The Lucky Lad

adventures in dysthymia

Sunday, October 12, 2014

Thrift Store, a poem

Thrift Store

These dreams no longer fit.
I’ll box them up, donate
them to the thrift store,
let them be fingered, held up
to see the size, the wear.
No one there will know who once
wore such impractical garments.

Stephen Brooke ©2014

Thursday, October 02, 2014

Gray, a poem


I have sought to capture
the elusive colors of the clouds,
rushing after them with canvas and brush.

They ran from me, hiding themselves
in cloaks of shadow and light.
They have taunted me, the clumsy lover.

From sunrise to dusk, I have followed,
wondering if a touch of cobalt
would find that gray, before it fades.

Stephen Brooke ©2014

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Saigon 1966

I've been straightening out the collection of old photos and albums here recently and, having finished up on my mother's pictures, started in on my Aunt Dotty's (Dorothea Page). Here are several from the time she spent in Saigon in 1966, while she was there with Battelle doing research work for the CDTC (I think they were cataloging Vietnamese boats).

These are all at the Arc en Ciel, a popular nightclub for Americans in the Chinese section of Saigon. Many of are a singer only labeled as 'Karen' with her band; I would assume they are Chinese. Whether local or from somewhere such as Hong Kong, I have no idea. My aunt seems to have been friendly with Karen, anyway.

Presented just as a look at that time and place.

Monday, September 29, 2014

Hand Covers

These are mockups of a couple cover ideas  for the fourth and final DONALO'S DESTINY book (which should be out before the end of the year). I am not sure which I prefer. Or maybe I'll go some other direction.

But I definitely want purple. :)

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Comfort, a poem


Black-velvet Jesus on one wall,
black-velvet Elvis on the other;
plaster madonna on the shelf,
plaster child, plaster mother.

Skeeters buzzing at the screen,
tree-frogs clinging to the pane;
sweet-tea pitcher on the table,
distant thunder might mean rain.
Hound-dog whimpers at the door,
chuck-wills-widow calls to the moon
rising through the sugar pines;
crickets join night’s age-old tune.

Grits are bubbling on the stove-top,
chicken sizzles in the pan.
Sip my tea, ice melts away;
cobbler’s cooling, by the fan.

Dusk sings on the fields and hills,
full of darkness, slow and deep;
hear the rumble, rain is coming,
rattles the roof, soothes my sleep.

Jesus watches over me,
Elvis sings my lullaby,
stars of heaven guard this house
till the morning takes the sky.

Stephen Brooke ©2014

This might be words toward a possible song. Or maybe it’s just a bit of verse and will go no further. A bit of unlike me, either way. Anyway, neither the poem nor its title should be considered finalized.

Monday, August 25, 2014

Pear Season

Peach season is over but that only means that it is time for pears. And I have plenty of them, the hard(ish) cooking pears. Not that one can’t eat them fresh, though it is best if one removes the heavy peel first.

I processed my first batch of them a few days ago, cooking up the slices mostly to see how they would come out and if I wanted to bother with an attempt at canning. I must say, the result had about as much flavor as paper and was not much sweeter. So I ran them through the food processor to see if they would be acceptable as sauce.

Now I use a fair amount of apple sauce in my baking — it is a good and somewhat healthful substitute for some of the sugar and shortening (incidentally, I also employ prune juice in this manner at times). I tried out my pear sauce as a replacement and it seemed to bake up quite nicely and taste fine. However, the spice bread I made was definitely drier than usual the next day, so I suppose the pears are not a perfect substitute.

But I may process more anyway, and put up some slices as well. I don’t know if I’ll bother to can though, just freeze a few quarts. And I will be baking something with fresh pears soon. It’s been too hot here the last week to bake at all!

I reckon this was probably the worst heat wave of the summer and, truly, the only really bad one we have had. That’s not doing so bad considering we are entering late August already. Yep, fall is on the way and kids are back in school. That means both more chance of surf and fewer people in the water when there are waves.

If I did not so detest cold weather, I would be welcoming the coming of winter.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Ground, a poem


Life is a balancing act,
a tightrope walk, where each
of us must fall off
in the end. How far
is it to the ground?

Stephen Brooke ©2014

A little poem-thought that sat in my notes as an unsatisfactory cinquain for a while. I don't know if this is that much more satisfactory but at least it is finished.