Friday, Bloody Friday

My alarm rings at dawn,
I’m already awake,
Turkey grease and bread crumbs,
The remnants on my plate.

Carefully protected,
As I am getting dressed,
A helmet and knee pads,
And a bullet proof vest.

I peer from the corner,
Carefully taking stock,
Of the shoppers lining up,
Stretching around the block.

Doors ready to open,
I lunge about to barge,
Into the shop I’m ready,
To pummel, rape and charge.

And before you know it,
I’m ahead of the pack,
Winter coats hang off my arms,
A TV on my back.

Tiny kids jump from my path,
Little old ladies fly,
I seize modern devices,
I can’t identify.

A kitchen set on my head,
Shoes tied around my waist,
Bloody shoppers grab my legs,
As I get ready to pay.

I reach into my wallet,
Extract my credit card,
When appears before me,
A large security guard.

I didn’t get my TV,
Or that fancy brassiere,
The lawyer says I’m lucky,
If I get seven years.

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Fashion Victim

He asked me to the movies,
I anxiously agreed,
And now I sit upon his couch,
Wond’ring where this will lead.

Although he’s quite seductive,
He’s yet to make a move,
He asks me to excuse him while,
He runs to the restroom.

No assumptions made as to,
The chance of getting lucky,
Perhaps I should just change into,
Something a bit more comfy.

For there is no mistaking,
That he was quite flirtatious,
I wouldn’t want to kill the mood,
To deal with my shoe laces.

So I look down at my boots,
And to avoid the awkward,
I think it’s best to take them off,
It’s really not too forward.

He comes back from the bathroom,
He very nearly scoffs,
He asks of me so mockingly,
Just why my boots are off.

I begin to take my leave,
Without missing a beat,
But first, of course, these stupid boots,
Must go back on my feet.

Though I planned so carefully,
I never really fathomed,
The situation so much more,
Awkward than I imagined.

Count Your Blessings

As the gathering commences,
I prepare myself to brace,
Myself for backwards compliments,
Smile plastered on my face.

As we sit down to the table,
Tension to cut with a knife,
While discreetly rolling our eyes,
At Uncle Ned’s new teen wife.

I can see my bored young cousins,
Don’t look like they’re having fun,
And ignore my mothers gestures,
At the work Aunt Jane had done.

Apple pie like a lead balloon,
The wine is less than stellar,
The turkey’s looking undercooked,
Can you say ‘salmonella’?

My brother’s bragging that he’s rich,
But we all know he’s lying,
Then someone mutters “Oh shut up!”
And the parsnips go flying.

Next turkey legs are being thrown,
Mashed potatoes hit the floor,
The homeless guy we invited,
Makes a mad dash for the door.

I scurry under furniture,
I see from my advantage,
Apple pie lobbed off the terrace,
Which does serious damage.

But somehow we are brought to peace,
Could be grandpa’s insistence,
Or maybe we’re just out of food,
Or hear sirens in the distance.

And all apologies are made,
And my family comes through,
Although Aunt Zelda wanders off,
Vaguely threatening to sue.

So when Thanksgiving rolls around,
I’m sure you will all agree,
You can be thankful that you’re not,
Spending the day with me.

Trikki Gunns

His vinyl jeans so tight that they
Muffin top his belly,
He thinks he’s a weird emo kid,
Folks think he’s old and smelly.

We know his real name is Eugene,
But Eugene’s have no fun,
Combined a cat’s and porn star’s names,
And now he’s Trikki Gunns.

The 80s already happened,
Time to update his look,
Got him some green extensions,
Wrote songs with grungy hooks.

He saw Marilyn Manson,
The white contacts he wears,
First thing next morning he ran out,
And he got himself a pair.

Now he caught up with the cool kids,
He’s looking lean and mean,
Somewhere near 1999,
Though it’s 2015.

No club in town that you could say,
His band didn’t play there,
The crowds are getting thinner,
Much like his graying his hair.

In his mind he’s a heartbreaker,
A rebel, he’s the bomb,
Taking the ladies to the home,
That he shares with his mom.

For though they’re few and far between,
He manages to score,
He says it’s just a place to lay
His head in between tours.

And thinks of that old song he knew,
Wonders if it’s a lie,
Can you be too old to rock n roll,
If you’re too young to die?

Bad Reputation

Did you look at her today?
She thinks she’s all the rage,
It’s really not appropriate,
For someone of her age.

Her manner’s too aggressive,
Her nature unrefined,
She’s too opinionated,
I think she’s out of line.

Her poetry is quite crass,
It’s on the verge of libel,
She serves up frozen dinners,
And does not recycle.

Her wooden floors are not scrubbed,
It really is disgusting,
Her refrigerator’s top,
Needs a thorough dusting.

I’ve never seen them at church,
They probably are pagan,
The latest rumor has it,
They all worship Satan.

And what’s up with her children?
Does she think them rock stars?
They should have history books,
Instead of those guitars.

She should really tweeze those brows,
And straighten out her hair,
What do you think they say behind
Your back when you’re not there?

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_writing_challenge/overheard/

I Really Need A Hobby

I’m in The Who, Black Sabbath and Judas Priest,
And many a rockin’ foursome,
I’m 65% New York, and a wife that’s,
Just 42% awesome.

I’m a hipster mom who’s fit for kindergarten,
And if you think that’s peculiar,
I bet you didn’t know I’m Super Girl although,
My nickname should be Junior.

I’m some kind of peculiar creature from Star Wars,
That I never knew existed,
And apparently I’m on Facebook way too much,
Taking those asinine quizzes.

Deliciously Debatable

History’s delicious debate,
Seems to be that of pie vs. cake,
Why it does seem nearly unfair,
With cake and all it’s stately layers.

It’s intense flavor variety,
Must send pie to minority,
For apple, strawberry and peach,
If I want fruit, that’s what I’ll eat.

Though some differ in conclusion,
Unequal frosting distribution,
Makes it seem almost a crime,
Swaying the arguments towards pie.

In utility pie gets the mark,
Whoever heard of a cake chart?
And it does little to compare,
In equaling to mc squared.

But all of this math’s too much work,
When I’m thinking about dessert,
So I’ll give all of this a break,
And I’ll just cast my vote with cake.

But my opinion might waver,
All depending on the flavor,
It’s chocolate pie all day and night,
If the cake is just plain old white.

A response to Tom Balistreri on his blog Ode To Pie.  Thanks for the inspiration, Tom!

Kids Say The Darnedest Things!

I ask my kids a bunch of things,
Do cats have thoughts? Do fish have wings?
Do spirits live when bodies die?
All they say is, “I like pie.”

I ask my kids for their opinions,
Question their assignments given,
Ask them the who’s and where’s and why’s,
All they say is, “I like pie.”

All this drives me to frustration,
As I see this communication’s,
Just meant to drive me up a wall,
And they don’t like pie at all.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_writing_challenge/pie/

Fictiophilia

First she thought that Prince Charming,
Would come take her away,
She fantasized about him,
Through playgrounds and schooldays.
But his looks were too perfect,
Their love a fallacy,
She sought a man more offbeat,
With personality.

She thought that Holden Caulfield,
Might better suit her mood,
They thought everyone phonies,
They’d sit around and brood.
His sublime cynicism,
She found quite refreshing,
‘Til she sought the need for someone,
Older and less depressing.

Could Rhett Butler save her from,
Her materialistic phase?
She lived a world wind romance,
Out on a written page.
Handsome and rebellious,
But it did not go well,
When he said “I don’t give a damn,”
And she said “Go to hell!”

So time came for someone fun,
They’d hang out and joke, he’d
Treat her like the queen she was,
Good old Don Quixote.
For a while all went well,
Light hearted and farcical,
Til that fatal end brought thoughts,
Deep and philosophical.

So she looked up from her book,
And stared into the mirror,
And saw that an old woman,
Before her did appear.
Spoiled for all men by her,
Literary addiction,
For no one ever told her,
She was just reading fiction.

It’s My Son’s Party And I’ll Hide In My Bedroom If I Want To

I write this from my bedroom,
Safe under lock and key,
Sitting just feet away from,
My son’s birthday party.

And if there’s any doubt as to,
What trouble may await,
Allow me to take this moment,
As I elaborate.

For things are truly sinister,
Beneath all of this joy,
I could get smothered by the scent,
Of prepubescent boy.

Or maybe all is going well,
Until I hear a cry,
Cause it’s all fun and games until,
Someone loses an eye.

Or maybe one precocious boy,
Starts giving me some lip,
And while I am cutting the cake,
The knife suddenly slips.

And maybe his mother’s a bit
Too anal retentive,
As she gets upset over the fact,
I wasn’t more attentive.

Or perhaps it is this woman,
Deserving of abuse,
As she cheaped out on a gift card,
My son couldn’t even use.

Somehow I made it through the night,
And emerged in good graces,
By throwing cupcakes in their mouths,
And pizza in their faces.

But I did not a barter my soul,
No deals with the devil,
And though my son showed gratitude,
I deserved a medal!

Or maybe one of those dumb shirts,
For a night so gnarly,
Printed with the words “I survived…
My son’s 12th birthday party.”