by Patrick Bailey
I Can Hear the Organ Playing...
It might be a gamble to have a rich wife,
It might be a problem if I had too much dough,
Some might question the riches I might wed
To have and to hold is a lifetime deal
I Dug It Good
The "girl groups" of the 60s
Singin' 'bout their dream love life
This wasn't blues or sadness
Such wonders when remembered
Reality is different and the girls
'Round and 'Round
When I was five I gripped the shellacked
When I was seven I rode the pony
When I rode on a jet plane,
When I was at the prom, the girl
Always I wanted to know how it felt.
The Fruit Cellar
Back when things were normal in the 1950s and
The fruit cellar was someplace you went looking
You might peek at them, but
And the fruits and vegetables still had their stems.
A fruit cellar is not a place you would hang out.
If you were weird enough, you could set up a card-table
A fruit cellar is about little old ladies and their crafts.
Christmas 1997
the little green pine was so proud of its dress,
"stop little kitty, don't be such a brat,
the mean little kitty gave a punch and a crack,
when Christmas was dawning, the wrappings so bright,
Morning Simplicity
I like to eat Cheerios in my bowl of milk.
I don't put fruit on my Cheerios,
The Suds of Life
There can be an air of desperation about laundry-time.
Timing is all if you are engaged in public laundering.
Sometimes I want to sing while my laundry sudses.
As each shirt goes into the cavernous tub
My laundry swirls, erasing each event it witnessed,
Christmas '94
And when the snow muffled her steps
There were plenty of men with beards
"Do they not know that it is all so new?"
One old man knocked on her door
She sat around the fire late into the night.
The next morning she awoke late, rested.
"I burned too much wood last night," she knew,
She sat sadly and her mind was not peaceful.
Mr. O'Malley came over soon thereafter
She brewed her tea and it tasted good.
Blurb
Take a little step toward happiness,
My Love
My love sends me letters in her neat little hand
I open up the letters and I'm with her for a time,
In everything she tells me I see a heart that wants to share
All poems by Patrick Bailey
To go Home
It could be a little dicey to be set for life.
She might get ugly but I woudn't moan
It would still be better than being poor alone.
My wife might nag, it's true I know.
She might set standards that I couldn't reach
But if the money was steady, I'd let her preach.
And say it was better that I earn it instead,
To them I would answer that I was sorry to offend
But it sure is nice to have lots of money to spend.
What matters money when the love is real,
But to work and slave, is that essential for its fate?
I want to "marry up" before it's too late.
Were rebel geishas filled with soul.
Their big hair stayed in place
But their hips were on a roll.
'Bout the boy they want to hold,
Gyrating to a rhythm
That was lovely to behold.
This was beauty, style and grace.
This wasn't a big fat mama
This was a Barbie doll in lace.
Bring sensations to the fore
Of being young and eager
Of what love will hold in store.
Have left the stage,
But I still hear their heartful numbers,
And then forget about my age.
lion's mane on the carousel.
Up and down, holding the pole,
Thinking my animal just didn't have the spunk.
at the carnival, chained as it was,
Walking slowly, methodically,
I was sorry for it.
I saw the stewardess in the pink dress.
I couldn't hold on to her, but
She helped me strap myself in.
danced better than I, was easy to hold
And I didn't know how she felt.
What was I supposed to feel?
I knew I was on a ride,
and I knew it wouldn't last very long.
Part-way into the '60s, old ladies used to live in big houses.
Three stories and a basement. A fruit cellar.
For a tool or something. It was quiet and the walls
Were filled with jars containing various things.
You wouldn't recognize much in the jars.
The colors were different than at the store.
Sometimes the things floating in those jars reminded
You of Edgar Allen Poe's cellar.
It's a liminal space, a place which is a little too quiet,
You go down the wooden stairs and know you won't be long.
In a fruit cellar and play checkers or cards.
But it wouldn't be right and you'd feel like the game didn't matter.
It's about a time long ago when people didn't go to the store everyday.
It's about as foreign to me as a NASA exhibit now.
it was red, blue and gold with a star on its crest.
the little white kitty was playing at gym,
punch out the ornaments and pull off the trim.
i won't be so pretty if you hit me like that."
to which, just to bait him, the kitty replied,
"i liked you better when you were outside."
then she strutted away with the trim on her back.
the little green pine just stood there and cried,
such a mean little kitty and so full of pride.
the little white kitty was nowhere in sight.
they opened her present and called out her name,
but she was out in a tree, crying in shame.
They sit up and float so happy.
They don't grow depressed
And hide in the milk like cornflakes.
Too heavy-handed and industrial.
Besides my Cheerios don't like it,
They start drowning themselves like cornflakes.
No one is completely free while he possesses laundry.
It beckons, softly at first, then turns ugly.
Laundry is life. There is no escape.
That such a private affair must be
Attended like church-going, each to his porcelain pew
Humbles us, though we do not sing hymns.
I feel a sense of rebirth, of absolution.
I want to let stir my emotional release.
Yes, I want to dance in my laundry room!
I recall that some were for parties, others
For anonymous days,
What difference does it make now?
Forgetting even its wearer, especially its wearer.
My laundry must forget all about me for the purification,
Though I must never forget about it. Commitment.
She began the warm, restless thought
About the freshness of hidden things.
Walking to the village loudly
To get drunk and idle themselves.
She thought. "That they can become different
From all the years before?"
Asking if she needed some more wood.
"Yes, yes please bring the wood, Mr. O'Malley."
"Mr. O'Malley was a good man to bring the wood,"
She thought. "I hope his drinking does not kill him."
The snow had fallen heavily and all was quiet.
She could not open the front door.
"I cannot even brew my tea!"
She knew Mr. O'Malley would be hungover.
The frozen windows were too quiet for her.
"What good are my thoughts when Mr. O'Malley is a drunkard?"
And brought more wood.
It took him much effort to open her door from the snow.
Mr. O'Malley was grumpy on his way to the tavern.
"I saw her chimney going to blazes last night,
She always uses too much wood when it snows."
When you boot yourself up each day.
Allocate your memory to cheerfulness.
When it asks you, click "OK."
She lives so far away in a dreamy sort of land.
I see her sighing softly as she smiles at what she said
Her words are like the flowers in my private flowerbed.
I picture her in moonlight in a garden so sublime.
She looks forward to my answers but I can't reply, you see,
I don't know who she really is, but I know she waits for me.
In all the little details I see her love is waiting there,
She's funny with her problems, what she thinks that I should know,
I like to read about them; it makes me love her so.