Long in Tooth

longintoothNow I brush my teeth,
enameled finish once white and bright,
now dull and slightly yellowed with the years,
coffee stains and fissured with hair-thin lines.
The bristles of the brush cross back and forth
and up and down in frenzied search
for organic orts and screeds lodged between each tooth,
and I adjust my glasses so’s to closely check
for some resistant morsel—
shred of roast beef or spinach holding fast—
that will potentially finance my dentist’s son or daughter
to a ritzy school in New York, Chicago, or Chapel Hill.
Ah, you were once pretty pearls,
even when the eye teeth came out crooked
and had to be tinkered with in earnest.
Now discolored, chipped in spots,
a silver filling here, a gold one there,
two or three disguised in some kind of white amalgam.
Combat weary, you still fight on, stout and stalwart fellows!
The brush withdrawn,
the mouth rinsed in what tastes like pesticide,
I give the mirror a cheesy grin,
salute my battle-worn warhorses,
and start the day.

Steve Pulley
6/23/2016
Posted in Poems | 2 Comments

Backscratchee’s Delight

backscratcheesdelight
“Laddie, lower your claws,”
was my father’s demand,
and I, faithful son,
submissive to command,
applied thumbs and eight nails
to his bare back without pause.
He yelled and he screamed,
he moaned and he groaned
He cried, “Take the money, boy!
And also the home!”
Such is the plight
of backscratchee’s delight.

Note: My dad loved to have his back scratched and, I kid you not, those quotes above actually came from his lips, word for word. He was a most amusing man, God bless him. He told me that back in the late 1920s and early ’30s, when television had not yet been invented, for entertainment he, his parents, and his siblings would form a circle, each facing the back of another family member, stretch out their fingers and begin to scratch the back of the person in front of them.
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Homonyms Delight

homonymsdelight
English being a tongue of confounding complexity,
may cause in all of us some degree of perplexity.
Words that spell the same may mean two different objects,
like the bark of a tree or the bark of a dog that objects,
or even words that sound the same, like aunts and ants.
So when Granny grouched she’d rodents in her drawers,
I wasn’t sure she meant the dresser or her underpants.

Steve Pulley
4/14/2016
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Hell in a Handbasket

hellinahandbasketGoing to hell in a handbasket,
today an allegorical locution
involving no casket
—though once held to require
a gruesome execution—
is defined as heading for disaster,
be it without remorse,
sans recourse to a pastor.

As one theory goes,
a handbasket was first used
in the French Revolution
for displaced heads abused
by guillotine, the solution
to go straight to hell…
(do not pass go,
do not collect dough)
…and without absolution.

Steve Pulley
4/13/2016
Note: This one is the result of a prompt suggested in the writing group I belong to: “Why do we go to Hell in a handbasket? What is it about handbaskets that make them so well suited for venturing into the underworld?” I did a little research on the subject, and no one seems to know for sure the true origin of the the allegorical locution, but there were a number of theories, the above being one of them.
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Baton Twirling

batontwirling.jpg
Baton-twirling has ever been my passion,
…not to mention baton twirlers’ fashion.
It may seem easy to some,
the flip of four fingers
with the help of a thumb.
Hurled high, there it lingers,
then down it comes spinning,
leaving me grinning,
out of breath with the tension,
the apprehension
that somehow instead…
it might land on someone’s head.

Steve Pulley
4/10/2016

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A Sardonic Smile

sardonicsmile

Dueling can be grueling,
but a sardonic smile without guile
can often be vile.

Steve Pulley
4/8/2016

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A Spot of Light on the Eastern Horizon

spotoflighteasternhorizon
A spot of light on the eastern horizon
pinpointed my eyeball through a hole in the blinds,
announcing that yet a new morn was brewing,
and the bed which I’d slept in prayed to be made.
I performed my ablutions with care and resolve,
limped to the kitchen and dragged out a pan,
nuked it with water, salt, Avena sativa,
then gagged down a bowl of oatmeal at dawn.

Steve Pulley
4/7/2016

Posted in Poems | 2 Comments