First Monday Spoken Word Open Mic Night is a monthly gathering of writers, poets, essayists and creatives. We meet at the Ada Public Library at 6 p.m. on the first Monday of each month.
JoJoe and the Stick
by Richard R. Barron
Joe and Sarah Jo life the quiet life of retirees on the east coast of Florida. They do retired-people things, like driving to get pancakes at Ponce de León State Park, or poking their heads out the back door to see the latest rocket blast past their orange trees en route to the International Space Station.
Their kids and friends know them collectively as JoJoe, or JoeJo, and they have the Hotmail address of JoJoe@msn.com.
One day Sarah Jo sees her philodendron sagging in its hanging basket, the vines and leaves with nothing to grab. She ventures into the garage and emerges a few minutes later with a paint-stirring stick. Her plan is to stab the soil with the stick, then wrap the tangle of her houseplant around it to give it shape and let it get better sunlight.
Joe sees this and barks, “What are you doing?”
Sarah Jo recoils, then recovers and says, “I’m tending my houseplant.”
Joe barks, “But that’s my GOOD stick!”
I tell this story because I recently finished writing in one of my journal books, number 57. I reached for another plain half-size hardcover volume. I bought a bunch of them in various colors years ago, and have kept my journal in them since 1998. As I searched my blank journal collection, I came across the bigger, fancier, “ex libris” journal that I never really decided to use.
It occurred to me that I have been “saving” it the way my dad, Joe Barron, saved all the good things in his life for later. This beautiful journal wasn’t going to be of any use to anyone if I didn’t write in it. And since I am about to turn 63, I decided it was time to use my “good stick.”
So Happy Sad
by Richard R. Barron
I walked her to her car. I put my arms around her and held her tight for just a second.
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you, too.” she said.
I walked back into my office and for a minute, I just couldn’t hold back my tears.
I was so happy-sad.
Trash Poetry
“Of all the trash poetry at all the open mic events in Ada, Oklahoma, this trash poetry is among the best.” ~Guy with a mustache
You are in a courtyard, surrounded by people with fresh lobotomy scars.
“Daddy, is reality real?” ~Three year old
T A N T R U M!
Here is your validation!
Use this coupon for half off your next poem!
What happens next is so shocking you will simultaneously ________ and ________ your __________.
Young Richard Learns the Truth
by Richard R. Barron
Richard is 16.
He sits in the driver’s seat of his mom’s Oldsmobile Regency 98. The mountainous flush burgundy seat cushions seem to swallow his angular frame as he leans to his right.
“Come here,” he whispers to his 16-year-old future girlfriend Tina. She leans into him, and all he wants is to feel her silky hair against the side of his face.
The cold winter night presses against the silver car, against his desire, against it all.
Tina seems indifferent in her shallowness to understand why he wants her warmth, but she remains silent.
“It hurts,” Richard complains, the way a sensitive 16-year-old complains. “It hurts so much.”
That’s when I walk up to the driver’s side of the silver car and tap on the glass. Richard rolls the window down, and I say, “I know you think it hurts, Richard. But one day you will watch your wife die.”
