Pottery town

Written for 200. anniversary of town Pottery town, or ceramic village, is well known for its production of pots of all shapes, sizes, colors, and thicknesses. Besides pots, there is an abundance of bowls, plates, saucers, mugs, lids and small lids, tureens, jugs and pitchers - decorated or plain; coffee cups and mugs, potties and chamber pots, toys, flower pots and figures of all kind. When there is a pottery fair, usually first Thursday after February 29, be very careful, where you step, because the pots are everywhere. The sidewalks are full, they cover shopping windows, advertisements, and spread out into parking lots. Do not wave your arms, because when you knock down only one cup you will hear a flood of strong words from a salesman, and usually, a potter in one. "Watch your step, you clumsy clod," and "What do you think who will pick up all broken pieces?" Humiliated buyer picks up broken pieces, the salesman wraps them into pink, or other color tissue paper, or just an old newspaper. He makes a little package, ties it with a string and makes nice bow - and he sells them for an original, full price. So "clumsy clod" takes home broken pieces of a vase, he buys glue, and in the evenings he glues pieces together, altogether with fingers and the clothes he wears on. "Buy a dozen of our cups, so you will have enough to break in your marriage." There is no pottery clay around the town, so the potters bring it from Great Canyon. This is why there is such a gigantic hole in the ground. But the citizens of the State of Arizona declared that's enough is enough, they don't want any deeper hole in their back yard, because another day a tourist fell into it, together with a donkey, and the donkey broke all four its legs. The tourist lost his camera, and the Great Canyon have had to pay for it. The donkey went to hungarian salami. Now potters are looking for new deposits of clay. There suppose to be plenty of pottery clay in New Mexico and Texas. Popular are beer mugs, buttermilk jugs, and water pitchers. Merchandise is high quality, glazed, or varnished, with the picture of contemplating miner sitting on the coal boulder. Pottery town girls are hitching up their miniskirts and roll up tight jeans, when is pottery fair, so they will not brush against the mountains of pottery dishes. Purses and handbags are usually left home, so they couldn't graze, by sheer accident, the merchandise. Parking lots are packed with cars, pick up trucks and trucks of buyers, which are coming from the distance. "Pots for sale, heigh-ho, pots for sale." "Manicka, buy a cuppa, or I, at least shoot for you a clay hearta." "Mister, in this pitcher your beer will not get warm, and, how I look at your belly, will not get flat, either." "Flowers in our pitcher will decorate your table and will look fresh for long time," loudly declare salespersons. Really, there is a great fun to be at pottery fair, just to walk, observe and listen. Do not miss it for anything and bring home at least a cup, or a little bowl for your cat or a dog." Copyright (c) Marie Neumann Pottsville, January 2011

Mineral rights

I purchased a little lot at the cemetery. I do not know which cemetery. Children will have to find out. I feel better since I own it. Nobody will be able to kick me out from that cemetery. The lot is mine. Isn't it? I didn't ask anything about mineral rights. When we purchased our first house we had mineral rights. The land was ours to the Center of Earth. What about mine six feet under? I think I don't care.

Copyright (c) Marie Neumann
Pottsville, 2/6/2011

Black birds

Run, little girl, run. The birds are flying in the sky. They circle lower and lower. Little girl, don't take your time, take skies, or barefoot, just run. The little girl disappeared. An old toothless hag is grinning in the window. Copyright (c) Marie Neumann Pottsville, 1/2/2010

Questions

What is Mashenka doing? She crumbles crumbs for the geese. What is she crumbles? Crumbs. Why is she crumbles? To make them fat. Why have they be fat? To fit into a frying pan. Enough of questions. It's time to sleep. Why have I a belly button? A skin has to end somewhere. What was he doing at a concert? He pissed into an audience. Why? He didn't find a toilet. She prefers married men. Does it pay off? She doesn't have to press shirts. Will she also get hit over her head with a handbag? We shall see. Now it's time to sleep, when I satisfied your curiosity. Copyright (c) Marie Neumann Pottsville. 1/20/2010

Flying

You want me to fly. I am already flying. Upside down, sideways and loosing myself in the deep of the sky. So dizzy I do not recognize, where is the ground. I am flying, flying farther from reality, crashing to the ground with all bones unbroken. It was only my mind swollen like big balloon landing in the parking lot and bouncing on the sidewalk. A tune about loneliness, about solitude, about unwritten song, about flying, is ringing in my ears without words. Copyright (c) Marie Neumann Pottsville, 1/22/2010

Skeleton in the closet

A skeleton sits in the closet. It sits quietly, doesn't mean to move. Don't wake him up. He sits still, he doesn't breath anyway. Just be sure to leave the closet closed. A drunken Marzena could tumble out. The skeleton is blabbing something incoherently. Let him be! It is not nice, what he says. Skeleton rattles his bones. Shut the door, lock it! It's not nice, what he says. Bury him, cremate him! Call him echo! The skeleton found his soul. He looks at it amazed, strokes it with one finger lovingly, and then, rattling his bones, leaves the closet. Marzena is holding scales in her hands. The skeleton handles her little pebbles. Two precious stones, little pile of shimmering pebbles. What's left is cinder. Marzena, it's not up to you to judge. Marzena looks quietly. She smiles silent smile. You know, I am yours. Pebbles are glittering. What about cinder, the crowd is hissing. Everyone has some. Copyright (c) Marie Neumann Pottsville, December 2010

My darling

My darling, do not call. My phone is to radio station connected. My darling, do not send me your e-mail. E-mail has barriers - it will not deliver. My darling, do not sigh, rather send me music on CD, music you like. My darling, write a letter and I shall send you last year rose petals wrapped in pink tissue paper. My darling, they guard my each step and follow me everywhere. It's hard to believe, in my age to have such protective parents. Copyright (c) Marie Neumann Pottsville, 5/1/2010