The Man Chair

A Few Tips for the Hapless Male

photo of guy in chair while women shop

There I sit, helplessly, in The Man Chair.

Don’t confuse this with the infamous lounger where men devour chips and beer in front of the game. Far from a throne overlooking any urban kingdom, this chair is reserved for the stalwart few who venture forth to malls on weekends.

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Blue Skies and North Dakota Slams

Image from above of people holding coffee cups

Many an old codger has been heard of an afternoon here in North Dakota praising the extreme weather.

“Keeps the riffraff out,” says Old Boy, motioning out the window of the local cafe over a cup of scalding black coffee.

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Woodsmoke

There are times in life
When it seems important to get away,
Away from all the petty worries,
Time to change night into day.

Those are times to look up old friends,
Go out to a special place
And light a fire,
Let the woodsmoke drift into my face.

We laugh, joke and let the smoke
Get into our eyes,
Into our hair, clothes and lungs
To wash away all the lies.

We watch the sun go down
In splendid reds, pinks and blues.
Conversation stays light
Through all of these hues.

The darkness closes us in,
Swallows the elms into night.
They become ominous shadows
Outside the globe of light.

Darkness shrinks the universe,
We are all that is left.
The fire becomes the sun,
We are stars set adrift.

With all the world gone
We feel free to talk aloud
To people we can trust,
Free from the threatening crowd.

Each of us then speaks,
All in turn,
Of what is happening,
Why our souls burn.

The smoke from the flames
Does not sting or maim;
It washes over us all,
Cleanses, takes away pain.

The fire is at the center.
We talk to the burning light
And all our worries
Drift with the smoke into the night.

When I return the next day
Mother makes me bathe
To wash the woodsmoke away.
But it stays with me.

 

Personal logo of Martin C. Fredricks IV

© 1990 Martin C. Fredricks IV

 

 

Rock ‘n’ Roll, Acid Freaks & Blow-Up Dolls

“The Rolling Stones,” said my poetry professor. “Hmmmm… I suppose that’s poetry, too, only a little louder. Have a good time.”

RollingStones

In this age of black tennis shoes and Bugle Boy jeans… Oops, excuse me, that was two fads ago. Now it’s boat shoes and the preppie roll on Guess jeans. Or am I still a year behind?

I never was too good with the fad thing. All you have to do is look at the way I dress to know I’m an individual. A slob, perhaps, but an individual.

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