Flavor of a Sunday Afternoon

In one room a radiorooms
moan of clarinet
wail of saxophone
with intense
with delight
with frequent
and forever

bumpa bumpa bumpa

like the heartbeat
like blood flailing at the temples
like giant steps in baby shoes
like a blind bird flying

bumpa bumpa

let me scream
let me out
let me call the name of something that has not been named
and feel the dream of a starless night
when no one
and nothing
feeling anything more than

the bumpa th bumpa th bumpa

and you holding onto
the tempo of a bass fiddle
groaning against the hurt
crying out with the carvings of pain
the agony of again and again
like a shower spitting its water
across the inside and edges of your misery
oh glory
oh glory
please again please

bumpa ba bumpp ba ba

In the other room a tv
the tedious whine of a woman
the whimper of a rogue
and the sensuous
thrum of a certain song
to the words and sounds
there are pictures, mind drawn


in this room a skillet
sausage sizzles in a skillet
sauce bubbles in a pot
and the comfortable
microwaving of a potato
adding to the entire flavor
of a lazy Sunday afternoon


Today is National Crayon Day. One of the crayons used to color the picture on the right is being retired (Dandelion).

This poem was not written for this day. It was written after reading a poem by William C. Williams. Still this poem fits this day.



As the crayon
crawled over
the edge of

the paper
first the right

then the chin
stepped down

into the pit of
the empty

Haiku: Awareness

Birds in a tree

Today I sat down
a bit longer than I thought
but wasn’t thinking

I don’t remember
thinking about trees or birds
or even breathing


Poem: Wondering

Talking to the car salesman
I am wondering
should I take it for a test drive
or just write the check
and get it over with

Holding the can of whipped cream
I am wondering
should I shoot it into the hot chocolate
or just spray it into my mouth
and get it over with

Lichen Crackling

Fifty thousand times I have saidLichen on Gravestone
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry
But like the ocean wave
That returns and returns again
Pounding the beach
Soothing the beach
Forgiving the beach
There seems to be
No difference
No difference at all
You remain cold
With lichen crackling at your feet
Even when I bring ocean breezes
Even when I bring the sun
Even when I’m ready to start a fire
You refuse, then refuse again
As if I was little more than a piece –
No, not just a single useless piece but
a huge, whole overwhelming pile of rat infested, fly swollen, buzzard supporting trash
waiting for the clean-up crew
waiting for the truck
that will hold me and hug me and love me like I’ve never been loved before
to cart me away
away from you
and the misery you insist is my payment
my just deserts
my reward
and all my sorry’s
and didn’t mean it’s
and I’ll never do it again’s
mean no more than the next wave
or the last wave
or any surfer-riding, eight or nine or twelve foot wave
no more than the sand you walk on
or even the sand in your shoes
I didn’t want it to get to this point
But all I have left to say,


Late afternoon staringmountain-sunsetover mountains
beyond sunset
reddish streaks across graying clouds
like hair
shimmering, tossed by the wind
framing dusk in easy harmony

There is the screaming,
“What the hell is wrong with you?
“You never understand?”
“You’re incredible, just incredible!”

There is grief in knowing
the collapse of clouds
fading into the darkness
of a coy smile

A small bird, a chickadee perhaps
or a nuthatch, upside down
is telling of casual secrets
being stored within a gentle wind

If I were a pilot
I would die flying
forever into that sunset
penetrating your eyes

Oozing Colors

did you hear thatJust an artist painting
in thoughts carefully culled
across a canvas of vast
glorious mesh of electrons
feeding colors

Here screams a galloping calamity
there frets a feathered fawning
around the edge a contusion
inside the outside of others
eating colors

You see his art at the
very edges of your vision
in the peripherals you see
and if it moves you will
feel it more than hear it
touching colors

outside lies a breeze
to catch on a brush tip
inside a breath lies
waiting for the knife
to cut, drag and pulsate
withering colors

Surely you think you know
what it is all about for
where there is art there
is meaning to be grasped
pulled tightly to the
heart of the colors

hand him a clean brush

Losing a Poem

Is this a poemwoman walking away
or just words
flying by like
red winged birds
the days are light
and old men sight
the openings
and closings

and hold
the prize
like old sold
soiled spoiled
well worn ties
creating a simple
foreign guise
within subways
both ways

You could say
or you could not
put the children
in the slot
and make them
laugh a lot
when you say
you have a snot
that you forgot

If you really love me
really, really love me
won’t you sally
across my fields
tasting my grains
of wheat and corn
and not leave me lonely
shorn and forlorn

This is not a poem
it’s just words
like not love
not love at all
breathing practice
in the hall
toward the stairs
going up
or going down

A forgery is being played
a bright light in the shade
making children giggle
while you snicker
and feel astute
and rather cute
because I lost you
like this poem
long, long ago

She Lies in the Middle

old womanShe lies in the middle of the street
kicking feet
flailing arms
a dying insect on its back trying to recover life

“Oh God you have forsaken me and my children
I cry but do you listen? Do you care, God?
I would damn you but for the fear
you would damn me first.
I am old and lost and you do not care.
I am poor and do not eat.
My clothes are torn and ragged.
My love for you is greater
than your love for me.”

While shaking the plastic cup,
at those rushing past in the shadows
her eyes screaming, “Please”

Sobbing, striking at demons around
she stops looking at those around
then struggles to her feet,
a torn month old newspaper of a person
hunched and like a matter of fact
goes to a nearby diner
orders a cup of coffee, cream, two sugars…

“How ya doin Mildred?” the waitress asks.

“Not bad. Eighteen bucks
but gotta tell ya the damn street’s
cold tonight killin’ my back for real
maybe I’ll go work over by Western”

sipping coffee, shivering, sobbing
brushing her disheveled hair away
“ashes to ashes, dust to dust”
rocking a non-baby in her arms
“the child shall pierce your heart”
caressing sorrow stroking sadness
“where else would I go”
the tears streaming across her lips
muttering her life story again.

“It wasn’t my fault.
It wasn’t me.
Damn you.
Damn you.”


With No Wonder

With no wonder or humble measuresDying embers
The bag is packed with forgotten treasures
As tears scuttle withdrawn acceptance
With nothing against a days repentance

She calls not rhymes nor reasons
Thinking tears will be but seasons
And pleasure left where none remembers
And souls lift breath from old cold embers

A Single Leaf

with the sun settinga leaf on the path
the forest in deepening shadow
feeling the growing coolness
I hear the crackling sound
of a single leaf being crushed
somewhere behind me
and I tense in anticipation
thinking it is you
having changed your mind

waiting and listening
all my senses taught
there is not another sound
until the dog licks my hand
ready to accompany me
on my last walk
through the woods
on the path
leading away
from you

A Video Worth Watching

Sayings of Caledon Pritz

Not Guessing

“Got my glasses fixed yesterday. I’m really pleased cuz they were cleaned, too. Now I’m not guessing as much when I drive.” ~ Caledon


“I thought the neighbor’s dog finally went to sleep, but apparently, there was still another hours worth of important barking to do.” ~ Caledon Pritz


Maybe you’re waiting for closure, even though you’ve already gotten it.” ~ Caledon Pritz


Life’s a waste of time.” ~ Caledon


If no one applauds when you walk on stage, does that mean you aren’t there?” ~ Caledon Pritz

Being Old

A man is not old until his ears are too big for his head.” ~ Caledon


If you’re not building your own dreams, then whose are you building?” ~ Caledon Pritz

For Some

For some life is a catastrophe, for others it is merely an apostrophe.” ~ Caledon Pritz

Look Out…

“Be careful Mrs. Butterworth, things could get a bit sticky around here.” ~ Caledon Pritz


Don’t let the past steal your gifts.” ~ Caledon Pritz

Caviar or Peanut Butter

A $200 ounce of caviar is no more filling that a 20¢ ounce of peanut butter.” ~ Caledon Pritz

The Day

“Either you run the day, or you run away.” ~ Caledon


Yesterday might have been terrible, but stop fretting about it. You made it to today, and that’s good.” ~ Caledon Pritz


A difficult thing about life is letting things be what they are rather than trying to make them what you want them to be” ~ Caledon Pritz

Life… Again

“Life is 10% what happens to me and 90% what happens to you, or is it the other way around?” ~ Caledon Pritz

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