Tag Archives: Short poetry

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.

08.13.17
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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.

08.11.17
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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
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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.

08.05.17
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Suburban Legend

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don’t dip your toes there–
might not have toes if you do
‘ware the rockadile

I went for a very short walk in the woods where I’ve set The Tiny Giant, and I found this guy in the little stream, painted eye and all.  I stub my toe on some kind of magic every time I come down here.

That, or someone threw their pet alligator in the outhouse a very long time ago.

08.04.17
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Beach Body

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The tide goes in, the tide goes out,
The tide goes up and in your snout.

The air was there, but now it’s not,
The tide macramés strands of snot.

Again it’s in, then out the breach,
Behind it leaves a little beach.

You’re found aground, tide receded,
The nose now knows–you’re deceded.

This seabird appears to have slipped on a banana peel and DIED.  Life is not a cartoon.  Please pick up your fruit skins.

The first couplet is an homage to the old classic nursery rhyme, “The worms go in, the worms go out…” etc…  That’s one that’ll stay with you for life.

08.02.17
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The Life Changing Magic of 1,723 Plushes

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I’ve heard that tidying up
Creates some sort of magical joy.
That memo got lost in transit
To my soft-hearted medium boy.

The pile of stuffed pups alone
Would give the famous tidier fits.
But Mrs. Dog is here to stay
And so are her 99 kids.

They all have names and jobs,
Some hounds are secretly super.
The dust they put out when handled
Would leave Superman in a stupor.

This pile of friends doesn’t light up my life
When I’m stacking them on the bed.
I think I should just hug medium boy.
My joy seems to live there instead.

Everyone is on the tidying train it seems.  I did it to my sock drawer.  My sock drawer is pretty fabulous, I admit.  This magical tidying does not affect any of the other creatures that I live with, however.  It must be a very short range spell.