Almost has a theory about the limerick.  He says it’s a corruption of the poetic term lyric and the acerbic citrus fruit, the lime (think limey), thus making the limerick a melodious tart. Almost pushes this a little further with his self-proclaimed limerode, an amalgam of the lowly limerick and the lofty ode.  I would simply call it odious.  But who am I to judge; I am just AH staff.  Albeit, with my help he has penned this apology for his recent memoirs.  JK

TO WIT:
 Near bayou Lafourche lived this frog                       
Who rarely went far from his log.
    But so bored he became,
    He set out for fame
And adventures just past the next bog.

In a new form he wrote down his feats
With five lines of uneven beats.
    Like the limericks of old
    But dashingly bold,
These cinquains of lyrical treats.

His tales were logged in a limerick mode,
A new style he called  limerode.
    But lines three and four
    Offer us even more,
Exploiting the rhymes a la mode.
   
So be ready to take a nice ride
With Almost and friends at his side.
    Through all the near misses,
    And such poetry that this is
To an ending, for now, we must hide.



 Almost Hardly The Frog  

Sad to say, Ignatz and Mehitabel have moved on to the next state, so to speak.  I'm sure we have not heard the last of them, however, what with Mehitabel once being Cleopatra.  I promised Ignatz I would fill in for her until a suitable amanuensis could be found.  Who knew that Mehitabel was the brains in that duo?  Well, I've got a lot of scratchings to interpret.   Will get back to you later.

BTW, I'm Almost, as in Almost Hardly the Frog.

Ignatz says Happy Sixteenth Birthday, Alex

My PA, Sweetpea, has asked me to send a poem that he and Mrs. Sweetpea wrote honoring their youngest granddaughter's sixteenth birthday. I remember Alex well from her several visits to the desert from toddler to pre-teenager. She is a well-mannered, respectful girl, and my Personal Assistant and his family should be very proud of her. Happy Birthday Alexandra Renee. Here's the poem. (Sweetpea is such a sentimental slob!)


Alex is Sixteen?


Don’t tell me that! It just can’t be true.
Why, this very New Year, she was a cool twenty two,
Turning heads at the dance while having such fun
by wearing a hat so chic that the crowd was undone.


Why, it seems that just yesterday, she dug for potatoes
In our little garden, and planted squash and tomatoes
And got dirt on her face and elbows and knees
And picked up the worms and shooed away bees.


Has it been a year or a month or a week
Since she broke the heart of the small boy next door
He came thrice a day, her company to seek.
Too much! Too Much! Our Alex did implore.


Her instinct was right, and she will soon learn
That the boys at her door can’t win but must earn
Her respect as a person with ideas and more--
Manners and charm and good looks galore.


Love,  Grandma and Grandpa Sweetpea

Ignatz Tells More . . . .

Ignatz Tells All

I might as well say it up front--I'm a feral cat.  I was born in the wild, my mom and dad were born in the wild, and as far back as my furthest back cat, we were conceived and born in the wild. This is something Mehitabel is aware of and she gives me a wide berth when I get that back-to-the-wall glint in my eyes.  Although I was "rescued" as a mere kitten, it was a long time before the gentle yoke  of civilization felt somewhat comfortable on my neck. Here's how it went.

My mom, a black and white of small stature and less distinction, decided to move her second litter ( me and my cohorts) from the desert arroyo to safer grounds-- in this case under a pallet of firewood at one of the new houses across the highway from our high desert home.  As I found out later, this was in the suburbs of Las Cruces, New Mexico.  The homeowners--a mature pair who would  become my and Mehitabel's staff-- were particularly impressed by one of my half brothers, a blue-eyed, gangly siamese wanna be, later to be called Archy. Well, you can't always get what you want, as they say, so they got me and Archy, while my mom hightailed it back to the desert with the rest of the scattered litter, soon to become coyote food, I suspect.  Archy had a cushy time of it in his new digs, his father being a pampered Siamese who loved to dip his wick in the feral lamp whenever he could get out the door.  Archy had the genes for the pampered life,  Alas, in his case it was probably a short one.  He loved to hide in the wheel well of the staff car, and that was his undoing.  The story goes that he jumped out of the wheel well, and ran straight to the desert from whence he came.  Truth to say, I didn't much like Archy.  Actually, I didn't like anyone, being a feral cat and all.

I haven't gotten very far with my story, but I'm tuckered out.  Computing is a bitch for an arthritic cat.  More later.


Mehitabel

AKA The Pretty One

The Arrival of Ignatz and Mehitabel

Well, here we are slap-dab in the middle of the piney woods of South Cackalacky.  What were they thinking? I guess it would help if I provided a little background on myself (the smart one) and Mehitable (the so-called pretty one). This will be a tedious job, so it may take several installments. I'll check back with you later.

Ignatz

Ignatz AKA The Smart One