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JASMIN HORST E. P. SEILER

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Another progeny of dear Robbie’s wee mouse,
By JASMIN HORST E. P. SEILER
Saturday, January 26, 2013

Rated "G" by the Author.

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For Robbie on his birthday.

 

Another progeny of dear Robbie’s wee mouse,
 
 
There in the still of the night, swaddled in darkness, there a grey and weary thought intruded, the wife cold shouldered at the best of times, pressed me close, what I thought is this,
Once more, again she looks for another round of marital bliss?
What had her dad done to her, her mind full of dread thoughts,
The old Irish lad, had imbued her with a terrible past of superstition, ghosts, and goblins, and dark places, and our bedroom sure was dark, only a lit candle would reveal undetermined shadows, that lingered neither here nor there. Did it help that the rocking chair, a keepsake of her fathers would rock back and forth, for no reason, well there must be a reason, but I’ll be damned if I, despite her begging would want to find out. The attic a lonely place empty but for this ancient antique rocker her dad had left her, sat there in the dark, well sat is really not true , it rocked, it rocked half the night, back and forth almost rhythmic, to the tune of, lets see, the old, I goes no more a roving, or something like that. The stairs to the attic where narrow, and any candle would throw the spooky grey washed walls into an eerie light, but I wasn’t about to go up there this night, and preferably any other, the daytime well now with a live chair, I’m not to certain.
 
We had bought the old farmhouse because the owner would hold the mortgage, for when we came back from L.A. we where financially stretched shortly after our wedding. It was actually a consummated engagement of sorts, we were married on a dare, sort of, it was in L, A. we got married, in the courthouse there, under the auspices of a certain tall eloquent looking gentleman, akin in looks to President Lincoln, and may I add the ever pervasive eyes of Candid Camera we thought. We were good sports and played along, only to find out, this was for real, Sacramento had the records. Let’s see, we were talking about the attic, right above our bedroom and the rocking chair, ah yes the rocking chair, ah yes, and cuddling, closer and closer, I don’t need to explain the end result of such cuddling do I, but another child was born, and then another, and another, well let me explain. By nature I was always a cuddler if there such a word, and I loved tight squeezes, the tighter the better, and all that goes with it;
Would I then deliberately give away a secret I held for some time about this rocking chair, my wife was by nature always superstitious, would I change her ways, my God, what for?
Should maybe this story be called, three children and a rocking chair, or the rocking chair and three children, or Mike’s progeny, or dark nights and ghosts, or a wife’s cold fear,
Or in the dark of the night, well you pick one; I named it for a Gentleman, by name of Robbie Burns, my favourite poet, why you ask? Let me explain, I was going to write a little poem to honour his birthday, but felt short-changed on the necessary skills and talent to do him justice, but darn, it stuck in my mind and so, with all due respect, I thought I best explain the poetry that goes along with it with a little story, and here goes, I hope you like it Robbie, whatever bar your in up there, or what lucky woman’s bedroom, God bless ya.
 
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie,
 
In an attic dark and cold,
A sleekit, mousy, lived so bold,
To amuse herself, she often would,
Rock, a rocking chair, as hard she could,
 
A curved arm rest did just fine,
There she’d run till morning time,
Back and forth, she got it going,
She mastered it like she were rowing,
 
Rhythm sure she had down pat,
The floor would creak, rat tat, tat, tat,
And for the fear of knowing not,
Our rhythm too was right on spot,
 
The wife the dear, then held me tight,
I doubt of love, but out of fright,
Go and see, she nudged me hard,
Nah, of this, I’d have no part,
 
And, so the nights went by another,
To look and see, I could not bother,
If truth be told, if I were bold,
I liked her body's strangle hold,
 
Just later then I told her what,
Soon, one, two, three, we had begot,
And after all the missing cheese,
That would this little mousy please,
 
Oft, to encourage it, I would,
I would as best I could,
Balance it on either end,
Where every night the mousy went,
 
Back and forth, she’d run all night,
Of me the wee thing had no fright,
She worked for me till ripe old age,
A bit of love and cheese her wage,
 
Would employment such as this,
Lead to cuddle and a kiss,
To progeny of wee ones dear,
And of course, a wee bit fear,
 
Now that the story’s told in rhyme,
I hope dear Rob will not decline,
To take away some time from drink,
And tell me what of this he’d think.
 
Yes, the mousy died a happy death,
Yes, I loved her, I confess,
And yes, I did reward her well,
Until, with you she now does dwell, bless ya.©26/01/2013

 


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Reviewed by Miller Caldwell 2/2/2013
I am the descendant of the Bard still living in Dumfries where Robert Burns is buried. Robert was neither illiterate or a drunkard. He was well educated and as water was not safe to drink everyone drank beer but it was a very weak drink indeed. I have just posted an Immortal Memory. Miller www.netherholmpublications.co.uk
Reviewed by Mr. Ed 1/27/2013
I think old Robbie Burns would like your fine effort here,
As I too like mice, and his fine old poem 'To A Mouse'

"I doubt not, sometimes, but you may steal;
What then? Poor little beast, you must live!
An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves
Is a small request;
I will get a blessing with what is left,
And never miss it."

And now, you've pleasanty reminded me of our Christmas Mouse, and of Speedy, the crafty little mouse that purloins only ripe tomatoes from my garden.
Reviewed by Carol Phelan Aebby 1/27/2013
I would guess that Robbie Burns is toasting this write with a fine Scottish whiskey and a girl in sight!
You, dear Poet, had me smiling from beginning to end. There is no more precious write than that!

May your quill continue to soar and touch the Poets of yore!

With respect,

Carol Phelan Aebby
Reviewed by Budd Nelson 1/26/2013
i liked this one
budd

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