It’s Like, You Know…

My dear old mother used to say,
Try to do an act of kindness every day,
A good, old fashioned idea made easier,
By increased technology and social media.

For sending a text or an email through,
Is a low maintenance way to say, ‘I’m thinking of you,’
Without ever having to succumb to the pressure,
Of making a date to hang out together.

But probably the least taxing of all,
Is hitting a like button on the Facebook wall,
And an easy feat for you, yet the writer is agog,
By simply hitting ‘like’ at the bottom of their blog,
A mutually beneficial power of which you are endowed,
And what better place to start but here and now.


No Act Of Kindness Goes Unnoticed

While mowing the lawn the other day,
I thought I’d do a favor,
And give a little trim,
To the garden of my neighbor.

But rather than thanking me
My neighbor was on guard
And asked me what the hell I thought,
I was doing in his yard.

Regardless of my intentions,
He told me just to cease,
“Is my garden not looking good enough to you?
I’m calling the police!”

And though my first try was a failure,
I would not be beat,
When I attempted to help a little old lady,
Walk across the street.

She hit me with her purse,
And screamed at me to stop,
As all people whipped out their cell phones,
And proceeded to call the cops.

But onward with my mission,
When a little child I did spy,
Standing there all alone,
With tears coming from his eyes.

I asked him if he was lost or sad,
Or if there was anything he needed,
But along came his mother who said,
“Are you some kind of pervert? Beat it!!”

So off I ran as fast as I could,
But before it all was through,
I heard the sirens wailing for apparently she,
Had summoned the men in blue.

So if your looking to do a deed of kindness,
Some small act of charity,
I hope you won’t hesitate to donate,
To my legal fees.


Where Have All The Flowers Gone?

Where have all the flowers gone?”
My neighbor she did query,
But to ask such a question,
Perhaps she should be leery.

So used to always seeing those,
Fresh flowers in my house,
And never even knowing,
What they were all about.

For each time my husband wronged me,imgres
A new bouquet was given,
Which never served to improve my mood,
Or acknowledge all was forgiven.

And no matter their state of beauty,
I received them with a glower,
To think that he could buy me back,
With a simple bouquet of flowers.

And as time went on,
In a marriage that was faltering,
Never did he improve upon,
This very paltry offering.

A sad attempt to hide a state,
Of cheating, stealing and lying,
All represented in a bouquet,
Of flowers that lay dying.

Till one day at his pathetic gift,
I flew into a murderous rage,
And if you want to know where all the flowers have gone,
They’re lying on his grave.


Dysfunctional Disney

A lovely young girl will not fail,
To get caught up in fairy tales,
But can you even imagine this?
To be the characters’ psychiatrist?
To hang with them each day of the week,
I say the prognosis is bleak.

The Little Mermaid has a poor body image,
And I’m afraid she is a hoarder,
Then over to old Snow White,
And the 7 Personality Disorders.

And just when I thought my day could get no worse,
It really is not good,
To see Eeyore depressed and Pooh binge eating,
Over in the Hundred Acre Wood.

Olaf from Frozen is delusional,
We had to coax him away from the fire,
After trying to convince poor Pinocchio,
About the dangers of being a compulsive liar.

Belle has Stockholm Syndrome,
For Sleeping Beauty it’s Kleine-Levin,
Alice in Wonderland is BPD,
And the Red Queen suffers manic depression.

Will Tinkerbell ever be happy?
For her the future looks dim,
And don’t even get me started on Peter Pan,
Who has a whole syndrome named for him.

And so we reflect on these suffering few,
And label them hero or villain,
All carefully planned yet we can’t understand,
The neuroses of our children.


Think Before You Ink

John has so many tattoos,

He looks just like a biker,

He got one of his wife,

But it really don’t look like her.

Eddie got a tribal tattoo,

To fit in with the scene,

Don’t tell him but I’m pretty sure,

He doesn’t know what it means.

Jason wanted some fresh ink,

He didn’t know what to do,

Now his entire forearm,

Says ‘My First Tattoo’.

Anne got a tattoo of her boyfriend’s name,

A love that was forever,

But her plans got thwarted,

Now they’re no longer together.

When I think of artwork for myself,

I’m clearly at a loss,

Think I’ll wear some jewelry and if I don’t like it,

I can just take it off.



A Fashion Victim’s Circle of Life

A bargain dangles before me and I can’t resist,
Violently plowing the aisles as I search for all things thrift,
Shoeboxes obscure my vision, lethal weapons my bags,
I’ll take Macklemore and Lewis down when I’m poppin’ tags.

But when I get home a dark reality sets in,
As I now lament what seemed a fine idea then,
For these seven inch platform heels look totally great,
Not so much teetering into work or for a play date.

And these baggy genie pants that seemed the height of glamour,
May work a bit better on Barbara Eden or MC Hammer,
And consulting my wardrobe for a shirt to match these jeans,
Might be easier if they weren’t swirled with neon pink and green.

And now a scary prospect as my closet grows,
Into a no man’s land of unwanted clothes,
With bars that sag a door that bulges a site of peeling plaster,
Which vies with the worst tornadoes and hurricanes, an unnatural disaster.

And in fact, it would come as no great surprise,
If you told me it has been the taker of many great men’s lives,
As family members await their fate the day that they will learn,
If those who dared to enter my wardrobe may ever return.

And so it comes the day when I must clean out my closet,
Perhaps resulting in a trip to Goodwill with a massive deposit,
But sorting out good from the bad I realize all the while,
That what’s determined as throwaways results in a very tiny pile.

All the fashion catastrophes, the things that have no match,
Become valuable findings to which I’m emotionally attached,
For a winner never quits and so back into a drawer,
You go with all those other items that I never even wore.


Purgatory Of Verse

They litter my mind like so many proverbial
balled up scraps of paper,

Words that I peruse again and again,
whether to discard or to savor,

I can send them to heaven’s gate
of sublime publication,

Or discard them to the trash, sentenced
to hellish damnation,

And though one may be better,
perhaps neither is worse,

Than to be fated to sit endlessly
in the purgatory of verse.