No Man’s Land

 

This one, inspired by my son’s birthday today.

Creepy spiders, badger’s nest, perhaps dinner for two
A wizard and a warlock and of course a witch’s brew
An amulet, a cigarette, those keys you never found
Spare coins, the remote control, the pet you thought had drowned
The wallet years gone missing though you never knew to where
Amazing the things you will find while combing Jesse’s hair.

Happy Birthday Jesse!

P.S. Thank you to everyone who voted for my son’s band in the Metal Devastation Band of the Month poll. They actually won! They got a blog spot featured here and will be in heavy rotation on the station all month as well as being featured on their Facebook page. I’m sure my son would be overjoyed if, as a birthday gift, you would give his band a like on Facebook or follow them on Instagram.

https://www.facebook.com/diabologyband/

https://www.instagram.com/diabologyband/?hl=en


The Curse of the Black Thumb

The weather warms as my sweet children
Volunteer to take
The thriving healthy classroom plant
Home with them on spring break

But what my kids were thinking well
That I can’t rightly tell
But history dictates that this
Can really not end well

I think of lima beans to sprout
At merely 3 days old
When ours just turned an eerie black
And yielded deadly mold

Petrified petunias and
Non-breathing baby’s breath
The sickening sunflowers that
We swear became possessed

A tulip that apparently
Died of self immolation
A cactus that managed somehow
To pass from dehydration

And so the school plant’s blackened stem
A sign to me for sure
I say “Babies you might not need to
Water this no more”

Another added to the list
Of poor unwitting plants
In my defense they had to know
It never had a chance

And so on their spring break I guess
This clearly puts a damper
They should be glad they didn’t choose
To take home the class hamster

Thanks to Michelle at Lipstick and Laundry and her blog Grow Baby Grow for inspiration.

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Hand Me Downs

Look not on me with envy cause
You just don’t really know
Why my dresser drawers and closet
Hangers overflow

It’s not a sign of privilege or
A status which to tout
But just a Jewish mother who
Can’t seem to throw things out

“Your brother’s neon sweatshirt with
The green and orange hood
Ach, you’re throwing this thing out?
It looks perfectly good!

Your sister’s old designer jeans
You really should be thankful
‘Stead of kvetching just because
They come above the ankle”

But she knows not the comments and
The disapproving stares
The kids all wearing the skinny jeans
While I’m stuck with old flares

“Hey, nice freakin’ hole you’ve got!”
“Come one kid, where’s the flood?”
“Oh god is that a prairie skirt
You’re wearing with those Uggs?”

“Oh my gosh! Wedge sneakers with
A pink paisley design?
Oh wow, I haven’t seen those things
Since, like, 2009!”

And so with no alternative
I must accept my fate
To walk around in hand me downs
And wear these clothes I hate

And suffer the sweet irony
It might all be worthwhile
If only they still fit me when
They come back into style.

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A Thanksgiving Collection for The Misanthrope

Some turkeys taste best when they’re fried
Other’s when they’re roasted
Some say they’re best served cold inside
A sandwich nicely toasted
And I’ve consulted master chefs
And well renowned cookbooks
To find my turkey must taste best
Before the damn thing’s cooked

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Stuff yourself with candied yams
And turkey like a glutton
Cause it ain’t Thanksgiving un-
til someone pops a button

Disaster strikes the Murkleys after they gorge themselves at Thanksgiving dinner.

 

Whatever sugar I may add
The cranberries taste bitter
Year after year the puckered lips
Yet I am not a quitter
Because this year I’ve figured out
A pretty fool proof way
To work around all this stress
And save Thanksgiving Day
But new dilemmas do arise
From which I can’t escape
How I do I get my sauce out of
That weird conical shape?

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I’m staying home for Thanksgiving
I don’t want to mingle
Tell Aunt Sheila I’m unemployed
And yes I am still single
Tell Uncle Sal to slow down on
The whisky and the rye
And duck for me when we find out
That turkey’s really fly
I’m staying home for Thanksgiving
Don’t need nobody else
I’ll overeat quite fine, thank you
When I’m all by myself
I’m staying home for Thanksgiving
Because I’m filled with fear
We’ll recall why we see each other
Only once a year

Another submission for the Photo Challenge which I am so honored to have been nominated for by Erika Kind.

Also, anyone who is interested, can read my Metalhead’s Holiday Gift Guide published by Geeks of Doom.

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To My Son On His Bar Mitzvah

Son today does mark the day
According to God’s plan
That a babe you are no more
You have become a man

So words of wisdom are your gift
And take it from none other
Because who would know better than
Your dear old Jewish mother

Go ahead eat pork and ham
Look at me, I’m plotzing
But never pick your nose in shul
Cause you know God is watching

And celebrate the joys in life
Like schmears and matzoh balls
And getting a good parking spot
On Sundays at the mall

(Cousin Sherry always thought
It was a mitzvah omen
If she got found an open space
Somewhere near the Loehmann’s)

And travel far and travel wide
And travel the world over
(And be sure to drop by at your
Aunt Minnie’s down in Boca)

But one word in all languages
You must know without fail
More so than bathroom, water, money
Son, that word is ‘sale’.

I know you’ll meet some ladies when
You’re traveling the world
But when you fin’lly settle down
With a nice Jewish girl

I’lll have to just accept the fact
I’m not the only one
And who could blame her if she loves
My handsome doctor son

So maybe one day you’ll stop by
Probably when you feel
Like you really need to eat
A home cooked decent meal

And when I’m sure that your won’t starve
You’ll come sit on the couch
Take off the plastic cov’ring, wipe
The schmootz off of your mouth

And then after a bit you’ll say
You should get back to her
But you know you’ll always be
My little bubbeleh.

Happy Birthday Jesse!

Here’s a video of my son performing Slayer’s South of Heaven. Something tells me the doctor thing just ain’t gonna happen.

Memoirs of An Undertaker

Oh yes I do remember when we buried poor aunt Jean
She’d gone from a size 0 up to a size 14
That’s why we told the family we didn’t think it best
To bury her in her most favorite slinky cocktail dress
No amount of alterations really made for a clean line
As she hadn’t worn that dress since 1989
But they did not appreciate my well meant intervening
And so the word ‘viewing’ would take on a whole new meaning.

And remember that time when we picked up grandpa Ned
He died one night so peacefully right in his own bed
But I’m sure the family found our technique rather shoddy
Our laughable ineptness at attempts to move the body
I had him round the arms, Johnny had him round the knees
A coffee table in the way and an ill timed sneeze
Well let’s just put it this way, I never thought I’d say
You’re grandfather’s body is wedged in the stairway

And some stop and wonder how I work with these conditions
The eyes that sink, the mouths that gape, the bodily emissions
Amazed at how it is that daily I don’t blow a gasket
With angry relatives who tussle right into the caskets
Dismembered body pieces, putty, wax and string it’s set
Until they can be propped up much like a marionette
Oh I must admit it isn’t easy to be me
But there’s something to be said about job security

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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.

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A Blessing In Disguise

The author would write feverishly
Behind doors tightly shut
Until a tragic accident
A fatal paper cut

Which nicked a major artery
And silenced thoughts and pen
And such a shame this happened
Between volumes 9 and 10

Which disappointed readers so
For those who did take tally
Would know that 10 would culminate
In the series finale

So his family thought real hard
‘Bout his final request
To have the series brought unto
An end upon his death

But greed did fill their thoughts and jailbait
Wife easily swayed
The minds of kin who never really
Liked him anyway

And so it was the pen bestowed
In hands of Cousin Kevin
Who finished chapter 10 and then
Went on to write 11.

Who thought it best the mom die by
Spontaneous combustion
And had grandma fall victim to
An alien abduction

And made a Frankenstein robot
A silent deadly killer
Which could be fine if this was not
A suspense mystery thriller

And in attempts to lure fans of
Romantic comedy
The two main characters hook up
In chapters two and three

And sales did dwindle drastically
And contracts they were dropped
And bad reviews flowed rampantly
All publications stopped

The author he rolled over in
His grave, looked on in grief
But if he just could breath a sigh
It’d be one of relief

For he did doubt his tired lines
Would fool his truest reader
The truth was he’d had no clue how
To end the damn thing either.

This post is dedicated to Randstein. We can only hope he makes it out of his series alive.

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One Big Butt

His last name was Butt
And he couldn’t deny
There was no remedy
That he wouldn’t try

Although he would tell them
He was no relation
Discredit all claims
Change pronunciation

The end of the day
It was so sad but true
Anybody could see
Mom and dad were Butts too

He’d kill to be any
Like Lipschitz or Weiner
Not so obvious
Though perhaps some obscener

Couldn’t change it around
Or try to be cute
Or say that it’s really
Bott, Bitt, Bett or Bute

Couldn’t trade it at marriage
Couldn’t take it away
So he’d be a Butt
Until his dying day

A burden for life
He was destined to carry
Thank his lucky stars
His first name’s not Harry

My deepest sympathies to anyone with an unfortunate last name.

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