What a lovely, memorable weekend we have in store, full of all the things we cherish about winter. A heap of snow driven by piercing winds and the kind of deep cold that will survive for generations through the folk art known as Old Fart Storytelling. The luckiest ones among us will be able to bore grandchildren decades from now with exaggerated horror stories about the winter of ’10. Take notes. Add imagination. Pin their ears back. I’m going to go out to dig in a few minutes, and I hope to find a frozen bison on the front walk.

Meanwhile, in relatively milder Charlotte, North Carolina, it’s finals day in the Individual World Poetry Slam, an event that claims it will place a crown on “The Number One Poet In The World.”

If you’re going to go to the trouble of holding the event, be bold!

One of the contestants is a well-known slam poet and teacher, making a return to competition after “retiring” in 2005. Taylor Mali is known for a poem called “What Teachers Make”, which ran around the internet as a bit of what he calls “Inspirational Cyber-Spam” in several different versions, all under the name “Anonymous”.

It’s a good poem and a satisfying tale of a dinner party dressing-down, right up there with the blizzard war story you’re going to write after this weekend. But what caught my eye was a different poem, rendered this way:

Taylor Mali says this animation of his work was done without his permission, but “what would you do when the result is so good?”

How do you make something that is already good, better?

The reason for my fixation with ladders and gravity yesterday – one of the jobs on my list was to wash the outsides of the southward-facing upstairs windows before the weather turns. Yesterday that meant “do it right away”. But much of the day was bright and clear at my house, and direct sun does not help when you’re trying to do a decent job of cleaning glass.

So I waited. This is a practiced skill – putting off the beginning of the work until later. Much later.

When the sun finally started to disappear behind the hills, I grabbed my bucket and ladder and I discovered that doing this sort of work at night just amplifies the feeling of second-story dread. And I also found it possible, while wrestling with a 12 foot ladder, to write another one of those dreadful sing-song poems about falling.

Today the sun described its arc
It shone on home and nearby park.
Now in its fading westward spark
I’m washing windows in the dark.

Coyote, in a Looney Toon
That Acme Anvil toting goon
While missing rungs, he writes his ruin
Up off the ground beneath the moon

The neighbors to their dinners dash.
While serving up potato mash
They might not hear a distant crash
My ladder sliding off the sash

But in the quickly fading light
I’m making sounds that canines might
discern. A high pitched, screeching blight.
My sqeaking squeegee in the night.

A sound the local dogs abhor.
Their puzzled masters, they’ll implore
Don’t be like the baboon next door
Climb nighttime ladders? Nevermore!

What crazy risks have you taken to finish the job?

The telephone has been cited recently in some high profile voice and text communications that, on second thought, were artless and probably should have been withheld by the senders. Such is the hazard of impulsive communication.

Unfortunately, in the case of Virginia Thomas calling Anita Hill, Brett Favre sending texts and photos to Jenn Sterger, and Juan Williams losing his radio gig over comments made on TV, there was no flowery, sing-songy greeting card designed to do the same, difficult job … until now.

No artwork yet, but writing the dopey poem inside is the hardest part.

Anita,

Just a card to say hello
And also, dear, to let you know
We’re gracious, tolerant and wise.
And now you may apologize!

How lovely it would surely be
To see you fall on bended knee.
We’re waiting, feeling slightly slighted.
Apologize! You’ve been invited.

Take this offer ‘fore it closes.
Ignore what it presupposes.
Show remorse! If you don’t need to,
Still, you must! You’ve been decreed to!

Sincerely,
Ginni (and Clarence)

Jenn,

Uh, Brett.

Juan,

We’re saddened
By the thought you had
That we could not endorse.

It made us
So uncomfortable
We’re firing you, of course.

Life’s a highway
Fast and cruel
Quick exits are unfair lanes.

When harshly judged
For what we said or
What we wear on airplanes.

Sorry,
Your Former Employer

How do you find the perfect greeting card?