I Know What You Did

Each day the telephone does ring
Right at 9 AM
No greeting is required here
For my long time friend

His heavy breathing lasts a bit
And I can not get rid
Of his haunting voice that cautions
“I know what you did”

And though I question why and who
And tell him he is sick
The phone call ends abruptly with
A sole menacing click

Of course I’ve been to the police
Pleading, begging, asking
For them to end these awful calls
Which I find so harrassing

For I’m just an old widow see
I’m not exactly spry
I bake, I knit, I volunteer
I would not hurt a fly

And I tell you that all this stress
Just ain’t good for my heart
But this man that’s been calling me
Is really very smart

And despite all the doohickeys
Tracing when he rings
All those buggy devices
Just don’t detect a thing

An officer is by right now
To find the missing link
He begins to take his notes
I offer him a drink

He says a cool crisp lemonade
Surely would be nice
I pour him out a big tall cup
And go look for the ice

I find it in the freezer there
Right by the garlic bread
Above the frozen dinners and
Behind my husband’s head

Buggy Bart

Oh, what child could not assert
Their love of playing in the dirt
Or digging sticks into the ground
For creepy crawlies that abound

And through the murky soil slick
They lift them with fingers or stick
Til goosebumped shivers make them weak
They throw them downward with a shriek

But there’s one boy who sits alone
Frantic searching under stones
Deep in tunnels beneath stems
For thorax, legs and abdomens

The beauty which he loves the best
Would outweigh long hair, leg and breast
Although he loved the fairer sex
None reached the heights of the insects

Who’s ultimate perfection found
And never ever let him down
And for those who would dare to try
Would watch him stare at compact eyes

With patience wearing somewhat thin
Behind a glass terrarium
Though our unlikely hero knew
He found a love so pure and true

So heartfelt natural and so easy
He identified each species
But those who cared not bout his heart
Would simply call him Buggy Bart

And laughs were laughed and names were called
As he walked through high school halls
Wedgies and I just assume
What happened in the boy’s bathroom

Curse those who made him feel inferior
For it was the cafeteria
Where Bart chose to volunteer
And those who teased him live in fear

Of what gets blended in their smoothie
Chocolate chips, raisins and sushi
And carefully inspect their food
To make sure that it doesn’t move.

This post is dedicated to Andrew at All Downhill From Here, who needed some cheering up.

The Drummer’s Perspective

The stage is set the lights are low
And through the doors we’re hearing
A deejay that calls out our name
And roar of the crowd cheering

And we’ll run up to play soon as
Our roadies and our tech
Can sep’rate our guitarist’s hands
From round our singer’s neck

The feud started so long ago
So far back I can’t trace
And no one can recall why it
Started in the first place

Some say it due to who would ride
Shotgun on the tour bus
While others claim a preference
For chipped ice over crushed

But wives were slept with, lawyers called
Contracts drawn up again
And tempered flared as bowls were left
With just brown M&Ms

Itch powder poured in leather pants
Fist fight in Indiana
And concealed details that would strand
Our singer in Montana

Concerts that degenerate
To nothing but feedback
Guitarist drowns the vocals out
With his Marshall stack

Then hospital bills pile up
Doctor’s would be behooved
To learn procedures where drumsticks
Are surgically removed

And though music’s a healthy way
To take out one’s aggressions
Don’t think they meant a bass guitar
Should be a deadly weapon

But that is how the story ends
With grief and with confusion
And though I mourn deep down I’m glad
There won’t be a reunion.

Those Eyes

I have a secret fantasy
No one knows bout it but me
It’s really evil, very bad
Involves my teacher Ms. McFad

Clearly there is no one meaner
Caught me passing notes to Gina
“There’s no fooling me she said
I have eyes in back of my head”

So she waged an intervention
Both of us are in detention
Stuck in school life after hell
Our parents grounded us as well

And so that brings me where I am
When the fantasies began
In class all alone I find her
And start sneaking up behind her

Intent to seal my teacher’s fate
With stapler, chalk or paperweight
Silently I hover close
More silent than passing a note

More silent than a yawn or moan
Or those discreetly checking phones
Or rolling eyes or looking glum
Or chewing wads of bubble gum

I raise the weapon of my choice
When so clearly I hear her voice
And to my horror I do find
A sight forever in my mind

That made me run away in dread
For truly in back of her head
Staring so accusingly
Those two eyes looking right at me.

This one is dedicated to my daughter who just started 3rd grade last week.

Kicking Ass and Taking Names (Future Challenge)

The year is twenty fifty five
I wake up in my bed
Nurse Amanda strolls in with
My breakfast and my meds

I know she hopes this won’t unfold
To an unpleasant scene
When I ask her “Hey man do you
Got some more of the green?”

Her furrowed brow does make it clear
She’s very much opposed
To relive last Friday when I
Did snort them up my nose

Then to the lobby I am wheeled
With the regular crowd
With headphones blasting Judas Priest
Camille says,”It’s too loud!”

And from my wheelchair I do rise
My anger uncontrolled
And so with wrath I scream “If It
Is too loud you’re too old!”

But Camille clearly is unphased
And so I merely frown
And roughly reach out as I turn
Her damn hearing aid down

But as I go to turn around
I see the TV when
I protest at the broadcast “No!
Not Golden Girls again!”

I pull it’s plug out from the wall
So everyone’s resigned
To gather for my favorite treat
That’s right, poetry time

Anna starts out with a sonnet
Two lines will suffice
I wheel her to the other room
While mumbling “Very nice!”

So finally it is my turn
To read my new collection
If there’s old stuff thrown in I’m sure
They’ll have no recollection

And so I start my racy rhymes
Till most of them are blushing
And soon wheel out with snide remarks
Like “Oh gosh, so disgusting”

Soon everybody has cleared out
‘Cept Murray’s in a trance
With a blank smile on his face
And one hand down his pants

And so I say to him “Old boy
Seems we’ve done it again
What you think? Should you and I
Watch some Anchorman 10?”

And that is just another day
My reputation known
For kicking ass and taking names
Down at the nursing home

I’d like to thank Erika Kind for nominating me for this challenge in which you are supposed to come up with some sort of concept of your future. I don’t think whoever came up with the challenge quite imagined it would come out like this but, oh well. You can read Erika’s submission here.

Door Girl

The power lies in me alone
As you can only hope
To revel in debauchery
Beyond the velvet ropes

But I will pass on you my dear
Your dress is not my taste
And don’t think you will get past just
‘Cause of your pretty face

A seven foot albino goddess
Fully decked in drag
A man in a potato sack
Girl in a plastic bag

Clever, understated but
I don’t see half the toil
As the man there saran wrapped
And girl who is tin foiled

And you who brought the boa well
I’m clearly bored to tears
You see it’s all been done to death
It’s just so Britney Spears

And there’s this couple over here
Who clearly carved the niche
Leather G strings whips and chains
Him crawling on a leash

And though we are familiar with
Your special kind of love
We’d rather not our clientele
Think we’re that kind of club

And you are not clean shaven
And you should have a beard
And you’re just not different enough
And you’re just way too weird

But you in jeans and T-shirt there
Not getting quite the take
On precisely the statement
That you’re trying to make

In any case it’s hip it’s now
It’s all a bit laconic
Simple, subtle and perhaps
A tiny bit ironic

So I’ll concede to let you in
Well imagine your luck
You’ve passed with flying colors now
Admission’s fifty bucks.

Lost! Sense of Humor: Reward, No Questions Asked

I lost my sense of humor I
Don’t know where she could be
Some say they saw her ride uptown
On the Bronx bound D

She looks a little bit like an
Annoying Jewish mom
She wears a floral house dress with
Some Groucho glasses on

Making jokes about the sweat
That’s coming from her bosom
And serving peanut brittle snakes
Or using whoopee cushions

If that’s stuff’s even funny cause
You see it is unclear
I’ve lost my sense of humor so
I just have no idea

She may be at the Improv where
She’ll probably endeavor
To perform what may just be
The worst comedy ever

The crowd may throw some rotten fruit
And heckle for a while
They’ll drag her off stage with a cane
Old school Gong Show style

But that’s for those who don’t realize
That she is only joking
For many think it just may be
My sense of humor’s broken

And yes, she may be off sometimes
And her joke’s not so hot
I guess that’s my tough luck since she’s
The only one I got

But ever since she’s gone away
I feel depressed and blue
And in this sorry state there is
No telling what I’ll do

I might decide to preach that not
Recycling’s a sin
I might write a deep love song
I might vote Republican

Or dump this stupid blog and write
About all things political
Or try to process humor by
Getting all analytical

And if you bring her back to me
They’ll be no questions asked
And I’ll write verses with the wit
That this one clearly lacks

This was part of some sort of challenge to use a quote as a prompt for a poem. Thank you to Jason Preu at Devious Bloggery for nominating me. My quote is:

“I think we’re losing our sense of humor instead of being able to relax and laugh at ourselves. I don’t care whether it’s ethnicity, age, sexual orientation, or whose ox is being gored.”

-Betty White

Cutting My Split Ends (Welcome Home Sanitarium)

Goodbye my loves, goodbye my friends
I’ll be here cutting my split ends
Sitting hiding from the world
Cutting nasties from my curls

Cause it all just seems cathartic
Bit erotic and hypnotic
As they lie there in a heap
Which the girl will never sweep

And though I like to see them fall
Don’t think I’ll ever get them all

Yard Sale Bully

On early weekend mornings she comes searching around town
But perhaps you knew that when you laid your blanket down
On high alert she smells and seeks and swoops down without fail
On her unwitting prey those choosing to have a yard sale

She may intimidate you as she eyes your table mats
And tells you grandma’s antique tea set really ain’t all that
Calls it an imitation says the quality’s just schlock
And that she bought a nicer one for 3 bucks down the block

Or she might work your sympathy as she moves for the kill
And offer you a crumpled up and taped one dollar bill
Would you be so kind to take it for that old crock pot?
Unfortunately it seems that dollar bill is all she’s got

And then she asks for you to throw in more random detritus
A mirror, an unopened tube of cream to sooth arthritis
And a box of crackers that it seems you never ate
Some pool toys that you never even bothered to inflate

And before you know it she goes limping down the lawn
With your finest jewelry, comic books and your first born
In fact it seems this woman fought and bargained pretty hard
When she asked if yard sale meant you were selling your yard

You don’t know whether you should be more outraged or inspired
As it comes to dawn on you exactly what transpired
She takes her new acquired goods, yours from days of yon
And spreads them out on what now does appear to be her lawn
Horrified you see she takes the contents of your closet
And quickly sells them off at considerable profit

I’ve been wanting to write a poem about a yard sale for quite some time but don’t think this would have seen the light of day without inspiration from the lovely Stephanie at Once Upon Your Prime. Thanks to a woman who knows what having a yard sale is really all about.

Mommy and Daddy Worship Satan

I hoped they wouldn’t notice but
My friends suspicions roused
They ask me why I never let them
Come play at my house
It looks as if I may have to
Invite them to my home
And pray dad doesn’t greet then when
He’s wearing his black robe

The coast is clear they wonder what
The worry on my face meant
When suddenly a chanting starts
To rise up from the basement
Why can’t I be a normal kid
It’s so much less complex
To say I think it’s just my mom
And father having sex

And before I know it they
Are running to explore
And follow the odd noises that
Are coming from the floor
And soon they find my parents
In their favorite recreation
Conjuring up spirits in
An evil incantation

And daddy says “oh visitors
Well isn’t that just nice?”
I hope he doesn’t think them virgins
To be sacrificed
But mom ignores my gestures and
She sports an evil grin her
Mouth waters as she says “We’re happy
To have you for dinner!”

I fear they will accept her offer
And agree to stay
Do they not know she means to have them
As the main entree?
I’m just about to tell them run
But briefly I think twice
A break from eye of newt and toe
Of frog would sure be nice

But I take hold my senses as
This can go on no more
And soon my frightened friends take off
They’re running for the door
My mother says “I guess I just
Don’t get your generation”
And that’s what life is like when mom
And daddy worship Satan.

After I wrote this poem, I read it to my husband thinking he might be amused by it. Instead, he was offended that I portrayed Satanists in a stereotypical light. So, I guess the time has come when the world has gotten so PC that it is even possible to offend Satanists…and somehow I’ve managed to do so. I have to say, I’m kind of proud. On the other hand, if you are a particularly PC Satanist who has just gotten through reading this poem, I hope you have a sense of humor.