Mary's Roses

Someone brought our Mary roses,
And then did bid good day.
Just who would have tendered them,
Not one of us could say.
Now Mary, though a lovely lass,
Would hold the boys at bay.
Yet someone let those roses rest,
By Mary’s stone today.

© Richard Gilbert 2010

The Etheree

The etheree is a poem with ten lines. The first line has a one syllable word; the second line has two syllables; the third line three, etc., and finally the tenth line has ten syllables. It was invented by Etheree Taylor Armstrong, an Arkansas poet. A double etheree goes one to ten and then ten to one. So here's my crack at it:


You and Your Double Etheree

You,
You jerk,
You moron,
You idiot,
You ignoramus,
You empty-headed ass,
You illiterate meathead,
You ridiculous stumblebum,
You stupid, worthless human being
You and your stupid, ugly etheree.

This is not what an etheree should be.
An etheree must be poetry.
An etheree should be lovely.
It should be filled with wonder.
It should truly inspire.
It should be graceful.
And not complain,
Nor attack,
You dope,
You.

Who's in Control?

Late on a Saturday afternoon, Dad drove into town to get a flat tire fixed, and I got to go with him. Arriving at the gas station, I took the tire from the trunk and laid it flat on the shop apron. The station owner hurried over and said that he was about to close up, but he could fix it. His coveralls carried the name “Bob.” After looking at the tire more closely, Bob said, “Oh, this is a radial. I don’t think I can get it done before closing time.” Radials were new at the time. Bob turned and took a few steps to check the clock on the shop wall, and then, turning back, said, “No, I’m sorry, there’s just not enough time.” With that, he started toward the tire.

Dad took the cigar from his mouth, held his hand palm down in front of him and quietly said, “Leave it.” Bob stopped, looking bewildered. I was confused too. We both looked at Dad. After a moment of silence, Dad said quietly, “Rich, put the tire in the car.”

Before I could take a step, Bob pounced on the tire crying, “No, no, I can fix it!” He started working hurriedly. I looked at Dad, half expecting a wink or at least a smile. Nothing; he was expressionless.

When Bob was finished with the repair, he then got what he had wanted; he got to put the tire in the car.

Dad was a sales manager. Part of his job was motivating people. I figure he motivated Bob. Motivated or manipulated, that can be a fine line. Each party got what he wanted, so let’s say, “motivated.” I say “motivated” because he was my dad. My dad wouldn’t manipulate anyone.