Drivin’ along, what did I see?
A big, blue tarp, up in a tree
How did it get there? I thought to myself
That’s not the work of some mischievous elf
It was right around Whitey’s, yard sale heaven
Where there’s always one goin’, 24-7
The tarp must’ve blown off their table, I betcha
Perhaps Whitey Junior can climb up and get ya
His father, I’m sure, will just let the thing be
And Junior’s too fat to be climbin’ that tree
I guess I could help ‘em to get the thing down
But right now I’m busy, see you around!
Now, who do you think’s responsible for that little nugget? William Shakespeare? Nope. Me? Hardly. No, it was my husband!
“Charlie!” I says, “when did you suddenly become a poet?”
“I’m not,” he goes. “But you’re always writing these blogs and books and such, and I saw that blue tarp up there and, well, I guess it kinda inspired me. I don’t know…”
I gotta tell you, I was impressed! After forty years of marriage, I know there’s nothin’ suprisin’ about my husband surprisin’ me. Sometimes the surprises are nice (you know, like flowers), and sometimes they’re not so nice (like eating one of the banana’s I was saving for banana bread, even though I told him I was savin’ it). This poem, though, came totally out of left field.
But, you know, if I really think about it, Charlie and poetry make sense. He seems to get a kick out of a country western song lyrics, for one, and he probably knows more dirty limericks than he’d care to share with his wife! Plus, he’s pretty good at pickin’ out cards with nice messages in ‘em, and writin’ something special inside. Something that rhymes, even.
Charlie,” I says. “You gotta keep at it. Somehow I get the feelin’ there’s more inside you than just this one about the tarp.”
“Well,” he goes, “we’ll see.”
But no sooner did I encourage him to write another poem, then he did!
Stuck With the ‘Gutta’s’
The weekend is here, I just wanna putter
Instead, there is all of this stuff that I “gutta”
I gutta run errands, I gutta do chores
And after all that, I gutta do more
The list, it is endless, this isn’t a quiz
If you own a house, you know how it is:
You start dickin’ ‘round with something or other
Next thing you know, it’s led to another
A simple fix, it seemed like at first
But darn, if it’s taken a turn for the worst
Back to the store I go, full of sorrow
No way I’ll be done with this project tomorrow
I’ve half a mind to just toss in the towel
But rather than sit around here and scowl
I think I’ll call Tommy, ‘cause I’ve a suspicion
He’d just as soon hang it up, too, and go fishin’
Well obviously, that first poem wasn’t a fluke. Charlie seems to have a knack for it. Who knew?
So here’s a shout out to my amazin’ husband, the “Paper Mill Poet of Mahoosuc Mills,” for lettin’ me share his backwoods verse with all of you. I’m one lucky gal, huh?
That’s it for now. Catch you on the flip side!
IDA’s PODCAST: Blue Tarp in a Tree
Upcoming
June 10: The Moose in Me, The Moose in You!, Thomas Memorial Library, 6:30 p.m., Cape Elizabeth, ME