Run in a mad fit

 

by

Charles N. Guthrie

 

Running so hard to get to the tape;

Breaking hearts right and left

to get first place;

Waiting for the applause and shouts to burst;

But, now it’s just a finish line

where no crowd shouts my name.

It would come in time,

the race to win no longer mine;

The race changed from how fast to what;

What can be done in the time that’s left?

Hold on to some lines from favorite songs;

Eat the air in your lungs.

In a mad fit

run past the empty bleachers in the night

as if the shouting crowd never left.

 

Copyright  ©  2009, Charles N. Guthrie

 

 

When you become a man or woman the race changes to getting things done by arbitrary deadlines.  As you become even older you hope to accomplish your life goals which are restrained by time, and sometimes, not all the time, it’s ok to run toward an invisible tape, a tape the younger adults don’t see, and run at the tape like you are crazy.

I like to listen to Jay Leno’s monologue

and write my poems as the show goes along.

So, I sat at my kitchen table about to write;

when I noticed I was wearing only one sock.

Now, every poet knows about the one sock curse;

because wearing one sock makes you lose your words.

Why, Shakespeare wrote Hamlet on a bet

he couldn’t write while wearing only one sock.

Since then those who’ve  worn one sock and wrote

have all experienced the loss of thought.

Even Shakespear could only do it once.

So, while Jay was in the middle of his joke,

I looked for my missing sock and laughed.

I laughed so hard I got a headache.

So, I got up to take an Excedrin break,

With one great gulp I swallowed a tablet;

then, at the punch line of Jay’s joke I laughed;

looked for my sock, and let the Exedrin work.

All of a sudden my sink let out some burps;

 

Oh my gosh!  I was getting the one sock curse.

Out of my head flew all of my thoughts;

then they dove into my sink and down it’s pipes

gurgling so loud I couldn’t think.

They were so noisy I missed Jay’s next joke,

only hearing the laughter after he spoke.

It was a scary moment

standing on the kitchen floor with one bare foot

and my other foot in a sock,

and inside my head not a single thought.

Suddenly, I realized my headache was gone;

from lack of ideas, or the Excedrin.

Jay Leno’s monologue was funny that night.

Giving me a fit of laughter to such an extent

I couldn’t control my poetic wit.

Jay’s jokes made me forget I couldn’t write

So, I grabbed my pen, but my hand froze tight.

In my very own kitchen I’d become lost

with nothing in my head to write about.

Jay’s jokes were so funny my sink pipe laughed,

then gave a burp and my ideas popped back.

They were slippery as fish in a wet grocery sack.

I tried to catch my ideas by writing them down

in a one sock poem so I could wear a crown.

 

So, I wrote my thoughts as fast as I could;

but, never realized I’d written good.

I had not set out to break the curse.

All I wanted was to laugh at Jay’s jokes;

get rid of my headache and entertain some folks.

Now I wear one sock and write all the time;

because I’ve discovered the secret of the one sock rhyme.

Anyone can write wearing only one sock;

but, with Jay Leno’s jokes you get the best result.

                           By

Charles N. Guthrie

    Copyright    ©    Charles N. Guthrie   2009

 

Jack,  Johnny,  &  Jay

(The three wise men of late night TV)

 

The Tonight Show has been part of our culture starting with, Jack Parr, Johnny Carson, and Jay Leno and now, Conan O’brien.  Why has the show been around so long, what value has it, and where is it going? 

The reason the show has lasted as long as it has is the monologue.  Other than the monologue, the Tonight Show is little more than a variety show.  Of course, the delivery of the monologue is the key and NBC has always been able to find a star who could deliver.   Over the years, the monologue became if you will a final prayer of the day, but in a funny spoofing way, taking on the serious, powerful and the great in a whimsical and serious manner.  Humor’s base is morality and right over wrong.  The Tonight Show monologue at one time or another has taken on both sides of the political spectrum.  The rich are poked fun at.  The powerful are laughed at.   Most of us feel better that we are not rich, powerful or important because the monologue takes everyone and thing down to size.

It was as if he were in your livingroom when Jack Parr told a story.  When Johnny Carson came along, some thought he was silly and not up to the intellectual humor of Parr, but then Johnny Carson changed, he grew.  I didn’t think anyone could replace Johnny when he left, then I watched Jay Leno get better and deeper and again we had the feeling after watching the Tonight Show all was right with the world.

The hosts of the Tonight show, Jack, Johnny, and Jay, became more than late night comedians, or hosts, but in a way a moral compass for our times expressing after the nightly news the views of the regular guy about what was going on in the world.  In a sense a humorous morality for the nation.  

So the Tonight show hosts made us feel good about ourselves and made us look forward.  How much has that been worth over the years?  How many times did that laughter save lives, allow the down hearted to prevail over bad times.  There is no price tag one can put on the effect of entertainment.   The Tonight Show was a very valuable tool for keeping peace and harmony in our nation.   

Now, we have Conan O’brien, and the same things are being said of him as those who came before.  He is too superficial and his jokes are too silly.  But, maybe like the others he will grow into the role.  I hope so.  On the other hand we have David Letterman.  His humor has always been simple and he gives the appearance of being partisan.  

 The Tonight Shows were  enjoyable, but more, they gave us security.  Someone we knew personally was looking at the big issues pointing out the obvious which is always funny.  Sometimes the humor was tough, like in the Cold War years with the Cuban Missels, Viet Nam, Nixon, Clinton, we all sat in our livingroom foxholes and shared the humor with Jack, Johnny, and Jay.  In a sense, Jack, Johnny, and Jay were the three wise men that followed that star in the sky, but instead of galloping away on their camels, got off and spent some time with us.  It could be, the last one is getting back on his Camel.  We were lucky to spend time with these truly wise men.    

Who knows what the future will bring.  It may be the end of an era.  Maybe there will be a fourth wise man.  Good luck to Conan.  Good luck to Dave too.   I’ll give both of you some advice later.  Here is my advice to NBC.  Place Jay Leno right after the 6:00 O’clock news, with his monologue and some guests, for no longer than 30 minutes, every night Monday through Friday.  A monologue and one or two guests.   In the end his humor is all about the news and pointing out the obvious which is, after all funny.

For Conan O’brien, I have two words, Will Rogers.   

For David Letterman, well, here I am, writing a poem about someone in a kitchen

with one sock on and one sock off and a kitchen sink burping.  Now that is about as silly and superficial as you can get.  Then criticize Conan and David for being shallow; but, none-the-less, you’ve got to know shallow to recognize shallow.  For Letterman, and O’brien they are either going to upgrade their humor, or they will be like all the other comics and there wont be a reason for people to tune in.

I have no advice for Jay.

Hey Freud, put down your cigar.
I’ve got the answer you were looking for.
The question that stumped you,
“What do women want?”
Take a listen to my thought.
You underestimated women with that penis envy.
The fact is they want the whole male body.
You just have to observe women at a party,
and how their husbands make them happy.
“Honey, can you get us drinks?
Don’t forget the dip and chips.”
Watch how the men perform their tricks.
“Now run along and play with the other men
and let us girls talk in the kitchen.”
After awhile you understand
a man does not have to be handsome or rich
as any old man will do.
All women want, and it’s really not much,
is simply to say, “I’ve got one too.”

 

by Charles N. Guthrie
Copyright © 2009, Charles N. Guthrie

I sat myself before her like the empty coffee cup arrives.
The menu of my life I offered to her eyes.
The waiter stood at the ready and the cook was in the kitchen.
I waited for her order with great expectation.

“Waiter,” she paused,
as she opened her hand exposing her claws
and ring finger without a band, voicing her aristocratic airs,
about liberal ethics and conservative affairs
that fell below her high flying philosophies; 
then she purred beneath her breath,
as I tried not to look perplexed,
“I’d like tea from a kettle of stars,” she ordered.
My eyes looked at the menu stunned.
“I’d like my sunsets in a glass.
Bring my afternoons roasted and the chilliness
of evenings warmed in two pots.
Beneath my bedroom blankets spread my legs
and wind them up so tight I’ll spin into the Milky Way
where I’ll fall asleep then wake
from a thousand Christmas Eves of joy
with my eyes spinning like a child’s upon a toy.”

I thought she’d want a little house with a piano
and a dog, a picket fence or romantic place to go.
But putting sunsets in a glass,  .  .  .
 
My little restaurant that I’d created in my mind
didn’t have two pots of chilly evenings warmed,
or roasted afternoons, or Milky Ways
into which I might spin her legs into Christmas Eves
and all of those other things ordered up from her dreams.
I knew she was just speaking in metaphors;
but also what her words were intended for.
Those things she wanted ordered up
were not on any  menu I could concoct.
She was gracious and settled for what I could afford
one tea bag, and two empty cups, each with a saucer
two metal spoons a pot of hot water and some sugar.
Lest my romantic notions be revealed and spilled
on the restaurant floor and the night ruined,
I carried my heart away,
like an empty cup upon a waiter’s tray.
‘Twas a quaint restaurant in my mind
invented to ask her to live her life with mine.
I wondered if one day, I might be there to ask,
if she’d found the restaurant she’d sought;
or ask if she’d been to the Milky Way and back. 
Careful words were turned
at the handle of our conversation’s end.
I walked down that imaginary sewer pipe that crops up,
when one’s romantic notions are perceived down struck.
Walked out of her life, down the sewer pipe and under ground,
walking into bigger and bigger sewer pipes beneath the town.
I began to mix with the other turds who’d lost their way that night.
We were all on our merry way to the sewage treatment plant.
There was laughter and music in the sewer pipes.
Other, wiser turds than me were making jokes
about what we were going to do when we awoke.
 
The sewage waters moved swiftly and sparkled that night
as if a kettle of stars had been poured into the drain pipes.
Alas, her big words and cosmic dreams snuffed out my hopes.
The engagement diamond in my mind’s box
was watery thin on the restaurant floor waiting for the mops.

Copyright © 2009, Charles N. Guthrie
California 1974

 

My romantic notions were out gunned over tea by a good looking woman’s big words and incredibly ambitious statements; so I went home and wrote a poor little me  rhyme.  I was going to law school at the time this poem was written and I was starving. The problem when your poor and proud is that your state of being, being poor and proud, influences how you perceive others.  This woman I wrote so unkindly about, she did agree to have tea with me.  She was intelligent, had great wit and outrageous dreams and I completely misunderstood her.  I thought she was kissing me off, when in fact she was telling me how wonderful life would/ could be.  She was sharing her dreams.  But, I was so damned poor, I would not allow myself to dream so bold or embrace her dreams.  If I had to go back and do it all over again there would be a whole bunch of times I would not let being proud color my thinking of people who were being kind and genuine.  If I ever made that apology, I would for the occasion have to rent a football bleacher.

As it turned out, I was indeed around to ask if she found that restaurant she was looking for.  I didn’t have to ask because I knew, knew she made her way into the Milky Way, knew her afternoons were warm and am aware of her great success.  I add, great success without me.   The poem is about writing a poem and not understanding what was written until reading the rhyme years later.  Oh, I’m sure she thought I was dull, but I doubt she went home and wrote a rhyme about my dullness, to her even greater credit.  Wouldn’t it be funny if she had, had gone home and written a rhyme about my dullness, of course I’ll never find out because I’m too proud to ask.    Actually, I’m not too proud to ask, but there are some things you leave alone.

Sewer language is not where I like to go with my poems; but, it is guy talk after some perceived rejection.  Who knows, maybe somewhere in the minds of all guys there is an imaginary sewer pipe to crawl into after striking out with a gal.

 (New Concord, Ohio, 1959)

Legend says, if you kill a firefly the dying glow
creates a window for an evil thing to look at you.
Blind to the human heart, evil cannot hear its beat;
except through the glow of dying firefly light.

Once upon a time two poor lovers walked
among fireflies in the night.
They were afraid and running from their past.
Too poor to buy wedding rings,
her coin-less pockets and his dusty suit;
They dreamed of greater things
than walking in the night.
Within the cathedral of the heavens
they caught their breath and prayed for castles
in the sky, and in desperation caught
a firefly and rubbed its yellow tail light
into a wedding ring around her finger.
Rubbed it into a yellow-ember
that pulsated on her finger.
They walked together in the night
her finger pulsating a yellow-green.
Two lovers part of the night’s scene
among a million golden lights
rising and falling like
sparkling waves in a flashing sea.
They walked toward a starry castle in the sky.
Their hearts began to beat and sigh.
The earth was light beneath their feet.
They began to float upward in the air
between the ice cold  moon and stars
above the golden flashing blanket
that spread like a quilt over the planet.
The evil thing awoke and opened its eye to hear
a curious note that throbbed from her finger.
It watched the dancing lovers
twirl and spin toward the stars.
Through the glow of her ring that throbbed
the evil thing could see her heart and blood.
She tried to hide her hand in her dress,
but the ember’s light came through the cloth.
Then she covered her pocket with her lover’s hand
and they fell from heaven to their end.

Copyright 2009 ©   By Charles N. Guthrie

 

 

 

New Concord, Ohio, 1959

 

This was written when I was 16, the year, 1959, after moving from a farming town in Ohio, to one of the richest, most beautiful coastal towns in Southern California.  The little town I left, New Concord, Ohio, was more beautiful one spring night than anything seen before or since.  One moon-lit night, about roof-top high the fireflies appeared over the country hills like a soft,  blinking golden blanket.  Surrounded by fireflies, I climbed a ladder to the top of our house and stood on the roof  to see how far they stretched to find they stretched forever.  An enormous flashing sea rose and fell softly in sparkling waves all around for miles in every direction.  The top of my house became a ship in a flashing ocean.  The fireflies seemed to rise and fall like waves but never really going higher than our roof.  The fireflies were like a moving blanket over the earth in all directions.  All around our house for miles hovering over the land were golden lights.  The sky above the sparkling golden blanket was as black as coal with a full white moon and billions of white stars.  I watched the sky and ocean of golden flashing lights for hours.  After all these years I remember what I was thinking while looking at the billions of white stars and sea of fireflies; I was thinking no where in the universe or under the sea could I go and find anything to rival the beauty of what I was beholding that night in New Concord, Ohio.

 

When I wrote The Firefly’s Ring, I was thinking about that night in New Concord.  It was a teenage effort so obviously the poem ended tragically.  When you’re young you write about death.  When you are old, death is still there, but you write around it.  No judgment call, only an observation.  The poem’s had some minor edits over the years.  But for a few words and grammar edits it remains as first written.         

 

New Concord, Ohio is more than a farming town.  New Concord is where Senator and Astronaut John Glenn grew up, and it is the home of Muskingum College.  It is also the home of New Concord High School, where, at least when I attended, Latin and boxing were mandatory. Both were great gifts, the Latin and the boxing; which I didn’t appreciate until years later in law school, and when the chips were down.  New Concord has character.  I hope some rubbed off on me even though my stay was but for a year.  I remember getting up at five a.m., to deliver news papers and my father driving me around on the snowy streets running to houses and delivering papers.  As an old guy, I’ve made an old guy effort, and still can’t quite capture that night with the fireflies in New Concord.  Let me say it this way:  I’m a guy who does not go around talking about how beautiful things are.  The fireflies that night in New Concord were my flying saucer.