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Copyright: Fred Robel, and Fritz365 2010-2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog's author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Fred Robel and Fritz365 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Friday, October 6, 2017

Harvest Cheddar

Harvest Moon light reflects within your eyes
Projecting a perfect tiny image
A bright mini man in the moon
Winking at me from within you

This singular moment is broken
As your body goes rigid
Skin color and texture changing
I reach out to feel if you are ok

Catching your fall as you go
A familiar tangy odor wafts to my nose
And a growing orange glow grows
As my armful of you morphs before my gaze

The old stories are true
When you gaze upon the Harvest Moon
And a certain old god hears your pleas
You do indeed turn to sharp cheddar cheese

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Day 1 - Get Going Already!

It was hot

Not like frying pan in the desert hot
But not comfortable just the same

My best friend and I were drinking beer
In a vain effort to cool off
Ice sliding off golden scripted cans
Of mass produced swill
Vapor rising lazily up from the metal
Promising cold
Delivering naught
But hot beer and dead skunk

I felt a pressure on my chest
And my arms felt leaden
As my buddy scoffed at my latest decision

"I don't know, dude
Twenty days is a long ass time to be gone every month
If nobody else tries to tap your old lady
I just might!"

He drunkenly laughed at that
And I did too

Although I wasn't too worried about him
The general idea had crossed my mind as well
And I was feeling some misgivings about it all

But fuck it
More beer would probably fix it

"Toss me another 'Stone, eh?"

My wish granted
The mostly white can started arcing towards me
Drops of condensation shedding from it
Like a just launched rocket on a cold morning
Spinning on its long axis as it came
That gold-lettered brand label flashed into view
Then out
Then in

Old Gravestone Light
The beer that won no awards ever
With a silver slab grave marker logo
Stating unironically
"Your Name Here"

You'd think nobody would buy a beer with such a dark sense of humor
But here we were
Drinking up in the back of my pickup truck

The can passed through my fumbling fingers
To land with a meaty splat upon my chest

Upon contact
My eyes snapped open
And my head started to hurt
Hand grabbing center torso
Finding instead of a cold beer
A fabulously smelly shoe

This leather sheathe
Held an equally alarming foot
All attached to what surely
Was an appropriately horrid person
Shades of Schultz's Pigpen
But weighing 300 pounds
Topped by a mop top of greasy brown hair
And holding a jagged cinder block above his head

Small sharp stones opined their anger to my back
Offended at being laid upon

My left arm wet in a puddle of what probably isn't completely water
Not responding to my brain's call to defense

I can't tell what language I'm being swore at in
As the man swung the chunk of concrete down at me

My head tried to do a fancy zig zag move to get away
Only causing my overly starched once-white collar to chafe the skin

Two more thoughts have time to cross my mind:

The cold rain feels delightful upon my bare legs

I wonder where I left my pants

Friday, September 1, 2017

747 Sunset

I never saw a sunset
Until I was above the clouds
Orange light bathing cotton candy
Spread out upon endless horizons

Mesmerized through the cockpit windows
Until waves of color rippled across

A slow motion ocean of red
Swallowing the orange of endless foam

A magician's velvet cape of purple
Sweepingly chasing the red

An invisible squid's ink of black
Squirting all the soft landscape soon after

Dyeing the evening scene
Setting the stage for the stars
To form their living planetarium overhead
Teaching a new lesson each and every night

Steam gauges glow a faint yellow
Electronics thrum their steady hum
And the wings creak in steady time
To the constant push of four thundrous engines

Pushing us from time zone to time zone
Until clocks become relative to our speed
With four hours to go
Then three
Diving down through those clouds
With only an hour left

Coastal lights in sight
Feet dry
Stars gone
Dead dirty earth beckoning us back
From our flight amongst the heavens

A shudder and a shake
As the gear doors open
Buffeting the airframe
Green lights shine
Showing down and locked
ILS lights pulse a living light road

Across the threshold
20 feet
15 feet
10 feet
5 feet
Eighteen rubber chuffs

"Home at last
Home at last"

Is a lie I cry out
As I have left my heart
Up in that starry sky above

Friday, August 18, 2017

This is a Holding Title

We were vomited from our graduation
Walking in parade formation
The next class walking in
As we were lock-stepping out

Our tools were shiny
Our ideals crisp
Ironed and creased
By years of expert erudition

A celebratory drink
A nod and a wink
A backdoor deal
Done proper and right

Off to our new careers
To put that sheepskin to the test
One foot after the other
Gravity is working fine

Time will scratch and dent
All those fancy tools
Principles tend to bend
In ways that don't easily mend

Until we look back
All grizzled and grey
Failing to even recognize
The us that once was one fine day

Time grinds the hardest of granite
And not even you
Are more hard-headed
Than that

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

If the Ups Don't Get You, Then the Downs Certainly Will

Alternately floating then sinking
In seemingly endless cycles
Power up
Power down
Gear down
Gear up

In between was the sweet spot
The modulate and cruise
Skipping along the atmosphere
Supported upon arms of flexing metal

No smoke or mirrors
Wires or computer generated effects
Just triple auto-piloted in solid state
For redundant reduced vertical separation

From forty-thousand feet
It feels like I can see forever
From five foot eight inches
It feels like I am blind

I live for the moments I rise
Upwardly mobile at long last
Another mote in the jetstream
Rushing along that-a-way

But the fuel never lasts forever
With scheduled stops growing nigh
Until coming back down to earth
I die a little bit inside

Thursday, July 20, 2017


A favorite song
Taken hostage
By a reverse recipe villain
Held hostage in poor taste
With sour notes
Of collapsed acidic waste

Apple A-flats
Hanging on treble clefs
Bolstered by orange C-sharps
Runs and arpeggios
Dipped in savory gravy
Repeats in ivory cream

A broccoli chainsaw
Attacked the medley
Tearing it apart
Note for note
Forcing four part harmony
From single sweet melody
Poured audibly
Into an ice cream float

Of course I still love it
All split staffs
And mangled notes
Of sweet and savory
Riding high in banana split boats
Spouting soundtrack accompaniment
Jingle jangling guitars
Copper kettle drums
And Grandma's kitchen smells
Giving prescribed comfort
Till the closing credit scroll
Reaches its end

Friday, July 7, 2017

Lawn Boy Grass Bag Kit: $9.99

Walking the polished cement floors of Home Depot
The rectangular green and white box called to me
"Lawn Boy - Grass Bag Kit"!
It loudly exclaimed

And upon a much smaller orange clearance sticker
Explaining its place upon a back-of-the-store end cap
Was almost conspiratorially whispered to me

Acquiring this item would complete my set
Complementing the Lawn Boy mower
With matching chute and leaf bag kit
Which had been given to me by my father

This after yet another phone call half way across the country
Where I had mentioned that I missed our old Lawn Boy mowers
The ones from the 1970's and '80's
Lightweight two-stroke affairs of blue smoke and fury

He had almost made a fetish of them
Always having a couple extra old ones up in the attic
To be used for parts after Supermanning them down
From the twelve foot attic access in the garage

I'd called him in triumph
The day I'd bought my first broken down Harley Davidson
Starting it up and revving it so he could hear
The undoubtedly impressive sound through the phone

I'd called him in wonder
The day I'd discovered carburetor icing
As my truck chugged its way into work on a winter morning
With white frost coating the old small two barrel Rochester

But this news today
Was about Lawn Boy stuff
And just had to be shared!
I knew he'd be so pleased with my ten dollar trophy

Now this last time I called my father on the phone
He lay upon the front lawn
And never said a thing to me
All I heard were my mother's panicked words

"Your father's had a heart attack!
And I don't think he's living......"

After the blur of travelling ten hours back home
To pick out his simple flat topped casket
And drop off his nice suit
So he could look nice one more time

I took a few moments to sit near him when we were alone
So I could tell him what a great Lawn Boy part I'd found
And how it was going to collect grass like gangbusters
Even though that bit turned out to be a lie

As now more than a decade later
You can still walk to the back of my garage
And look up on my top shelf
Where a familiar green and white box resides quietly

Always proudly proclaiming though the years of dust:

"Lawn Boy - Grass Bag Kit........$9.99"