Friday, June 21, 2013
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
Walking in the Rain
Nothing brings joy
to a young dog
like rolling in wet grass.
"Cut that out!" I say.
She smiles,
rolls some more,
gets up and shakes off
water from my neighbor's lawn.
Now it's time
for spontaneous affection,
jumping on clean jeans
with muddy paws,
ready to lick my face
if I stoop to her level.
"Where's your dignity?" I ask.
Her ears perk up.
She tilts her head
and stares at me
with curious dark eyes.
"Woof," she says.
And I understand.
to a young dog
like rolling in wet grass.
"Cut that out!" I say.
She smiles,
rolls some more,
gets up and shakes off
water from my neighbor's lawn.
Now it's time
for spontaneous affection,
jumping on clean jeans
with muddy paws,
ready to lick my face
if I stoop to her level.
"Where's your dignity?" I ask.
Her ears perk up.
She tilts her head
and stares at me
with curious dark eyes.
"Woof," she says.
And I understand.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Flashback
"I thought I saw you once
in Chinatown
before I knew you,"
she said.
"You were parked
on Mulberry Street
and when I looked at you
you gave me a horrible face."
"It couldn't have been me,"
he said,
"because I would never make
a horrible face
at a beautiful woman."
She smiled.
"You dog."
"And besides,
I never could find
parking on Mulberry,"
he said.
in Chinatown
before I knew you,"
she said.
"You were parked
on Mulberry Street
and when I looked at you
you gave me a horrible face."
"It couldn't have been me,"
he said,
"because I would never make
a horrible face
at a beautiful woman."
She smiled.
"You dog."
"And besides,
I never could find
parking on Mulberry,"
he said.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Monday, February 07, 2011
More photos from the Short Film Fest
Nicholas Rollins (“The Crazy Mind”) and Jeremy Johnson (prologue to “The State”)
Alex Mangen (“Ballet Dropout”)
Susan Gartner (“Anatomy of a Sculpture”)
Return to A Yellow Springs Blog.
Monday, December 06, 2010
More Season's Joy photos
Pictured from top: Emcee Walter Rhodes; Luke and Sally Dennis; A Yellow Springs Blog editor Virgil Hervey and his wife, Amy Lee (far left), enjoy the evening's entertainment.Thanks to all the volunteers and performers, especially coordinator Mary Kay Clark and emcee Walter Rhodes, for their contributions to a very fun event!
Photos by Susan Gartner
Back to A Yellow Springs Blog
Sunday, November 21, 2010
More photos from Friday night's Fling
It's a Wonderful Life
Liz Zaff
Travis Tarbox HotalingNovember’s Third Weekend Fling in the Springs featured artist receptions and holiday events on Friday night.
Carolers sang in front of Eco-Mental, celebrating its 3rd Anniversary; free carriage rides were offered in front of Little Art Theatre; Urban Handmade Holiday Celebration included a free outdoor screening of “It’s A Wonderful Life”; Yellow Springs artist Liz Zaff greeted guests at her opening reception for “The Polaroid Project,” paintings on cardboard at “Would You, Could You” In A Frame; belly dancers Cami Knick (left) and Erin Wolf helped local painter Travis Tarbox Hotaling get in the spirit of the event during his opening reception at YS Arts Council Gallery. The exhibit, “Portrait of a Woman,” features the work of Hotaling and Jade Nikita McConnell.
Photos by Susan Gartner
Back to A Yellow Springs Blog
Friday, October 22, 2010
After the Game
for Matthew Hervey
Two plays into tee ball
the irate father/coach
storms onto the field,
cursing the teenage umpire
for some perceived injustice
to his son
who, slumped over at the plate,
gazes at the scene
in tears of embarrassment and shame.
At a Little League game
a ten year old boy
tosses his helmet,
barely missing his coach
who has been ragging him
during his at-bat.
Back in the dugout
the man grabs the boy
by the shirt
and slaps his face.
Over at the Pony League
a father kicks dirt
on the parents of the visiting team
who have been belittling
his boys relentlessly,
sparking a brawl on the field.
They are stock brokers, lawyers, dentists
and even judges
who, in their youths,
never gripped a bat
or caught a ball
or cried when their father
berated them
for dropping the fly
or taking the called third strike.
The mother complains,
he's not playing her kid enough.
The coach complains,
he has to play the fat kid
at least one inning,
league rules.
The kid complains,
he doesn't want
to play this stupid game
at all, anymore.
He'd rather practice
the piano.
Outside the stadium,
before the game,
a full, unopened can of beer
drops from the third deck
and narrowly misses
the family with the picnic basket
on its annual outing
to watch the millionaire big boys
play the child's game,
before a packed house
of 50,000 cursing drunks.
The out-of-town booster
in the jersey of the visiting team
is pelted from behind
with nickels, tossed
by a guy in a suit and tie
who is so offended
by the nerve of this guy
to trespass in his arena,
that by the third period
he can no longer confine himself
to the launching of small change
and he goes to the guy's seat
and punches his face,
before his wife and kids
who had come to see
their home town heroes
fight the good fight
play the sporting game
and entertain the aficionados
with displays of teamwork,
daring and skill.
The surly superstar spits on a fan.
The reporters flee the manager's office
as he rants and raves
and throws things from his desk.
The over-the-hill tight end
exposes himself to a female reporter
in the locker room
and the team's owner jokes
on about it, endlessly,
just not getting it.
The teenage girl tennis star
is stabbed in the back
between sets.
The Lady Bing candidate
lies lifeless on the ice,
having been cross-checked
after scoring the winning goal.
Backboards, telephones, water coolers
are the smashed trophies
of egos gone awry.
Between innings
the husband goes to the fridge
and opens another beer.
The wife, meanwhile,
slips into his recliner
and switches channels
to the Home Shopping Network.
When he returns
he blows out her brains
with the revolver
he always kept for burglars.
After the game
he phones for an ambulance.
The championship having been won
the supporters of the victors
riot in the streets,
burning cars and stores,
destroying the businesses
in their hometown, downtown,
where they once worked.
So what if there is nothing left
after the game?
They partook in the event.
Their champions, however,
return to their own home towns.
Season having ended,
they flee the lunacy
of their adoring fans.
I'm taking my son
to his first game at the Stadium,
the "House that Ruth built"
where Gherig, DiMaggio and Mantle inspired
the myth of the American pastime.
At the souvenir stand,
just outside the subway,
I buy the little guy
a batting helmet.
I tell him to wear it always,
lest the errant can of beer,
the well placed nickel,
or some other unforeseen danger
cause him harm.
He turns it over
and fills it with popcorn.
(This poem was previously published in the Vincent Brother's Review under the title "He'd Rather Practice the Piano")
Two plays into tee ball
the irate father/coach
storms onto the field,
cursing the teenage umpire
for some perceived injustice
to his son
who, slumped over at the plate,
gazes at the scene
in tears of embarrassment and shame.
At a Little League game
a ten year old boy
tosses his helmet,
barely missing his coach
who has been ragging him
during his at-bat.
Back in the dugout
the man grabs the boy
by the shirt
and slaps his face.
Over at the Pony League
a father kicks dirt
on the parents of the visiting team
who have been belittling
his boys relentlessly,
sparking a brawl on the field.
They are stock brokers, lawyers, dentists
and even judges
who, in their youths,
never gripped a bat
or caught a ball
or cried when their father
berated them
for dropping the fly
or taking the called third strike.
The mother complains,
he's not playing her kid enough.
The coach complains,
he has to play the fat kid
at least one inning,
league rules.
The kid complains,
he doesn't want
to play this stupid game
at all, anymore.
He'd rather practice
the piano.
Outside the stadium,
before the game,
a full, unopened can of beer
drops from the third deck
and narrowly misses
the family with the picnic basket
on its annual outing
to watch the millionaire big boys
play the child's game,
before a packed house
of 50,000 cursing drunks.
The out-of-town booster
in the jersey of the visiting team
is pelted from behind
with nickels, tossed
by a guy in a suit and tie
who is so offended
by the nerve of this guy
to trespass in his arena,
that by the third period
he can no longer confine himself
to the launching of small change
and he goes to the guy's seat
and punches his face,
before his wife and kids
who had come to see
their home town heroes
fight the good fight
play the sporting game
and entertain the aficionados
with displays of teamwork,
daring and skill.
The surly superstar spits on a fan.
The reporters flee the manager's office
as he rants and raves
and throws things from his desk.
The over-the-hill tight end
exposes himself to a female reporter
in the locker room
and the team's owner jokes
on about it, endlessly,
just not getting it.
The teenage girl tennis star
is stabbed in the back
between sets.
The Lady Bing candidate
lies lifeless on the ice,
having been cross-checked
after scoring the winning goal.
Backboards, telephones, water coolers
are the smashed trophies
of egos gone awry.
Between innings
the husband goes to the fridge
and opens another beer.
The wife, meanwhile,
slips into his recliner
and switches channels
to the Home Shopping Network.
When he returns
he blows out her brains
with the revolver
he always kept for burglars.
After the game
he phones for an ambulance.
The championship having been won
the supporters of the victors
riot in the streets,
burning cars and stores,
destroying the businesses
in their hometown, downtown,
where they once worked.
So what if there is nothing left
after the game?
They partook in the event.
Their champions, however,
return to their own home towns.
Season having ended,
they flee the lunacy
of their adoring fans.
I'm taking my son
to his first game at the Stadium,
the "House that Ruth built"
where Gherig, DiMaggio and Mantle inspired
the myth of the American pastime.
At the souvenir stand,
just outside the subway,
I buy the little guy
a batting helmet.
I tell him to wear it always,
lest the errant can of beer,
the well placed nickel,
or some other unforeseen danger
cause him harm.
He turns it over
and fills it with popcorn.
(This poem was previously published in the Vincent Brother's Review under the title "He'd Rather Practice the Piano")
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