The Kids Will All Write

Ever since I started blogging I’ve been driving my family crazy. I follow my husband around, iPhone in hand, reading him my poetry from the drafts in my email account. Often times this is when he is trying to get ready for work. Or in the shower. Or on the toilet. For some reason, unfathomable to me, he seems a bit annoyed by this.

My 11 year old son, on the other hand, is a much better sounding board. He listens attentively, and finds my poems just as hilarious as I do. Not only that, but he is genuinely concerned about the response my blogs get. And, if I follow your blog on a regular basis, chances are he’s read one or two of yours as well (age appropriate, of course).

But lest you think my son is some kind of goody two shoes who heads the Dean’s List and runs for school council, he is not. Although my son has above average intelligence, his grades often teeter on the wrong side of a B average, all due to a lack of passion and work ethic.

When I suggested my son do a guest blog for me, I thought it would be met with all the enthusiasm of reading a ‘Fun with Mathematics’ text book over the weekend. But I was wrong. Instead my son bombarded me with questions; what should he write? when should he write it? when would I publish it?

I am not much of one for participating in or suggesting challenges, or that a blog with my meager following will be able to sustain this, but if you have or know a kid who writes, and want to publish it, let me know about it, in comments or a link to any blog, and I will reblog it. Artwork is welcome too. This is about getting our kids writing and welcoming a new generation of bloggers.

I am publishing my sons guest blog, ‘Stupidity Is Infectious’, in conjunction with this one. I ask you all, shamelessly, to please come out and support it. You won’t be disappointed. Thanks.

IMG_2556

In the meantime, please enjoy my daughter’s artwork (A.B. age 7)

Advertisements

I Suffer In Silence

My daughter’s birthday hand in hand,
With memories of Legoland,
A broken shoe, a bag forgotten,
Could not make my memories rotten.
A hotel room where it would be sheer luck,
To escape lice and bed bugs,
And my patience wearing thin,
With all the lines that we stood in.
But all this would barely matter,
My daughter’s happiness I would rather,
Nor did it dampen the spirits of our foursome,
Lest we think it any less than awesome.
But my soul with Satan I’ll secretly haggle,
To see this place drowned in Kragle.

10258294_10203798891355782_4731984767980547594_o

That’s My Girl!

Oh, my sweet dear darling child,

Never could my imagination be so wild,

As to think heaven could bless me,

With a child quite so lovely as thee.

What wonderful thing did I do or say,

To have you as a gift for Mother’s Day,

And as I look at her and all her charms,

I long to hold her in my arms.

Her face so sweet, so little and cute,

But all she says is “I have to toot,”

And then produces an odor so foul,

All I can say is “That’s my gal!”

1545629_687782974614570_3803640461940805328_n

Happy 7th To My Sweet Anjeli-cat!

Potty Mouth

When my children were born,
I tried to be caring,
And I swore I would.
Swear off swearing.

But my anecdotes,
Just wouldn’t work,
When I could call my boss,
No more than a jerk.

And the F word,
Couldn’t be duplicated,
In all it’s glory by using,
‘Fornicated’.

The stuff on the floor,
Became just that – stuff,
And the expression shoot,
Not quite strong enough.

It was difficult to give people,
Insulting one liners,
Capped off by calling them penises,
And vaginas.

So I’ll go with ‘fuck off’,
Rather than ‘beat it’,
And hope that my children,
Never repeat it.

imgres-1

 

Napowrimo Entry #7

The Non Conformist Conformist

Jenny had a tattoo and I thought it was cool,
So I went out and I got one too.
Johnny got a lip ring I thought it looked great,
So I got a lip ring just like my mate.
Stacy went and dyed her hair green.
I dyed my hair purple so now we’re a team.

We all get together and wear black and brood,
And talk about how we’re all misunderstood,
And if you don’t like our music well that’s just tough,
Cause there’s no one quite as bad ass as us.

But I look around to see something quite awful,
That group over there, they have tattoos also!
And pierced lips, looking hip and I fume all the while,
At all of these amateurs trying to cop our style!
I swear to myself, “These punks will learn their lesson!”
And fall into my favorite state, a deep, dark depression.

I come home and my mother is there
She says, “I did something, you’ll never guess what dear!”
I say, “Okay, mom, what did you do?”
She lifts her sleeve to reveal a brand new tattoo.

imgres-1

image credit: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Free_3D_Business_Men_Marching_Concept.jpg

Why Hannah Can’t Spel

Some children might be good at math,
And think it not so telling,
When they make a mistake,
Like a minor misspelling.

But I thought it rather sad,
And by no means funny,
When on my neighbor’s door hung her daughter’s sign,
Saying, “Welcome Ester Bunny.”

Spelling’s not always an easy task,
So by no means should we berate her,
I think the problem begins,
When we congratulate her.

If you celebrate her mistakes,
Your efforts will be foiled,
When you find yourself a victim of,
A child that is spoiled.

And if you are too careful ‘bout,
What will or won’t upset her,
Soon a grown woman will be,
Wishing all a Happy Ester.

IMG_2254

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_writing_challenge/poetry/