Maybe They’ll Keep the Light On?

He checked into his hotel room,

to get a good night’s sleep.

The air smelled like a skunk’s perfume

and dust was layered deep.

The shower water did not heat.

The toilet would not flush.

The bed had crumbs beneath the sheet.

The fridge was full of slush.

He argued for a full refund.

The clerk said, “Just trust us.”

They charged him twice and left him stunned:

A case of inn justice.

Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

Goes Without Saying

Edison Ford was sorely riled,

when Congress passed a bill

supporting stuff that Ed reviled

and surely always will.

Now two days hence, he takes offense

at local politics.

The new town budget makes no sense.

Disaster, he predicts.

He starts to write the editor,

to state his views outright.

"No, no," said his wife Eleanor.

"Two wrongs don't make a write."

Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

Justin Thyme

Junior agent in the Temporal Corps,

Justin felt nothing at all counted more

than preserving safe the continuum.

One day, while clearing the residuum

from a failed time-travel experiment

and checking again a key measurement,

he was shocked to find that a Time Scout crew

had gone missing in 1492.

Eight Scouts and their leader were out of luck,

having dropped through a time rift, then got stuck.

Their temporal van could never get back

unless someone found out and fixed the crack.

But Justin thought quick. To close up the slit,

he took out some thread from his sewing kit,

soaked it in an Einstein tachyon gel,

then sewed up that rift, securing it well.

The News of the Corps then led the headline,

atop page one, "A Stitch in Time Saves Nine".

Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

This is my first intentional attempt to write a Feghoot poem, a shaggy dog story ending in a pun that makes sense only in the context of the story. And no, there is no such thing as an Einstein tachyon gel – but, if Star Trek can power a story by making up fake science, I can do it for a poem!

Granddad's Shop

My grandparents had some 
rigid access restrictions.
No children in their closet.
Parlor reserved for special days.
Don't go up to uncle Mick's room.
No touching the grandfather clock.
Out back, keep out of the garden.
Okay to use the board walk to the back alley,
but keep out of the garage.

Carte blanche in the huge sandpile,
but next to that was the wizard's cave,
completely off limits,
where Granddad worked magic.

Occasional glimpses through the doorway
revealed the loom on which he made
all of our town's rag rugs -- a necessity
for every child starting kindergarten.
In that shop, he could repair anything;
sharpen any knife, chisel, axe, sickle, or scythe;
conjure whole bicycles from random parts.
We rode those bikes, for years,
to school, paper routes, and baseball.

But no child got past the ward spell
on the door, until one day when
my junior high science project
needed his help.

Was there a disorientation spell?
I couldn't say what was in
the dim interior, whether
shelves, drawers, cubbies, peg boards;
likely a hundred tools and
thousands of nails, screws, nuts, bolts,
odd hinges, hasps, turnbuckles, grommets.
Other than his loom,
the only certainties are
the hand drill and soldering iron
he used, to teach me how to
make holes in a board and
affix copper wires to
flashlight bulbs and switches
mounted in the holes.

He taught me that I can do more than read books:
I can work with my hands, make things.

How patient and gentle
the crochety old man became,
working in his shop!


 
Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II
This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.