Groggy travelers need a wake-up? Try Fresh Socks!

The International Sock Exchange is a proposed chain of airport concourse-level retail shops that will offer arriving travelers worldwide a fresh pair of socks with which to greet the new day and, in many cases, the new time zone.

According to leading university studies that will one day be conducted and eventually published, a fresh pair of socks is more effective than any caffeinated beverage -- or even a 1-hour nap! -- at restoring alertness, a clear perspective, and of course an optimistic spring in the step of the long-distance traveler. What's more, fresh socks do not lead to headaches, dehydration, or a bitter taste in the mouth, if used according to directions.

Besides offering comfortable, high-quality socks in a variety of styles, International Sock Exchange shops will offer the business or pleasure traveler a comfortable seat where he or she can change into the newly purchased socks, plus a handy, post-paid, air-sealed and odor-proof envelope that will send the traveler's old socks back home for eventual laundering. Alternatively, the traveler can drop those old socks into a charitable bin right there in the shop. Donated socks will be laundered, paired up, and given to a local charity, and ISE will mail the traveler a tax-deductible receipt for the donation. And all of this for a price that is well within most travelers' budgets.

It's all part of our effort to make the world a happier, more comfortable, and more productive place.

As the Pobble's celebrated Aunt Jobiska so famously said (in a slightly different context):

"The World in general knows

"There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"

Or anyone else's, for that matter!

Salmon Light

The coming dawn reveals high, washboard clouds
In layers that 'til now made dark the sky,
Hid stars away this moonless night.
But just this moment now, clouds glow and swell,
In pinkish light with edges black and grey ––
Strips of salmon fillet, skin and all ––
They hover, slowly shifting in the sky,
And fill the blinking traveler's eyes with gentle light
As there he lies wrapped warm on earthen bed,
And fill his mouth with hunger.
Awakening, he lifts his head, half-rises,
And in that instant
Stops again, arrested and amazed by what he sees:

In the half-light of the forest, a simple cabin.
Clean, still, and silent,
Not a creature stirs within it or without,
But still this small house glows
With welcoming, pragmatic comfort,
A glow that resonates,
Felt time and again, beyond remembering,
By builder, owner, or wanderer in the woods,
Who after hours or days or weeks in the wilds
Of the forest, at his ease with all of nature,
Remembered in his heart, and at this very sight,
What it is to have a home,
And, in that particular way,
What it is to be human
Out here where so much is not.

Fragment

“You don't have to be a sherlock homeless to see what's going on out here,” muttered Apple Annie as she rotated a half-spoiled apple in her basket so only the good side would show. “Some people are just rotten to the core.”

The Terrible Dream

It was the middle of the night, just one year ago,
I woke up terrified and started to cry --
A strange voice had spoken to me in a dream:
"Your grandmother's going to die."
I felt awful all day, and then that night the phone rang,
Mom got it, and then, weeping, she said,
"That was your Aunt Sara. There's terrible news:
"Your dear old grandmother is dead."

Six months or so later, I woke again in the night,
So shaken that I had to cry.
That same, strange voice had spoken again:
"Your grandfather's going to die."
Distressed and bewildered, I stumbled through the day.
At night, the phone rang, and Mom said,
"Brace yourselves, children, that was your Uncle Mike.
"Your dear, sweet grandfather is dead."

Oh, what does it all mean? Who can explain it?
What's this gift that's so much more a curse?
It's all such a terrible burden to bear--
How could my life get any worse?
I hardly can get any sleep anymore,
I'm so shaken with worry and fear
Of the chance that I'll hear it, that voice in the night
Whisp'ring terrible news in my ear.

Then last week again I woke up in the night,
And my tears were pouring like rain.
That awful, strange voice with its terrible news
Had shattered my dreams once again.
I couldn't believe it! Oh, what would I do?
I shook my head, helpless, and cried.
The horrible voice had spoken again:
"Your father is going to die."

"What's the matter?" said Dad when I hugged him that morning,
But I could only stare at the floor.
I was aching with sorrow all through my school day,
And when I came home, Dad opened the door.
He said, "Son, it's your mother--she's had a bad shock,
"And she's taken it awfully hard.
"This morning the milkman had a heart attack,
"And he died right here in our front yard."

Oh, what does it all mean? Who can explain it?
What's this gift that's so much more a curse?
It's all such a terrible burden to bear--
How could my life get any worse?
I hardly can get any sleep anymore,
I'm so shaken with worry and fear
Of the chance that I'll hear it, that voice in the night
Whisp'ring terrible news in my ear.

In My Own Language

Some words exude sensation—
Some feelings call a hundred words to mind.
So why does my own mouth so often gape, dumb-struck,
Filled with an emptiness of words it cannot find?
To tell you that you're beautiful,
To ask you for a dance, a touch, a whisper,
Or for a silent glance that tells your answer—
Though what question I would ask I cannot say.

I could read to you from German poetry
Or French, recite Italian verse,
But here's the irony:
The language of my own heart is as a foreign tongue to me—
I never learnt it fluently.
What teacher or academy
Is there to train my mouth to speak
The words that match the meanings in my soul,
To part my lips at last and make my music whole?

Speaking in my heart's own tongue,
I dream, I'd sing a song to move your heart,
Tell stories to beguile your mind
And open up your eyes and mine
To see the beauty and the sadness
And the agony from which, habitually,
We turn away our eyes, and, turning, fail to see
The very nub and essence of existence and humanity.

Public Notice

(Inspired by an entry in the Davis Enterprise classified ads, February, 2010.)

Why she changed her name
it didn't mention in the ad.
She may have changed her gender, too,
or got a brand new mother and dad.
You bet she had her reasons, sure,
to file the papers that day, and now she's
Jesse Prancer Ferdinand Teller Fourché.

And should I ever see that name
on a "Hello" nametag sticker
Or spread across a hundred yards
of Times Square news feed ticker,
I'll doubtless still have as many questions
as I have in mind today, about
Jesse Prancer Ferdinand Teller Fourché.

Jesse Prancer Ferdinand Teller Fourché—
Sounds like somebody's pony,
or a bull who sniffs rosé,
Or a clerk who works at the S & L—
Really, who can know or say anything about
Jesse Prancer Ferdinand Teller Fourché?

Trochee, trochee, dactyl,
trochee, iamb in a row,
A fascinating rhythm,
makes me wonder what else there is to know
About the former Anna Leigh Teller,
and how she chose her new a.k.a:
Jesse Prancer Ferdinand Teller Fourché.