilight until it’s late.
Smiling so brightly, as we shuffle our feet,
Spreading joy to everyone we meet.

Sweet songs swirl around like cotton candy,
Creating colors the world has never seen.
The city is a canvas on which we paint,
Vivid dreams and hopes, untainted by restraint.

Let’s be merry and raise our cups with glee,
Embracing the night in carefree harmony.
Until the morning brings another day,
We’ll savor the magic before it fades away.

July 20th, 2024

Journal Writing

July 20th, 2024

Tomato-ally Bad Jokes: A Saucy Collection

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I realize I’ve been known to tell a bad joke or two. If you don’t like it, feel free to throw tomatoes at me. But in that case, the joke would be on you because I actually enjoy tomatoes. They’re fantastic in salads, sandwiches, and wraps. And I ask you, where would grilled cheese be without tomato soup? That’s definitely what you should eat if you’re getting sick of my jokes.

I’ve got some bad news if you don’t like my bad jokes—I’m working on a book of them. It’s going to be titled Tomato Soup for the Droll. Here’s a taste: Why did the chicken soup cross the road? Because there was a fork in it, and you can’t eat soup with a fork. I know, pretty bad, right? But that’s what I promised, after all.

Anyway, as I was saying, I like eating tomatoes. Unless, of course, they become sentient like in Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, in which case, they’d probably eat me. Those are the kind of tomatoes that would make better ketchup. Or is it catsup? I feel that’s something people could argue about until they’re red in the face, red as a tomato. I just hope that if one were to ever really come alive, it would be more like Bob the Tomato from Veggie Tales.

I’m not sure why I like tomatoes so much. Maybe it’s because I didn’t want to be one of those people slapping themselves in the head thinking they could’ve had a V8. In fact, I’ll take a V9 or V10 if you’ve got it.

But yeah, all joking aside, if you don’t like my bad jokes, by all means, throw one at me. It will keep me on my toma-toes. No hard feelings. Maybe I’ll learn to write better jokes, and some movie producer might even want to make a film adaptation of my book. Though it would probably still get bad reviews on Rotten Tomatoes.

So, what’s your stance on tomatoes? Do you toss them in a salad or toss them at bad comedians like me?

July 13th, 2024

Journal Writing

July 13th, 2024

The Maître d' of the Dumpster: A Head-Banging Day at Work

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The other day at work, I was taking out the garbage—because, let’s face it, I’m not above it. Though, if you never took the garbage out, you’d eventually find yourself beneath it. Anyway, since I’m not Bruce Lee, Bruce Wayne, or even Bruce Almighty, I decided to use one of those sliding doors in the back to throw it out. Unfortunately, there was already a hefty pile of, well, Hefty trash bags back there. And since I’m not aspiring to be an Olympic discus thrower, I had to move some of it out of the way first.

After completing that task, I managed to hit the back of my head on the dumpster. Just swell—I thought—not only am I at risk for a concussion, but now rabies might be on the table too. My work’s dumpster is like a five-star restaurant for raccoons. I know this because I moonlight as a maître d’ there on weekends. Once, a nice family of opossums even wanted a table for dinner.

Now, I know some people would disagree, but I kind of like opossums. Not only are they immune to rabies (unlike raccoons), but they also have opposable thumbs. When I asked that family of opossums if they enjoyed their meal at my work’s dumpster, they gave me a thumbs up. That’s more than I’ve ever gotten from my work—they didn’t even offer me a bandage for my now-swollen head.

Another great thing about opossums is that when they feel threatened, they play dead. I should’ve played opossum after hitting my head. Maybe then I could’ve gotten a settlement and wouldn’t have to moonlight as a maître d’ at a dumpster. Most of the customers that come here are grouches—Oscar the Grouch, to be precise. But they find themselves in good company because I can be somewhat like the great Groucho Marx.

Summer Serenade

Poetry Writing

Summer Serenade

By

Your kisses are like fireworks,
They take my breath away,
Make me say, “ooh” and “aah”,
And my heart goes boom, boom, boom.

Your lips, red as sunsets in July,
Bright, full of promise and light,
Twinkling sparklers that kids ignite,
Filling the night with pure delight.

Your touch is a summer breeze,
Gentle, warm, and pleasing,
It wraps around me like a dream,
Filled with lovely visions of you and me.

Your eyes, two northern blue butterflies,
Fluttering softly in endless skies,
The sight makes even the heavens sigh,
In their depths, I find my paradise.

Would you be mine?
Forever, for all of summertime.

July 5th, 2024

Journal Writing

July 5th, 2024

Modern Art and Monkey Business

By

There’s certainly nothing funny about hitting your funny bone. After hitting mine on an 8-foot tall inflatable gorilla from a 1990s used car dealership in the middle of a modern art gallery, I can confirm that neither I nor the gorilla found anything humorous about the situation. What’s humerus, though, is the bone in your upper arm. And I would think that after hitting my humerus bone, I’d churn out some of my funniest anecdotes, but that’s not how it works. Honestly, I’m not really sure how it works—kind of like the cars at that 1990s used car dealership.

I just know that if I don’t keep writing these anecdotes, I’ll probably end up selling those cars. There are plenty of opportunities to bump your funny bone when you’re a used car salesman: shaking hands with someone after making a deal or trying to roll a few odometers back without getting caught. To be a really good used car salesman, you probably have to be a bit dishonest, and I’m no good at telling lies—just telling stories. Even if some of my stories are a little hard to believe.

But would you believe this 1992 Dodge Caravan only has 76,438 miles on it? It was only ever driven to church by a little old lady who couldn’t drive it anymore because she broke her funny bone. When I suggested she see a doctor about it, she said the doctor told her he’d need to saw it off because there was no such thing as a funny bone. That’s a sawbones for you, always with a bone-dry sense of humor.

I could be a used car salesman, but I don’t want people to have a bone to pick with me about the less-than-superb cars I sold them. Kind of like the art gallery owner had when I inflated that 8-foot gorilla. I think she might have hit her angry bone. So, I’ll stick to being a bonafide writer and telling jokes. After all, I did get an ‘A’ in my Bonehead English course.

Plus, there’s something satisfying about watching people laugh at your stories rather than having them groan over a lemon of a car. And let’s face it, in the world of used cars, you’re just one broken timing belt away from a bone-rattling ride. At least with writing, the only thing getting rattled is my imagination. So, here’s to more anecdotes and fewer encounters with inflatable gorillas. Because, let’s be honest, even modern art has its boundaries—and my funny bone just can’t take another hit.

June 28th, 2024

Journal Writing

June 28th, 2024

Scarfing Lunch and Solving Mysteries

By

Sometimes on break, I scarf down my lunch just to squeeze in a few extra minutes of writing before heading back to work. Always on a quest for efficiency, I wondered if I could “hat and mittens” down my lunch too. The only problem? It’s not winter. Besides, I’d probably look better rocking an ascot like Fred Jones from Scooby-Doo. I’m too scared to solve mysteries, so I write them instead. Fred had a fashion sense, unlike me. I try to dress like him, but I usually end up looking more like Shaggy.

On a really rough day, I don’t just resemble Shaggy—I look more like Scooby-Doo himself. But hey, Great Danes are pretty great, right? Especially during the dog days of summer, when it’s sweltering outside. Those are definitely not the days to be wearing a hat, mittens, and scarf while eating lunch, all in the name of getting a few more words down on the page.

One day, I decided to wear an ascot to lunch instead, just like Fred. I strutted into the break room with my head held high. The microwave dinged, announcing my lunch was ready. As I sat down to eat, a coworker gave me a puzzled look.

“What’s with the ascot?” they asked.

“What else would I be wearing to lunch, a bib?” I replied. “I mean, how would I solve any mysteries wearing a bib?”

“What kind of mysteries are there to solve in the break room?” they asked, looking even more perplexed.

“Well, for starters, what’s this Great Dane doing in the break room? Is there such a thing as Not-so-great Danes or just Plain Danes? And would they still solve mysteries, just not as great as Great Danes? And what happened to my Danish? Not that it’s really a mystery. Anyone can guess what happened to it,” I said.

What started with the best intentions of becoming a great writer like Oscar Wilde, who also sported an ascot, by the way, resulted in me solving whodunits about missing donuts, muffins, and other assorted pastries. It usually ends with me being called a meddling kid and trying to yank masks off my coworkers, who clearly aren’t wearing any. Perhaps, I should’ve just stuck with scarfing down my food like the Plain Dane that ate my Danish—after all, I get more writing done that way.