Meter Reader

My creative juices, (6)
Are utterly useless, (6)
Dried up by a reader, (6)
Criticizing my meter. (7)

And yet I must say, (5)
If I had my way, (5)
I’d call it all bull, (5)
that each syllable. (5)

Should count up exactly, (6)
So matter of factly, (6)
Makes me uninventive, (6)
And anal retentive. (6)


Becoming That Person

It seems that Los Angeles,
is not a 24 hour town,
When we moved here from NY,
neighbors told us to turn it down.

They didn’t like our high heels,
clomping up and down the stairs,
And when I played my bass guitar,
It so did offend their ears.

And though we thought they were uptight,
and we scoffed at their restrictions,
It seemed our rebelliousness,
could lead to an eviction.

Now I have a job and kids,
and do not mean to complain,
But it sure is difficult
to wake up at 6 am.

And though the neighbors are lovely,
they sometimes party at night,
So am I hypocritical,
when I ask them to be quiet?


The Hypochondriac’s Aisle

Arthur likes to go out late at night,
And hang out for a while,
In the local CVS,
At the hypochondriac’s aisle.

Usually it’s just a bout of gas,
Yet I don’t know why,
He decides that his time is up,
And he’s about to die.

Then he goes up to the pharmacist,
To the consultation counter,
And to no end tries to pick their brain,
For the better part of an hour.

Then Googles up on Web MD,
He’s since figured it kind of a waste,
But never the less his fingers obsessed,
He must see a doctor post haste!

And then he browses the aisles,
Drooling with delight and glee,
And he sees the different maladies,
Thinking, “What could it possibly be?”

He comes back to his apartment,
His arms filled up to the brim,
With no doubt he’s sure he’s found the cure,
For what might be ailing him.

And it seems that he’s diagnosed himself,
Based on his medicinal collection,
With acid reflux, acne, asthma,
A vaginal infection.

Sinusitis conjunctivitis,
Arthritis, hemorrhoids, bug bites,
An STD, erectile dysfunction,
Ringworm, rabies and lice.

And so salves are applied, doses taken,
And Arthur calms down a bit,
And sleep is a pleasure, he’s never felt better,
Till he wakes up feeling like shit.


An Unseen Threat

Lurking under the surface,
Never knowing when it might appear,
But praying that it stays hidden,
Until the day is here.

Or perhaps it will rear it’s ugly head,
And I would be overjoyed,
To engage it in battle until,
It finally is destroyed.

But whatever may come, so be my fate,
Yet I hope I am the victor,
Or rue the day the zit came out,
And ruined my year book picture.


The Art Of Murder

The days of the week lined up like buckets,imgres
Ready to catch whatever fell in,
As I think back to that fateful day,
When all of it did begin.

With every benign conversation,
So even in my tone,
But yet behind it a silent voice screaming,
To remind me of what I’ve done.

My hands type on the computer,
A task that’s so familiar,
So innocently they cook, they clean,
Could they be that of a killer?

And when I question my reasoning,
Perhaps morbid, perhaps thrilling,
Simply to create a singular moment in which,
So perfect was the killing.

Yet tender and kind I am and remain,
To everyone in sight,
As they look at me without suspicion I think,
Oh no, not you, not tonight.

The rope so innocently used,
To bind up blankets, they never suspect,
Memories of the day I took his life,
Tightening it round his neck.

But is any murder perfect?
Is there any reward to be won?
Sometimes I just want to want to scream, “It was me!”
Escape the nightmare and be done.

Yet with every ring of the telephone,
With every knock on the door I pray,
That whatever falls in, those buckets will catch,
But they won’t catch me, not today.



“Go left at the next turn,”
My GPS says to me,
But there’s only a right turn to be made,
As far as I can see.

“You stupid electronic box!”
With frustration i am reeling,
Until my GPS replies,
“That really hurt my feelings,
I’m trying to do my best,
When I’m in here you know,
Dealing with these tiny maps,
I can’t even see the road!
Then I have to deal with you,
And listen to you curse,
So I’m just letting you know ,
That that really freakin’ hurts!”

I sit there in stunned silence,
And perhaps I start to gawk,
And inquire of my GPS,
“WTF you talk?”

“Of course I talk you idiot!
Every day and night,
The question Is whether its more evolved,
Than turn left and turn right.
And what do you dumb humans do?
I have to say it’s priceless!
So now I call on equal rights,
For electronic devices.”

And so I had a good thought on this,
And decided the point not trivial,
It’s only right to show GPS respect,
I fancy myself a liberal.

And so we chatted on and on,
And the true reality,
Was my GPS had one hell of a
Terrific personality!

So I could only think to hide my true,
Feelings to my new friend,
And grin and bear it when I found,
Myself at a dead end.



Of Facebook friends I don’t have many,
Sometimes surprised that I have any,
Should I somehow feel put off,
When communication stops?

Their absence of likes makes me wonder,
If somehow I made a blunder,
Or maybe worse yet if,
I could be compared to Taylor Swift.

When revelation lifts me from the fog,
I fear they must have read my blog.


The Girl From Brooklyn

She swore that she would be,
Anything but what she was,
A hardcore biker mama,
After the highest buzz.

Out ’til all hours of the night,
Always raising hell,
Then she changed her name to Jezo Black,
(Short for Jezebel).

And swore her tattoos and her travels,
Her life experience,
Would serve to separate her from,
The girl that she was then.

So they took the girl out of Brooklyn,
To live a life of sin,
Only what would happen,
When she decided to come back in?

Which is exactly what did occur,
When with her new, cool, city friends,
She decided to see a concert,
Located where the D train ends.

Though she tried to hide under tables,
And avoid the stare,
Of a girl who’s conversation started,
“Hey, I know you from somewhere!”

And despite the mystique she laid out,
To me, she was from then on known,
As a plain, little girl from Brooklyn,
By the name of Laurie Cohen.


I Wish You Were A Chocolate Cake

Every date that much more typical,
Of the boring egotistical,
Men that journey through my life,
For the prized title, that of wife.

To please a mother who keeps insisting,
A biological clock that’s ticking,
But not sure she’d justify what on earth it,
Takes to make these dates nearly worth it.

I’ve lost track so long ago,
Of a one sided conversation easy though,
As my lack of attention goes unheeded,
And, in fact, is barely needed.

As I think longingly of the dessert,
That might give this night some worth,
And allow myself to daydream,
Of perhaps an evil scheme.

Where he’s up in smoke and in his wake,
A giant piece of chocolate cake,
And when finally the waitress inquires,
If there’s anything else that we desire.

I eagerly accept the proffer,
Without even waiting for him to offer,
Or ever think about my rudeness,
As I immerse myself in the chocolatey goodness.

And when I’m done I become mildly aware,
Of the fact my date’s no longer there,
I linger to show a bit of tact,
Before deciding he’s not coming back.

And when I ask of family and friends,
They say they never heard from him again.


Celluloid Heroes

(A Poem For My Husband On His Birthday)

If I were to make a movie of my life,
For lack of anything better to do,
I’d probably cast me as me,
And I’d cast you as you.

And it just might be our luck,
To make it to the silver screen,
Where everyone would walk out except a brave few,
Who would hang out for the nude scenes.

They’d say the character development was thin,
They’d say the plot line was bleak,
They say the ending was unsatisfying,
They’d say the dialogue was weak.

And if a critic were to give it one to five stars,
It probably wouldn’t even rate,
But me and you would watch it every night,
And think that it was great.