Mélange a Trois
A poetry-prose anthology
by
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Seashells
She seemed uncertain. She stood on the beach bent slightly forward holding a seashell. She seemed undecided. Would she stand up? Or, would she bend down and return the seashell to the sand? She hesitated. She glanced toward her companion and a sort of a moan came from deep in her chest, “I don’t understand…” Randy and I were partners before our retirements. Over the years we learned to read each other and sense what the other was about to do or say. It was as if we had a pre-wireless wireless connection. He might begin to sing a lyric from the middle of an ‘oldie’ only to have me finish the verse. A co-worker might ask a question and we would both respond like a pair of tag team wrestlers. One might say we had psychic rapport. We came to the beach with our wives. As they walked down the beach, we stopped for a while. H talked about the restoration he was doing on an MG-A series sports car. I clicked on the camera feature of my phone to get a picture of a pelican. Neither of us paid any attention to the two women approaching us. One of them stopped within a few yards of us and bent to dig a seashell from the sand. “I’ve had my eye on that one,” Randy said loudly. She sensed he was speaking to her. She looked at him. He repeated, “I’ve had my eye on that shell. I thought it looked good where it was.” Taking my cue from Randy I stepped up and gestured toward him, “You may not be aware, this man owns what is possibly the world’s largest collection of seashells. He keeps them spread out on beaches around the globe for the public to enjoy. You are not supposed to disturb the displays.” I waited for my words to sink in. The tourist chewed on the explanation for a while and the moan began to well up until it burst forth, “I don’t understand.” Only then did we hear her northern European accent and realize our joke had fallen on foreign ears. Randy magnanimously said, “It’s alright. You may have that seashell.” He paused before encouraging her to, “Go ahead; take it.” With those parting words, we turned away and they walked away. We didn’t try to explain. Somewhere in northern Europe a woman (perhaps two) may still believe there is a mad man in Florida who thinks he owns the world’s seashells. Somewhere in Florida a responsible senior citizen (perhaps two) is preparing another act of craziness. A person can only have a finite number of pelican pictures. …LLL The Day The Drugstore Died My father sat me on the marble counter near the register of our old drugstore, and handed me a cold orange pop. Another man stood by, smiled, then shook my father’s hand to complete their deal. So ended chocolate malts at closing shaken to froth in the tiny green machine, consumed with giggles during family time, and followed by another chance to pick a favorite comic from the rack. So ended the noisy streets, the dirty boys next door, walks to the ice cream store and school, ice men hauling up our stairs, coal dust on the basement floor. So began the quiet nights in large yards waiting to be mowed, with neighbors who were all alike in ties with suits on long commutes and all those thieves of time we find when in our search for peace we sometimes sacrifice our lives. …SSG The Lost Soles Today it was a flip-flop yesterday a laced up shoe, tomorrow a dirty sneaker with tongue hanging out. Each has seen enough and sits silently in the road, suddenly unnecessary. Snatched from the foot of some raptured soul, or lost in the struggle when the aliens came and left in the night. Or maybe they just were never wanted by the one-legged man who steals our socks. …SSG THE DEVIL YOU SAY Poor old Satan father of lies Nary given word of credit For protecting the family name Keeping all of those shameful secrets How he got that chocolate cake Named for him I’ll never know No one ever says a kind word about him Say what you will He was good to his Momma He grew the most beautiful roses Made the best corn liquor Always voted Republican So far as I know They do not build Cathedrals in his honor Or endow scholarships in his name But one thing you got to say for sure No matter how many mistakes you made in life He never turned anybody away from his door …JBM Psycho Chefs and Paranoid Potatoes (SILENCE OF THE YAMS) Are potatoes paranoid? Hiding there beneath the soil Sending out trailing vines Watching with a hundred eyes Burrowing in dark root cellar Huddling in a gunnysack Listening for creaking steps Misery of cold and damp You’d think we were going To skin them alive Boil them in oil Or cut out their eyes Come on up little fellow I’ve a warm bath waiting In salted water Maybe even a pat of butter And a little dash of pepper! |
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About the Author
Jim B. Miller
Jim Miller began creative writing in the tenth year of his schooling in the Midwest. Coming from a large and colorful family he immediately gravitated toward humor and the excesses of that family lore. The collection represented here is the largest published gathering of his works to date. His work history has included all the traditional American fields from grocery sacker to barn painter, from construction to fry cook, and from hotel auditor to Medical Intensive Care in a Trauma #1 Center Hospital. From this background he has drawn upon a range of experience to tell his narrative stories in the meters as broken as the lives they represent with the ever present grace of laughter. If you see yourself or the images of those closest to you in his language and perspective it is to be hoped you join him and his co-authors in smiling at single lines or whole works. He is happy to share the words of encouragement he offers to a paranoid potato and his observations of early morning rituals changed by the recent death of a spouse. Mr. Miller has received numerous prizes throughout his writing career, most from boxes of caramel coated peanuts and popcorn. He has read his monologues and poetry before distinguished audiences; prison inmates both current and former; college professors and their usually failing students as encouragement to change careers and majors. He is currently being sought in several states though this has nothing to do with his poetry.
Sharon S. Gibson
Born in Kansas City, Missouri, Sharon Gibson has not strayed far from home except in her mind. After graduating from the University of Missouri with a major in English she was quick to abandon her graduate work in psychology, later completing her Master's at Webster University. Her first job was at 24 Hi-Way Kiddieland to be followed by ten other trial and error jobs and brief sojourns to Europe. This questionable background led to a twenty-five year career at Truman Medical Center in Kansas City, where she established the first Patient Advocacy program in the metropolitan area. As a result she helped found the Mo/Kan Patient Representative Society serving as both Secretary and President. After retiring from Truman, she started a part time career with H&R Block, managing up to three offices at a time during her ten years with them. No, she does not do taxes; so don't ask. Upon full retirement, Sharon pursued her life long dream of developing her skills as a poet. That dream began at age twelve and continues to this day. She has been published in "Write On", "Seasons To Come" and "Grist". Her poetry was awarded honorable mention in four national/state contests and was recently awarded first place in a Missouri State Poetry Society contest. She is a member of The River Bend Gang chapter of that Society.
Sharon wants to thank Larry Ladd for giving her this opportunity and his wife Karen for tolerating her idiosyncrasies. She is delighted to share space with her friend Jim Miller. The poems in this collection are mostly from Sharon's earlier years--of which there are many. That may explain the tendency toward radicalism and romanticism. Her recent poems have become more morbid and obscure, so if you know someone who likes that sort of thing--and you probably do--tell them to stay tuned for the next collection.
Larry L. Ladd
Born in the boot heel of Missouri during WWII, Larry’s earliest memories are of waiting with “Puppa”, his non-pedigreed dog, for his father to walk home from work along the mesh wire fence in the front yard. After the war, the Ladd family followed the jobs to St. Louis. They were soon able to join the 1950’s exodus to the suburbs. Larry attended the Kirkwood Public Schools and in 1962 enrolled at the University of Missouri in Columbia where he earned his bachelor’s and master’s degrees from the College of Education. In the late 1960’s, he was hired by the Missouri Department of Mental Health as a diagnostic teacher assigned to the Kirksville Regional Diagnostic Center for Mental Retardation. The Jacksonville (Illinois) Public Schools and the Four Rivers Special Education District subsequently hired him as an educational diagnostician and school psychologist. He worked over thirty years in Jacksonville, Illinois where he continues to reside with his wife, Karen. They have two married sons who also live in Illinois, along with two grandchildren and one grand dog. Larry has been active in the Jaycees, Council for Exceptional Children, Habitat for Humanity, Jacksonville Education Association, Christian Marriage Ministry, Special Olympics, Big Brothers/Big Sisters, and the Boy Scouts of America. He and his wife of 49 years enjoy travel and have visited all fifty states. They are members of the First Presbyterian Church and have participated in and led Bible studies. They have taught classes at Synod School (Synod of Lincoln Trails, Hanover College, Hanover, Indiana) and they lead the Parkinson’s Disease Support Group in Jacksonville. Larry was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease in 1994 and admits that he has slowed a bit. He continues to enjoy friends, music (plays the guitar and harmonica—owns a banjo, but it baffles him), dancing (ballroom once or twice a month), woodcarving, fishing, and anything that makes him laugh. He has had one poem published in the Reader’s Digest and he finished in third place in a limerick contest sponsored by an Irish pub, but his wife would not let it be included in this book.