A View of My Favorite Christmas Stories - Day 7

Okay, I know I promised to tell the story of how Puddy Tat, my dearly departed kitty, took out the tabletop tree I had bought the first Christmas after my divorce back in 1995.

He looks mean, but Puddy Tat was a very sweet cat...
until he had to take a Christmas tree down....

And when I say he took it out, he trashed that tree like it had insulted his mother and took the last of his catnip. It was hanging by a cord of lights, and I was finding little decorations under furniture and in corners for months after the tree had met its demise.

A View of My Favorite Christmas Stories - Day 6

When Christmas decorations are done with taste and restraint, there is nothing more beautiful. When Christmas decorations aren't, it's a spectacle that has to be seen to be believed.

(This picture is from the blog, "Roadside Curiosities.")

A View of My Favorite Christmas Stories - Day 5

The cry that came from the dining room was one that sent a chill through Mom...a chill deeper and colder than the winds that stirred the snow in the yard that Christmas night.

"LORETTA! COME HERE! WHAT ARE ALL THESE LITTLE THINGS UP HERE?"

My stepfather was a very tough, resilient man. Not much scared or confounded him. That Christmas night, those...those...things in the living room made him call out for help.

A View of My Favorite Christmas Stories - Day 4

There once was a woman who lived on her own in an old brick house. Her companions were two older cats; one a stray she'd raised from a kitten, the other she adopted from a shelter when he was six because he was not only adorable, but he was the oldest cat in the sanctuary at the time. Some people jokingly called her a "crazy cat lady," because she was single with two cats, but she didn't like that label because it felt like a backhanded compliment or an old cliche, and she was no Eleanor Abernathy.

A View of My Favorite Christmas Stories - Day 3

Mom and Dad loved each other very much. Trouble was, they just couldn't live together very well. After years of trying, they finally separated in 1974. Mom, Deb, and I moved in with my grandmother, Dad got an apartment not too far away, and we all got used to the new domestic tranquility.

One of the greatest gifts Mom and Dad ever gave my sister and I was that they never argued in front of us, and they went out of their way to make sure we understood that just because they weren't together, it didn't mean that they weren't going to be there for us. There was no drama over visitation rights, or alternating holidays, or restricted visits because they were angry at each other. The only fight I remember witnessing between them, as a matter of fact, was that first Christmas after the separation.

And that fight was a doozy. It lasted for days, but Deb and I only saw the end of it.

A View of My Favorite Christmas Stories - Day 2

Remember how I said my sister Debbie loved Christmas, loved Barbie dolls, and hated surprises? Well this story combines all of these facts with a double shot of Cream Sherry.

When she was about six or seven, Debbie really wanted a Barbie Dream House.



A View of My Favorite Christmas Stories - A Christmas Bonus

I once wrote a poem that has a line, "It always comes, the call, at the most awkard time."

This picture is from the website, "A Fresh Chapter,"
by Terri Wingham. It chronicles her travels around the world after being
diagnosed with cancer. It's a great site worth checking out.

Today, that call came at 5:30 in the morning. When the phone rang, it took me a couple of seconds to get myself together, then a couple of seconds to actually find the receiver. When I finally picked up the phone, the caller had hung up. I looked on the caller ID and saw it was my neighbor, Fana.*

A View of My Favorite Christmas Stories - Day 1

(Some of these stories will be touching. Some, like today's story, will be a bit twisted. All of them will be true.)

My sister Debbie loved playing with dolls, but she didn't have much love for black dolls. Now this was back in the early 1970's, when black dolls were usually white dolls painted to look black. They usually had too large lips that were too pink, Weird colored eyes that bugged out, and cheeks stamped with circles of rouge that looked like red polka dots. If they had hair, it was either molded to their heads, or weirdly textured so it couldn't be combed or styled.

In other words, they were ugly dolls. And my sister did not like ugly. She wanted a doll that looked like her.

A View of Nativity Scenes

(For Bianca Jones, the Skelton brothers, and all the missing babies.)

Neighbors placed a Nativity scene in the front yard,
nestled the Holy Family in a baby’s playhouse,
a Crayola colored crèche festooned with strings of lights
to keep Baby Jesus, Joseph, and Mary safe from the elements.
“Bless them,” I say when I see it with a chuckle and a smile.
Bless them for doing the best they can with what they have.

A View of Things My Mother Taught Me

My mom should've been a teacher.

She should've been in front of a classroom, with an apple on her desk, kids lining up to clean the chalkboard erasers, and a stack of papers with gold stars she'd award to each student for their efforts. I say this because some of the most valuable, enduring lessons I learned were from her. Here are a few of them.

A View of "It's Kind of a Family Story"

(A poem in memory of my grandmother, who was an amazing character.)

A note of refusal to the handyman who wants to hang new drywall in my laundry room

It’s kind of an odd story, those balls of lint stuck to my laundry room wall. Funny you should ask about it. My grandmother would scoop lint out of the trap in her old washer, and fling it onto the wall, gleefully singing childhood songs at the top of her lungs as she did:

“Once upon a time/the goose drank wine/the monkey chewed tobacco on the street car line/the street car broke/the monkey got choked/and they all went to heaven but the old billy goat….”

A View of A Remembrance of Sunday Dinner

(Thinking of and missing my father today.  Had he lived, he would've been 68 years old.  I love you, Daddy.)

The sun sparkles like precious jewels

set in a tower of gold off the windows
of a building dedicated to revival.
Blue lights shine on blue water, lapis on sapphire.
A memory washes over me, a genuine moment,
a buried treasure drifts ashore.

A View of "Tell Them I'm a Veteran"

Today, I think of so many people.

I think of my father, who enlisted in the Air Force hoping to see the world.  He was sent to Texas and Alaska.  His dream of world travel did not materialize.  Still, he served proudly and honorably.

A View of How I Define Feminism

(This is a revision to "I'm a Feminist," a poem I posted earlier.  This revision is part of a class assignment and in direct response to the news out of Mississippi, where there is a push to redefine women's rights to the point where some forms of birth control would be rendered illegal.  Proposition 26 wants to define legal "personhood" as the point when sperm meets egg and the group behind it has stated they are against certain forms of birth control - IUDs, birth control pills, and other methods which prevent a fertilized egg from implaning in the womb.  This could set a dangerous precedent in terms of eliminating a woman's right to choose, a precedent that should not be allowed to take hold.)

“Every time we liberate a woman, we liberate a man.” - Margaret Mead

A View of I do not like poinsettias

(A poem about my father's memorial service.  His birthday, and the anniversary of his death, are later this month.)

I do not like poinsettias

Those red leaves make me see red, leave me red faced,

like the priest who stood on the altar

apologizing instead of eulogizing,

“I did not know your father… I’m told he was a good man….”
Stammering, straining for words, a man
who knew he would never wear red, stood shamed
by words flailing from his cheeks like injured cardinals.
Flustered red swam with festive red in a sea of charcoal gray;
charcoal gray vestments, charcoal gray chapel
charcoal gray sky that blotted out sun rays straining
to shine through glass stained poinsettia red.
The sky, it seems, did not like poinsettias.

A View of So Good

(I'm reading tonight at the Thistle Coffee House, and I have an assignment to rework a poem previously written.  This is what I came up with, and what I'll use to open my set.  Should be fun....)

I’m putting on that dress –
yeah, that dress that makes you say,
“Damn….”
putting on those pumps -
yeah, those pumps that turn your head,
tell you to stare as I walk straight to you,
each step sure, each step saying,

A View of Choices

(I was at work last Friday afternoon when, all of a sudden, I got the inspiration for the first half of this poem, like someone was reading it to me. On the way home, the second half of the piece came to me.  I tweaked and worked it over the weekend, and came up with this analysis of what the right wing wants people to belief a woman's right to choose and what the truth actually is.  I hope this rings true enough to make people think about their positions.)

(Comic found on the Move On website, and attributed to the Matt Bors website.)

A View of What Creativity Looks Like

(An assignment for class - a poem of description that pretty much covers the way I write.)

Dim room, double bed, duvet in a heap.
College t-shirt, too big.
Crew socks on feet, too dingy.
Calves tucked under, cross legged stance
supports legless laptop desk.
Cold coffee, chipped cup.  Cold pizza, chipped plate.
No cigarettes – quit cold turkey days ago.
Ink pen, ink fading.  Lead pencil, lead broken.
Battery meter reads 30%.

A View of Good Sunday Morning

(Tonight, I begin another poetry class through Springfed Arts Detroit.  The classes have been invaluable, and I've learned how to strengthen my voice through them.  This poem, based on memories of my old school Baptist extended family worshipping with my very Catholic nuclear family as a child, will be the one I workshop tonight, looking for constructive criticism and feedback.  I'll be posting other assignments from the class on the blog later on.)

A View of a Trip to Kashmir

I'm exhausted out of my mind, but can't quite get to sleep - too much caffeine in my system, still pumped up from the adrenaline rush from reading yesterday, frustrated because a couple of poems I've been working on just won't materialize.  As I was listening to my iPod, Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir," began to play.

A View of Things You Shouldn't Do

(This poem is based on things guys have actually said to me.  I've posted it before on my Facebook page, but I've reworked a couple of the stanzas to make it stronger and more comical.  I'll be reading this tonight, along with some other works, at the Thistle Coffee House, located on 4445 Second Ave. in Detroit, at 7:00 pm.  Hope to see you there....)

(I've posted from Cory Thomas' strip, "Watch Your Head" before.

I'll continue to do so, because he's always on point.)

Don't tell her you're a God fearing man,

and how you’d love to see her
come...

A View of Born to Fight

On September 11, 2009, Crystal Lee Sutton died of brain cancer.  She was only 68 years old, and her fight against the disease was complicated by an ongoing battle she had with her health insurance provider, who initially refused to pay for medication that could have saved her life.

A View of a Troublesome Word

(In an interesting - and telling - twist, Herman Cain is now being attacked by some of his fellow conservative GOP peers for challenging fellow candidate Rick Perry.  He's being accused of using race to his advantage in an attempt to disparage his competitor.  No one leveling the accusations have taken Mr. Perry to task for the his actions, or lack thereof, regarding Throckmorton.  In fact, it appears the other GOP candidates are giving Mr. Perry a pass on his alleged use of a racial slur.  How offensive is that?)

This post contains language, including ethnic slurs, that's not safe for work, and may be offensive to some readers.  While I'll understand if you decide to pass on reading this post, I hope you push past any possible offense and read this, but explore what truly offends you after reading the piece and exploring the links included.

A View of an Invitation

Excuse me, but what are you doing this Friday night, October 7th, say around 7:00?  If you're not busy, then how about joining me for a cup of coffee and some really good poetry?

I'll be reading some of my work at the Thistle Coffee House, located on 4445 Second Ave. in Midtown, as part of the weekly Thistle Crown Affairs series.  I'm on the bill with two of the city's best poets, Caesar Torreano and Wryter L. Bush, and I'm quite honored to be part of the bill.  There's a $3 recommended donation, and the Thistle has all sorts of fine beverages and treats available.

Chill out after work with some damn good coffee, some great poetry, and the best Midtown has to offer.  Hope to see you there....

A View of Hands

(Today, my grandmother would've been 97 years old.  She was a strong, beautiful, loving, straightforward woman, my family's cornerstone.  This poem, one of my first, is a tribute to her.) 

A View of a Dream Lover

From the brilliant web comic, "Watch Your Head," by Cory Thomas



Back in college, I once had a friend who was so desperate to make a guy she was interested in jealous (because in her mind, once he was jealous, he'd demand to begin an exclusive relationship with her on the spot), she mailed herself a romantic greeting card (complete with a handwritten declaration of love and a spray of her favorite men's fragrance), plus she had a bouquet of flowers and a box of candy delivered to her house.  The plan was to leave these items out in the open where the guy she wanted - who was in a long term relationship with another girl and only saw my friend as a booty call - would see them when he stopped by on Sweetest Day, driving him into that fit of jealousy on which she hung her hopes, and thus into her loving (and delusional) arms.

A View of Laughter

Years ago, my uncle would throw a huge New Year's Eve party - food, music, cards, dancing, party favors, family, and friends.  One particular year, the atmosphere in the house was especially festive and boisterous.  People were dancing, and it seemed like everyone was a little tipsy, even those of us who didn't have a drop of alcohol in our systems.  The long, brightly lit living room adjoining the bar was full of people determined to have fun.

A View Of Memories

(In the middle of the night, I dreamt I was as at a poetry reading delivering what was, in essence, this poem.  The words came through so clear that the dream woke me up.)

A View of I'm a Feminist

(I don't know what inspired this poem, but it came to me during a slow period at work.  It pretty much speaks for itself.)

"Men and women shall have equal rights throughout the United States and every place subject to its jurisdiction." Original draft of the Equal Rights Amendment, written by Alice Paul in 1923.

A View of Hope Lives Now

(A reminder on this solemn day that we should all strive toward the hope of better days, greater understand, more love, and the realization of mutual respect.)

A View of An American Tale

(This is a reworking of my earlier post, "These Colors."  The woman in that poem, based on a co-worker, called out to me, and I had to make her the subject of a poem of her own.  We've all met, will all meet someone like that woman - someone who is on this soil but not of it, but no less an American than any of us.  Think about that this September 11th, and every other day of the year.)

A View of What's Needed

"Did you ever think that love would be in need of love today?" - Stevie Wonder

As we remember the tragic events of September 11th, let's also remember to lead, to act, to rebuild with, through, and because of love.

More later, in humble remembrance.

A View of These Colors

(On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was at work, watching children play on a playground across the street from my Royal Oak office.  My mom called around 8:46 am to tell me about a plane hitting the World Trade Center.  We first thought it was the misfortune of a bad amateur pilot, but soon discovered that was not the case.  By the end of that fateful morning, the world had completely changed.  This poem is how I experienced that tragedy, and the fear that my family had lost a loved one to terror.)

A View of "Wow...Really?" (App not included....)

If a man with a gold tooth walks up to you in a McDonald's restaurant and tries to sell you a brand new iPad for $300, but is willing to settle for less than $200, you get what you pay for:

A worthless block of wood.

A 22-year-old woman in Spartanburg, South Carolina just learned this lesson the hard way.  You just know that, upon opening the FedEx box that was supposed to contain an iPad, she could only say one thing - the one thing she should've said when this offer was proposed to her:

Wow...really?

More later, and there's no app for that.

A View of Seven Cents

Anthony Stewart wants you to believe his current troubles are over seven cents.

He's the victim, he's the one irreparably damaged - facing a prison sentence and a permanent criminal record - and he's only 15 years old.  He wants you to fret over his future, feel sympathy for him, take his pitiful fate to heart.

A View of a Stranger

Remembering Michael Jackson, who would've been 53 today. Can't help wondering what sort of music he'd be making if he were still with us; what sort of person he would've been had his career, his life, his personal struggles, had allow him to be a person instead of an icon - an individual instead of a stranger to everyday human existence.



"Even at home, I'm lonely. I sit in my room sometimes and cry. It's so hard to make friends ...I sometimes walk around the neighborhood at night, just hoping to find someone to talk to. But I just end up coming home." - Michael Jackson

A View of "Wow...really?"

Introducing a recurring segment on VOTT that I'm calling, "Wow...really?"  The pictures, posts, or other bits of ridiculousness will speak for itself, and all you'll be able to say after viewing them is...

Wow...really?

More later, after trying to decide if this is so funny its sad, or so sad its funny....

A View of Potency

My last post, "A View of Impotent Outrage," came from a Detroit Free Press article I posted on my Facebook page, along with the following comment:

Are you watching out for your neighbors? Do you know your neighbors - and do they know you? 

A View of Impotent Outrage

My hometown has 2,770 police officers, a population somewhere in the neighborhood of 700,000 people, and a violent crime rate that's down about 10% from last year.

It also has, to date, lost 230 people to homicide, most of which are from shootings.

A View of It Was 20 Years Ago Today

There were numerous signs on my wedding day 20 years ago today that my marriage was destined to fail.

A View of Reach Out And Touch

Just this morning, I heard another songwriting master had passed.  Nick Ashford, part of the powerhouse duo Ashford & Simpson, died in a New York hospital yesterday of throat cancer at the age of 70.

With his wife, Valerie Simpson, he wrote for a who's who of pop and R&B music - everyone from Ray Charles, to the Shirelles, to Chaka Khan, to Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell.  He helped create classics like, "Ain't No Mountain High Enough," "Your Precious Love," and "I'm Every Woman."

While it's sad to know that another musical cornerstone is gone, we can be thankful his music is still here, still able to reach out and touch us all with the power of its melody and message.

RIP, Nick Ashford.  More later, but until then, remember the story of the glory when a shoe, shoe shine used to cost a dime, and a nickel could buy you plenty.

A View of Is That All There Is?

Hound Dog.  Searchin'.  On Broadway.  Yakety Yak.

Some of the wittiest, fun, and enduring songs of the rock era were created by lyricist and producer, Jerry Leiber.  A member of the Songwriters and Rock & Roll Halls of Fame, Mr. Leiber worked with some legendary artists - everyone from Peggy Lee and Big Mama Thornton, to the Coasters and the Drifters.  His career lasted over 60 years, leaving an imprint on stage, screen, televison and popular song.

Mr. Leiber died today at the age of 78 from cardiopulmonary failure.

Little Egypt.  There Goes My Baby.  Shoppin' For Clothes.  Jailhouse Rock.

Is that all there is?  Thankfully, no.  Jerry Leiber's legacy lives on through a body of work that still inspires singers and musicians to this day.  Through the stage review, "Smokey Joe's Cafe," a tribute to the work he created with partner, Mike Stoller.  Through songs that helped created modern pop, rock, and R&B.

RIP, Jerry Leiber.

More later.  In the meantime, check out the clip below to one of my favorite Leiber & Stoller classics, Big Mama Thornton's original version of the classic, "Hound Dog," then go searchin' for some more Leiber/Stoller hits.  You'll be surprised and entertained by the work they created.

A View of Where I Came From

"Did you hear about how Liberace tried to kill his mother?  He wanted to go back to where he came from and take his piano with him."

This is one of my Mom's favorite jokes, and truth be told, one of mine.  Not just because it's a good old fashioned corny line, but also because I think it's an excellent example of how we think about where we all have come from.

A vagina.

Why does that word illicit giggles?  Make people uncomfortable?  Generate controversy?