"Itza Zinzinnati Ting" and Other Poems

Itza Zinzinnati Ting

The tuba belches out of key
And the wheeze-box gets the hiccups
Until all dignity is sacrificed to the hullabaloo
Of the wash tub and the scrub board
And the kazoo!
Celebrating Oktoberfest in Zeptember
When the still muggy air and the smell of
Spilt beer---LOTS of spilt beer
Goes so nicely together...
Um-pahpah-um-pahpah-squishhhhhhhh!


Itza Zinzinnati ting.


Now add to the festivities
A big football game the same weekend
So that the bulging crowds, squeezed tighter
Than a package of Kahn's wieners,
Accentuate the fragrance of beer puddles
And sweat...
Add linebackers clumping about in
Lederhosen and Bavarian feathered caps
And the never-to-be-forgotten sight
Of mustard stains in handlebar mustaches
And you'll say...


Ah... Itza Zinzinnati ting.


Ah, and the food is divine!
The hot, steaming cheese soup,
The spicy bratwurst smothered in sauerkraut,
The potato pancakes and funnel cakes
Oozing with cream
Makes the craziness worth it,
Makes me want to zingggg!

Seriously, you have not lived
Until you've seen Captain Kazoo
Strike up the buzz
While hundreds of overweight
Drunk people do the Chicken Dance...


Yup, yup, yup... Itza Zinzinnati ting.

---

Ohio…and this here nose

Somebody once told me that Paris, France
smelled like chestnut trees,
and somewhere I read that Rumania
smelled of burned wood,
Yugoslavia of roasting coffee
and Italy of oregano.

But these two nostrils know for sure
that Ohio smells like sweet, fresh dairy milk,
because that was my grandmother's perfume,
until a trip to Wentz Bakery powdered her
in cinnamon.

Aunt Minnie's aroma was rubbing alcohol,
too powerful to cage in her medicine cabinet.
She used it to wet the cotton balls to swab an arm
that took a diabetic's needle--and for years
I thought that smell was insulin.

The tenements chained along German Street
became blenders for hallway smells:
cooked rutabaga and cabbage on the second floor,
simmering sauerkraut on the third,
with a pinch of pipe tobacco drifting
through the crack under Papaw's door.

Christmas in Ohio was and still is a tangled
bouquet of snow and pine and orange peels.
And summer nights along the Ohio River
bring back the incense of rotting fish
and burning kerosene.

Most intoxicating on my list of Ohio fragrances
was the hot, peppery chili my father cooked
for his firemen buddies at Station 19.
Now sprinkle in some of Skyline's diced onions,
and top it off with a long, lingering grainy belch
from the Hudepohl Brewery…

Still, I wouldn't mind sniffing a chestnut tree
in Paris, France…just to prove to Ohio
and this here nose that the story is trustworthy.

---

Memoirs of a Vacation Bible School Teacher

She was the girl in the third row,
Third desk from the front,
The one with the strawberry hair,
The one sitting there with her head down
And never saying a word.
She's the one who haunts me,
Who reminds me so much of my sister Amy
When she was that age.

My summers were my own,
And I loved teaching Vacation Bible School.
And it was always sad saying good-bye
To the children on the last day.
Sad because I knew their boring routines
Would grab hold of them and fasten them
Into their harnesses again.
Summer was over.
Real School was starting.
The Good Shepherd was rounding up
His sheep and leading the herd home.
Winter was coming.

If I could go back to that modest
Vacation Bible Schoolroom,
I would tell each child what I really
Wanted to say on that last day:
That I hope you grow up to be
Who you really want to be,
That I hope you do your best,
That I hope you are happy
And let God do the rest.

After all, God does love us,
Just as I loved that little girl in the third row,
Third desk from the front,
The one with the strawberry hair,
The one sitting there with her head down
And never saying a word.

---

Thumbprint

If you are a girl
I call your name Rose,
If you are a boy
I call your name John.

I give you a birthday,
The 5th of October.
You are a child of the sky,
Morning Glory, Libra dream.

I give you some coloring,
Golden offerings.
Hair of honey silk
And eyes of chocolate.


I give you your father's
Good sense,
His gift of play
And generous soul,
His green thumb
And his love for animals.

I give you my passion for writing,
My devotion to the arts
And my bizarre talent
For remembering dates in history.

But if I could give you only
One thing--
I would give you the faith
To expect miracles daily,
At every sunrise and sunset,
Even the miracle of you,
Here and gone,
The miracle of us
And of all the tomorrows
That await us in heaven.

Goodnight and sleep tight,
Little Rose or John.

---

Indian Summer

She is the jewel in nature's crown
The ruby baton at the end of the parade
As she scurries down a carpet made
Of kaleidoscope leaves
Her burning smile and gold spun hair
Glitters upon her sovereignty where
The earth is as warm as a mother's lap
And the sun is as fatherly as he will ever be
And though her benediction is fleeting
In the rosiness of her apple cider laughter
Winter seems such a distant thing
And spring a dull memory, a fling
Discarded.