Your Favorite Poems

Hollylane · 10-11-2012, 07:46 AM

Bless Their Hearts

by Richard Newman

At Steak 'n Shake I learned that if you add
"Bless their hearts" after their names, you can say
whatever you want about them and it's OK.
My son, bless his heart, is an idiot,
she said. He rents storage space for his kids'
toys—they're only one and three years old!
I said, my father, bless his heart, has turned
into a sentimental old fool. He gets
weepy when he hears my daughter's greeting
on our voice mail. Before our Steakburgers came
someone else blessed her office mate's heart,
then, as an afterthought, the jealous hearts
of the entire anthropology department.
We bestowed blessings on many a heart
that day. I even blessed my ex-wife's heart.
Our waiter, bless his heart, would not be getting
much tip, for which, no doubt, he'd bless our hearts.
In a week it would be Thanksgiving,
and we would each sit with our respective
families, counting our blessings and blessing
the hearts of family members as only family
does best. Oh, bless us all, yes, bless us, please
bless us and bless our crummy little hearts.

Hollylane · 11-11-2012, 10:57 AM

Ode to the Vinyl Record

by Thomas R. Smith

The needle lowers into the groove
and I'm home. It could be any record
I've lived with and loved a long time: Springsteen
or Rodrigo, Ray Charles or Emmylou
Harris: Not only the music, but
the whirlpool shimmering on the turntable
funneling blackly down into the ocean
of the ear—even the background
pops and hisses a worn record
wraps the music in, creaturely
imperfections so hospitable to our own.
Since those first Beatles and Stones LPs
plopped down spindles on record players
we opened like tiny suitcases at sweaty
junior high parties while parents were out,
how many nights I've pulled around
my desires a vinyl record's cloak
of flaws and found it a perfect fit,
the crackling unclarity and turbulence
of the country's lo-fi basement heart
madly spinning, making its big dark sound.

10-11-2012, 07:46 AM	#1
Hollylane Practically Lives Here How Do You Identify?: . Preferred Pronoun?: . Relationship Status: . Join Date: Jun 2011 Location: . Posts: 11,495 My Photo Gallery Thanks: 34,694 Thanked 26,362 Times in 5,875 Posts Rep Power: 21474862	Bless Their Hearts by Richard Newman At Steak 'n Shake I learned that if you add "Bless their hearts" after their names, you can say whatever you want about them and it's OK. My son, bless his heart, is an idiot, she said. He rents storage space for his kids' toys—they're only one and three years old! I said, my father, bless his heart, has turned into a sentimental old fool. He gets weepy when he hears my daughter's greeting on our voice mail. Before our Steakburgers came someone else blessed her office mate's heart, then, as an afterthought, the jealous hearts of the entire anthropology department. We bestowed blessings on many a heart that day. I even blessed my ex-wife's heart. Our waiter, bless his heart, would not be getting much tip, for which, no doubt, he'd bless our hearts. In a week it would be Thanksgiving, and we would each sit with our respective families, counting our blessings and blessing the hearts of family members as only family does best. Oh, bless us all, yes, bless us, please bless us and bless our crummy little hearts.

11-11-2012, 10:57 AM	#2
Hollylane Practically Lives Here How Do You Identify?: . Preferred Pronoun?: . Relationship Status: . Join Date: Jun 2011 Location: . Posts: 11,495 My Photo Gallery Thanks: 34,694 Thanked 26,362 Times in 5,875 Posts Rep Power: 21474862	Ode to the Vinyl Record by Thomas R. Smith The needle lowers into the groove and I'm home. It could be any record I've lived with and loved a long time: Springsteen or Rodrigo, Ray Charles or Emmylou Harris: Not only the music, but the whirlpool shimmering on the turntable funneling blackly down into the ocean of the ear—even the background pops and hisses a worn record wraps the music in, creaturely imperfections so hospitable to our own. Since those first Beatles and Stones LPs plopped down spindles on record players we opened like tiny suitcases at sweaty junior high parties while parents were out, how many nights I've pulled around my desires a vinyl record's cloak of flaws and found it a perfect fit, the crackling unclarity and turbulence of the country's lo-fi basement heart madly spinning, making its big dark sound.