08.16.17
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GastroNom

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Plant the seeds
Or till the sod,
You’ll find our
Homely gastropod.

He ate my frisé,
Peas and beans,
Chowed all the leaves
And in-betweens.

Then slimed away,
Full fed and smug.
Next week’s menu?
Salted slug.

I’m not sure why Oregon has a state microbe (brewer’s yeast), but not a state mollusk. Specifically, why isn’t the slug serving in some official capacity? Lord knows we have enough of them. We could encase them in decoupage and sell them as souvenirs. I say it’s time we force this lazy garden grifter into some real responsibility. I just haven’t figured out how to keep the tiny sashes on yet.

08.15.17
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The Geologic Equivalent to Waking Up Dressed Like a Disney Princess with Sharpie Drawings on Your Face

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the Erratic Rock
got stoned with Canadians
woke up in Oregon

This 36-ton Canadian rock sits on the top of a short hill in Yamhill County, Oregon.  It was carried here, likely encased in glacial ice, during the pre-historic Missoula floods.  There’s a very brief hike to get to it, long enough for your kids to think there might be something other than a rock to look at when you’ve arrived.

I adore the Erratic Rock, because the idea of a boulder acting unpredictably, even whimsically, is so delicious.  I like to think it rebelled against its Canadian mountain parents and hitched a ride.  “You guys don’t understand me!  I’m different, I don’t want to hold up a mountain for the rest of my life!!”

08.14.17
by

Log

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what’s brown and sticky?
someone’s been walking their tree
oaken excremEnt

I once seriously considered starting a Tumblr of “Toys that look like turds.”  I had small children and small geriatric dogs at the time, and scouring the carpeting before you stepped was a necessary habit.  This beautiful work of nature is about 18″ long, so I have to conclude it’s Ent droppings.  Guess they need to install one of those DogSpot bag dispensers in Fangorn.

08.13.17
by

The ‘Pause That Enrages

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It turns out I don’t want a purple hat,
Or a red dress that doesn’t go.
I just want to be completely done
With my monthly visit from Flo.

I am over producing progeny,
All my oats, I have sown.
Now for the special bonus round–
All systems shutting down!

I’m hot for no reason.
Today, I’m feeling stabby.
The Noxzema years are back,
And my hair is getting shabby.

Well, not all my hair,
That would be a silver lining.
The hair where I don’t want it
Is luxurious and shining.

You can tell me about dignity,
And post-40 freedom—that’s true.
But physically? This sucks a lot,
I hope it’s easier for you.

Doctors will mess with my ‘mones,
Heh… sort it out in a…flash,
But for right now I’m stuck–
Waxing my menostache.

Since poems about lady problems are super popular, I saved this one for the Sunday night dead zone.  I’m also at a point in my own lady journey where I don’t much care who likes it.  That said, here’s a *high five* for all the women.  You ladies are tough.

08.12.17
by

The Semi-empty Nest

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I’m cleaning out the closets
As if a baby’s about to arrive.
NO, NO, NO, I’m long done with that.
My baby’s a world-weary five.

The cleaning and scrubbing binge
That I’m energetically on
Is for when school starts this fall
And both my babies are gone!

No, not to college, not even close,
Just elementary school for now.
I’ll be all alone in my quiet house
Managing to cope somehow.

My lovely empty closets,
And clean, tidy rooms,
Will stay that way for hours
Sans the chaotic fruit of my womb.

So as summer skids to a stop,
I’ll spend hours on organization
For that first peaceful cup of joe
Of my school-days-only vacation.

I am in a serious bout of nesting behavior right now, cleaning out closets and hanging drapes and calling a housepainter for the outside.  When the school year hits, those of us who work opportunistically around kids can finally concentrate for more than 10 minutes without a request for pancakes, the iPad, or punishment for the other child.  I am feverishly working toward a house that is clean, quiet, and free of distracting, disorganized junk and projects uncompleted.  It won’t actually all happen, but some of it will, and that is better than none of it.

PS.  The painter is also quoting that deck railing because I….ahem….haven’t quite gotten that ironed out by myself yet.

08.11.17
by

Shadow of Momdor

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I’m not doing dishes,
The laundry can wait.
I’m taking a break
Before I self-immolate.

I was patient ’til two,
When fit pitching commenced.
Why do days have more hours?
It doesn’t make sense?

The Minion keyboard,
And the too soapy bath,
Your unbrushing of teeth,
They aroused some wrath.

I won’t take it out
On my brood suburban.
Instead I’ll hunt Mordor
And drink all the bourbon.

You go commando,
And eat with no forks.
Mom’s in the basement,
Slaughtering orcs.

I find video games to be very therapeutic in a sort of violently fun way.  I’m about 65% of the way through the Game of the Year Edition of Shadow of Mordor.  I might be able to finish it by the end of the summer, since I don’t play it in front of the kids.  Then it’s on to Witcher III.  My older kid is a Minecraft nerd.  Raisin’ ’em right.  Gonna have some little engineers around here.

Also…there might be some typos because that bourbon isn’t a prop.  C’est la vie.

08.10.17
by

I Can’t Stanza This Today

I don’t feel like poeming today.
Much obliged if you’ll just look away.
I’d rather write stories about crazy old bats,
So I’m spending today working on that.

Tomorrow I’m sure I’ll be rhyming again.
I might have a haiku under my pen. *shrug*
Today–meh. Agnes has my attention,
So Bad Poem-a-Day is left in suspension.

My collection of psychological horror stories, Bitches and Dead People, is on its way to the editor very soon, and I decided at the last minute to ditch one of the stories and replace it with this story about Agnes, a foul-mouthed, paranoid octogenarian whom I find very bad and very funny.  When I write about these people, I like to stay in their heads in an uninterrupted stream–meaning, I don’t like to skip back and forth between different projects while the story is in progress.  You understand.  I hope.

08.09.17
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Submirage

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if I fall in now
will I float or will I fly?
sinking up the sky

The Willamette River is a massive stretch of water.  On this morning, its stillness gave me more than a little vertigo, as if I was upside down and needed to immediately remedy that.

08.08.17
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The Tattlers

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When nothing is planned
And summer gets long,
The kids come running
To sing their people’s song.

He kicked my face!
She stole my book!
He showed me his butt!
She shouldn’t have looked!

Screeching and thumping,
Then footsteps towards me,
With grievances ready
In hopes that I’ll be….

What? Do you want me to yell?
Do you want me to punish?
Are you looking for sympathy?
Do you hope to astonish?

My standard reaction
Disappoints the little Judas.
Go handle it yourself.
I don’t know why you do this.

Despite my disinterest,
They can’t seem to refrain.
There’s nothing too trifling
For them to complain.

For so many reasons, I am grateful we were able to have two children.  This is not one of them.

08.07.17
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Petalsphere

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fragile floating lens
framing a fleeting moment
in iridescence

I used to spend a lot of time blowing bubbles with my toddlers in our soggy Oregon backyard.  These flowers were so damp, the bubbles would land on them and linger, sometimes until little fingers popped them with glee.