I used to work in nice restaurants
Where I learned the art of presentation.
Now I am feeding my husband this meal–
Worthy of defenestration!

Note: It is delicious smoked chicken.  I just couldn’t be bothered to wipe the plate last night while I was doing 70 bazillion loads of laundry (so we could take it to the beach and filthy it up again).

Also…I gave this so much thought when I started, I didn’t think at all about posting from a campsite.  This ought to be entertaining.



Lewis Carroll was left-handed.
His whimsy it helps to explain.
While I write with the north paw,
I seem to have a left-handed brain.

Note: I am particularly attracted to the left-handed. There were and are a lot of lefties in my family, and now I have a husband and son who favor their lefts. I find the different places they go on their trains of thought delightful. In The Tiny Giant, the novel I’m getting ready to send to the world, Dan is left-handed, and it’s key to his position in the story.  Lewis Carroll has a bit part in the story about 2/3 of the way through, and his handedness was his ticket in.  Lefties, I will always make room at the table for you, just…wait, don’t sit there, because then we’ll have to play dueling elbows…there.

103° Pacific Northwest


103 in Oregon
Feels like the face of the sun.
I’m used to dressing in layers,
But I don’t know dressing in one.

This vest is sleeveless, at least,
Even if it’s filled with down.
Maybe the fingerless gloves?
They’ll be cool while we walk downtown?

We already wear nothing but shorts,
Check my hiking boots, they’re Arctic Fox.
My ski hat will shield my head from the rays
While sweat puddles up in my socks.

I clearly don’t know the keys
To hot weather survival and dress.
Five minutes outside, I’m a goner.
Call the coroner to scrape up the mess.

You hot, wicked Devil, you Sun,
Put your clouds back on, scorcher of retinas!
You’ve proven I’ll never be cool,
Now go away and play with your nebula.

Note: I took that picture by sticking just my arm out the back door at 8:00AM this morning. It physically hurts my eyes to look at the picture, let alone go outside. We are the naked mole rats of America, and we are not made for this weather.



My undercarriage is almost the last thing
That stupid squirrel ever saw.
He ran from one side to the other.
His plan should be called “Fatal Flaw.”

My car passed right over his eartips.
No THUD ka-THUMP THUMP was heard.
Must have been like Independence Day,
But deafening and all in a blur.

I saw him go on in my rearview,
Back to his friends in the ditch.
I swear I heard another one say…
“Here, hold my nut and watch this!”

Note: Squirrels, man. I grew up in a rural place, and I know the roadkill rules. If it’s the size of a squirrel, and on a highway, you don’t do anything drastic to avoid it. Swerving to avoid it is more likely to cause you to lose control of your vehicle than avoid the damn thing anyway. I jogged the car over a few inches and Stupid Squirrel must have hunkered down. It’s not worth it, Stupid Squirrel. Don’t do stuff like that to impress the other squirrels. They will not remember it tomorrow, and if you are flat, they won’t remember YOU tomorrow. Go taunt a dog or something.

The AmaZone


To the tune of “Danger Zone” by Kenny Loggins


Bootin’ up your laptop
Lookin’ for some deals to score
Browser under fire
Beggin’ you to add to cart

Information highway to the AmaZone
Right now from the AmaZone

Shippin’ into your town
Boxes standin’ on your porch
Prime sends it all free
So go ahead and get some more

Information highway to the AmaZone
Buy it now
Right now from the AmaZone

They never say hello to you
Drones flying through with tiny loads
They can bring some stuff to you
As much as your credit card can hold

I’m logging into Edge
Gonna wipe my wishlist out
It’s Christmas in two days
‘Cause I forget what I bought

Information highway to the AmaZone
I’m gonna order
Right now in the AmaZone
Highway to the AmaZone
Right now in the AmaZone

Official Video of Danger Zone by Kenny Loggins for your sing-a-long pleasure: Danger Zone Video with Awesome Jets

Note: This actually happens to me, I get in the Amazone and order things that I’ve been forgetting at the store, and when they come?  No idea what’s in that box, because I’ve forgotten it again. I know a song parody isn’t really a “poem” per se, but I was raised on a steady diet of MAD Magazine and Weird Al Yankovic. It counts if I say it does.  Back to Poemy McRhymeface tomorrow.

Tasteless Room


There’s a new winery in Dundee,
Poised for domination.
Can’t wait to try the red–
It’s called Merlostruation.

Note: I’m all about a slightly earthy name, if it’s clever. This one–well. Let’s just say it gives me the Swiftian urge to mock it mercilessly until it goes away.

Also–I’ve made it to the Ides of August!  Sixteen postings done, and fifteen to go.  How bad can it get?  We shall see.  I think tomorrow may be a song parody.  Yes, I will even go there.





I think I’m in love with my phone.
I’d like to say “Not like THAT,”
But I’m not so sure that’s true, as I
Swipe this way, oh YES, and that.

I touch it more than my husband,
Passionately sedating myself.
What about him? Oh, I don’t know.
He can take care of himself.

I should put down my screen.
Ask him to go for a walk.
But if we could no longer text,
I can’t figure out how we’d talk?


Note: I’ve found the solution to this is to introduce your elementary-aged children to Pokémon Go. You’ll never have your phone again.  Also, whoops.  I forgot my titles are all caps, and a little capitalization joke wouldn’t show up.  I just didn’t plan ahead for capitalization jokes.

No One Reads My Blog on Sunday


I don’t have anything to say today.
It’s Sunday, and no one is reading.
But if I want to check my box,
Some sort of poem I’ll be needing.

Ahem…here goes:

There once was a middling poet,
Who didn’t know when to stow it.
She tortured poor August,
‘Til downward she boggest.
Barrel bottom? She ventured below it.

Limericks are the last lazy refuge
Of a poet in complete desperation.
That said, I worked twenty whole minutes on that–
A masterwork of self-deprecation.

Note: I have something I think is better that I’m saving for tomorrow. It’ll be interesting to see if anyone else thinks it’s better. *snort*

On a Camera Roll


I went to take a picture
Of my snowflake being cute.
My phone said, “Not today, lady.”
My memory was kaput.

It wasn’t corrupt or hijacked,
It seemed to be working fine,
But there’s already 10,000 snaps
And half of them aren’t mine.

I admit I like a cloud shot
And I take the occasional selfie.
My kids, though, geez almighty,
Blurry shots from bats to belfry.

If I ever need their fingerprints,
I won’t have to bring an item.
I have 500 close-ups of fingers,
It’s the Phone Age way to provide ’em.

Then there’s shots from all the apps,
Cartoons in different wigs.
Surely don’t miss an iteration
Of how you dressed up a pig.

When they venture into actual shots,
It’s sometimes cruelly unkind.
“Here’s Mommy scowling her bestest frown
And a panorama of her behind!”

Delete, delete, delete, delete.
Make room for actual pictures.
Though this one is rather artistic…
What a way to see bathroom fixtures!

Note: By far my favorite is when they take 100 selfies with different facial expressions. I really do save some of those, it’s comedy.

Dentrificial Hygiene


Gross kids’ bathroom,
Sticky to the touch.
Toothpaste everywhere,
Except on the brush.

My kids are very capable, generally, except when confronted with a tube of toothpaste. Then they turn into infomercial actors and the toothpaste just shoots all over, completely outside their control. WHAT IS THIS? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO DO THIS?