Like mother, like daughter: Joan loves the Beatles. She often requests specific songs in the van – All Together Now, Good Day Sunshine and Penny Lane are her current faves. During the songs she always asks me who’s singing, and when I say John or Paul she’ll give an exasperated sigh, fold her arms across her chest and say, “Again?
What about George and Ringo?” I’ll skip forward to Octopus’s Garden or Old Brown Shoe and she’ll bop her head along to the beat and tell me I have to play those songs every day so that George and Ringo don’t feel left out.
I love how she’s so into the Beatles and that she thinks of them not only as a band, but as individuals. That just gets me right there. I mean, I’m all for John and Paul, but I’ve always had a soft spot for George and some of Ringo’s contributions are my favorite Beatles songs.
So when Joan came up to me a while ago and told me she’d made up a poem about the Beatles I nearly fell over. Because, like, ohmygawd it’s so cute I can hardly stand it:
Four little beatle-bugs climbing up a wall
One was John and one was Paul
The other was George…
And then there was Ringo with a pickle up his nose!
Like, she is so awesome I could eat her up with a little A1 sauce. (KIDDING. I have no intentions of wasting my time with A1, gawd. HP all the way.)
While doing what I now do every night of my exciting superstar life, PACKING, I pulled my old journals and books of badly written poetry off the top shelf in my closet. I haven’t read them in a long time and really, I don’t want to. Knowing I have those recordings of my past is good enough for me.
I did stop long enough to read a poem I wrote six years ago, when Dave and I were dating and my mom was in remission and I was doing my best to balance a really trying job and a fucking killer commute. I have no recollection of writing it and I don’t know what the hell I was talking about, which kind of surprises me, that I can read something six years later and not know where it came from.
Then again, I find that kind of cool, too.
It goes like this:
long hair and band aids
fresh steam rising
spring creek twisting
ripening for the dawn
deep trickles of sapphire blue
seep their way inside of you
traveling, speeding to the pit
the air beneath me
rise to strip
beneath the flesh there is no bone
left long, left alone
Edited to add: Alas, Joan’s poem is not an original. It was brought to my attention this morning that it was actually featured on 4 Square, a very cool show that Joan loves to watch, and I gotta give credit where credit’s due. See? The telly’s not all bad.