Family Poems: 285 / 500

Saturday Night Rituals

The paper boy brought Sunday’s Post on Saturday night
as our family watched “The Hit Parade” inside.
We’d hear his cart rattling by on the icy pavement,
then his song, in his nasal voice: “Baaay-berrr! ”

Dad would give me two shiny quarters.
Opening the front door, I’d see him there,
small shadow in the streetlight’s wide corona.
Slipping and sliding out into the middle
of the deserted intersection, I’d make the exchange:
warm coins for the thick, cold sheaf of paper
folded with Blondie and Dagwood right on top.

Our house came alive with our colorful visitor’s entry,
its newsprint-ink perfume filling the den
as it started to share tales of the world outside.
Dad gave away the colors, distributing sections.
I waited for the funnies and PARADE.

But excitement did not last long.
In truth, our visitor had not much to tell us.
Its bright folds were filled with empty promise,
its rainbow colors enhanced commercial phantoms.

Soon it lay on the sofa like a discarded lover.
Ourselves again, we began the next family ritual:
turning off lights and getting ready for bed.

Ivy Christou 01 October 2005

i liked this Max.. A brief visit to your childhood with the talent to paint wonderful images from your life. well done! HBH

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Herbert Nehrlich1 25 September 2005

A page from the life of Max. Nice and well done. H

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Pradeep Dhavakumar 25 September 2005

Nice poem, Max. But I thought some things are missing. Like Why does the house come 'alive'? 'Tales of the world' does not present a strong case for me. And what tales? Also 'excitement' is not 'shown' in the verses, for it to 'not last long'. Some more description here would do the poem good, Max. Thank you.

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Theorem Thetruthserum 25 September 2005

Awesome poem about the superb services of yesterday. What came to mind was how bad service has gotten in the country. It is failing because we have fell in love with convenience.

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Raynette Eitel 25 September 2005

Somehow, the nostalgia of this poem makes me sad. The final stanza tells me why. I would like to see more metaphors in your poem, Max. That last stanza contains a simile that is a dilly. Raynette

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