A Late Lunch

I was bringing Ms. James her Meals on Wheels
She didn’t come to the door
I went on in and there she was
Lying dead right on the floor
I called the proper authorities
They showed up minutes later
To find me eatin’ her fried chicken
And her mashed potaters

The Great Ice Cream Caper: A Horror Story

The eggs fry on the sidewalks Mother
Nature has a fever
Dismayed am I at the abyss
That is my empty freezer

On days like this when forecasts for
The week just say ‘real hot!’
It seems a bit of ice cream would
Be best to hit the spot

So off in my jalopy I
Head to the grocery store
To thus procure a pint or two
Or maybe three or four

Transaction done back in the car
Scarce time for my seat belt
Priority to get these darn things
Home before they melt

With burning rubber hit the gas
And out the lot I swerve
But there comes old Ms. Flannery
Can you believe the nerve?

Totally oblivious
To my sweet dairy needs
She crosses right before my car
At a turtle like speed

I honk the horn she startles and
Then scurries out the way
I’m glad she didn’t fall I might
Have been there the whole day

And now on to the avenue
I near taste sweet cold bliss
But push the brakes into a halt
Oh what fresh hell is this?

I honk the horn and target a
New source for my aggression
For now I see I’m in back of
A funeral procession

Maneuvering I nearly nudge
A long sleek darkened limo
And squeeze myself right in between
The hearse and grieving widow

I tell her that condolences
Are very deeply felt
Now could she get out of the way
My ice cream’s gonna melt

But still slowly they crawled along
Despite my aggravation
I tell you that these people just
Have no consideration

And finally I’m almost there
The sweat seeps on my brow
I’m so close I tell you I can nearly
Taste the ice cream now

But suddenly my hopes and dreams
Just slowly start to droop
For now it seems a little waif
Sits crying on my stoop

She sniffs out a narration clogged
With snot proceeds to tell
Some story of skinned knees or is
Timmy caught in a well

I tell her “Child I have no time
To help you with your plight
There’s ice cream in the car might melt
Before I get a bite!”

She looks at me in disbelief
And then scurries away
So so much so for the compassion
Of these kids today

But ‘nough lamenting the misfortune
Of the little punk
For I’ve got more important things
Awaiting in my trunk

But as I open it I stare
In utter disbelief
And in just minutes go through all
The five stages of grief

Because inside my car there is
No ice cream that I see
In all my haste guess I forgot
To take it home with me


The Fennelly’s Diner

Some couples take vacations. Some have children. My parents opened up a restaurant. Well, I don’t know if that was what they thought would be THEEE THING to save their failing marriage but, in any case, here were these two people who seemingly hated each other, working together every day and going home every night, and now they had something else to fight about.

And fight they did…much to the delight of the many patrons who would line up around the block for our meh manicotti and processed penne. But it wasn’t the food they were coming for, it was the entertainment. And they got their money’s worth. Every night.

I can’t tell you how many times I’d come out of the kitchen, my parents’ hurled obscenities echoing through the dining room. I’d see the dirty looks diners gave each other if clanging silverware disturbed the hush, lest they miss a muffled word and go home without getting the juicy details of the altercation du jour. Other patrons tried to look nonchalant as they crept away from the wall, discreetly putting down the water glass they were holding up to their ear. Then, my parents would emerge, as if on cue, my mother’s tear stained face, my father with mashed potatoes in his hair.

Of course there was no respite to be had at school. Few made any effort to conceal the ever present vicious gossip. My parents’ diner was soon dubbed THEE place to go if you were going to break up with someone. It was said that seeing what a relationship could become made the dumpee feel relieved. One of our dishes was even lovingly nicknamed the It’s Not You It’s Me-atloaf.

Other kids said that my parents’ fighting made their moms and dads feel better about their own imperfect relationships. Chicken blessed. Still others said that the fighting sparked lively debates in their homes about who was right and who was wrong. Devil’s Food Advo-cake.

Well, finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I went home and I told my mother and father how much their fighting was bothering me; how it was ruining my life; how I just couldn’t take it any more. The next day they went out and found a marriage counselor.

Mrs. Stuart taught my parents how to get along better. She taught them yoga poses that would help open up the channels of communication between them. She taught them how to express their feelings in a loving, tactful manner.

My parent’s marriage improved over the next few months but it wasn’t strong enough to survive the closing of the restaurant. Six weeks after the doors locked for the last time, the divorce was finalized. I don’t think they ever completely forgave me either.


A Fly On The Wall

Ms. Chesterfield lifted a feathery hand
As on her death bed she did lie
She said “children I have just one final wish
And that’s to come back as a fly”

Her kids looked around with their brows furrowed deep
With queries abuzz in their heads
But nary a question could any to ask
Because by that time she was dead

Her mister he mourned for a day and a half
Though some called him cad and some heathen
He dared them all down to see what was around
Now that he had found his new freedom

And boldly he ventured with every young thing
And drove around town quite undaunted
A mistress once hid in a Motel 6 bed
He now would have quite proudly flaunted

And so to the best restaurant he did take
His passion of greatest amor
A sweet 26 to his arm he’d affix
And let’s call her his babe du jour

But just as a waiter was pouring their drinks
And put out their basket of bread
The two were harassed by a winged insect pest
Who persistently buzzed by their heads

And landed on lips, flitted to fingertips
And even left plenty of poop
But imagine the luck of that dear fly had struck
When the waiter did bring out the soup

Because oh that fly gave it the college try
To extract her revenge on a cheater
To the cruel world goodbye as she hastened to dive
And the second death was that much sweeter


A Bagel for Her Birthday

Twas Anjelica’s 6th birthday as
She woke up from her sleep
Rushed to the breakfast nook so sure
That she would find a treat

A cupcake or a brownie waiting
At the breakfast table
An early morning treat but sadly
‘Stead she found a bagel

Her mother tried to make it cool
A breakfast like no other
And smothered with Nutella even
Added peanut butter

And stuck a candle in the top
As a sweet after thought
But as she saw her daughter’s glare
She knew it was for nought

The mother never lived it down
For still the girl’d persist
“Oh come on mom, a bagel served
For my birthday breakfast?”

Each year that followed the mom went
To sort through cakes and pies
Muffins pastries all the best
That her money could buy

Hoping that that gaping wound
This would somehow salvage
And save her daughter irreparable
Psychological damage

A downward spiral she’d reverse
Here on these shopping trips
Lest the girl bear unfulfilling jobs
And bad relationships

Her daughter’d scarf the treats with glee
As quick as she was able
But nothing stopped her lament of
The birthday breakfast bagel

Then many birthdays came and went
And soon the girl was grown
Considerably well adjusted with
A family of her own

Eve of her daughter’s birthday twas
About to go to sleep
It dawned on her that she’d forgot
To buy a breakfast treat

She scoured pantries cabinets and
Still came up with nothing
When in the freezer she did spy
One single English muffin….

For Anjelica on her 9th birthday! Happy Birthday my little Jeli Bean!


Deviant Delicacies

Sour, sweet Chinese store well
In my refrigerator
Too bad I always seem to be
Hungry an hour later

Italian’s tasty, rich and dense
And sinful as I dare
Skin parmesan I’d say we’re on
Unless I find a hair

Mediterranean is a feast
That rarely goes to waste
Ahad may bob in my kabob
And leave a garlic taste

For Mexican I have a yen
And for it give a holla
No way Jose maybe saute
Him in my enchilada

A kosher dish, a flesh knish
Let’s do it to the hilt
Oh Rabbi Stein you were divine
Well worth the Jewish guilt

And spices work, a jerk with jerk
That comes straight from Jamaica
And Japanese I say ‘yes please’
To sushi and a geisha

The meat is lean, bones boil clean
I get what I can take
A cannibal can’t have it all
So why discriminate


The Deal Of A Lifetime

Hello I’m Trisha Trashmeister
You’re gonna say ‘no way!’
When I show you the product that
I have for you today

It’s an electric tea pot that
You put upon the shelf
It actually can brew the tea
Up all by itself

It finds the little tea bags with
These cute electric arms
And brews it up quite perfectly
It works just like a charm

And if you set the timer you’ll
Have tea at breakfast time
Call now and it’s a steal for only

I guarantee you will find nothing
Like it at the store
So call in the next hour and
What’s that? There’s something more!

For just today a super deal
Be pleasantly surprised
Because for just ten dollars more
This row of chopping knives

I say they are the most amazing
Of your silverware
They purée carrots, lima beans
They’ll even cut your hair

This is for you if you do find
That chopping food’s a chore
You really have to get these knives
But what’s that? Wait! There’s more!

Do you struggle with acne, wrinkles
Bags and sags and spots?
Hate surgery and Restilin
Afraid of Botox shots?

Well look no further cause your skin
Is gonna be just fine
With this amazing product yours
For just 9.99

So for just 40 bucks you’ll get
The teapot and the cream
With the row of chopping knives
No, this is not a dream!

Cause while supplies last you can have
A brand new almanac
My arms and legs and I’ll throw in
The shirt right off my back

And antique silver doodads so
That you can hold your corn
A quilt that my grandmother made
And even my first born

But better call while supplies last
Cause you can never tell
When they’ll come round to put me back
Into my padded cell.


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









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?









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.


The Bad Cooks Club

“Welcome to the Bad Cooks Club
And first I’d like to say
How brave it is that all of you
Have chose to come today

Marissa it seems that you are
The first up in book
“Hello I am Marissa and
I am a real bad cook

It’s really not my fault you see
I’m just that way inclined
Genetic trait inherited
From that mother of mine

I had no one to teach me and
It seemed I never learned
That’s why even my heat and go
Apple pie was burned”

Next up Shirley, nods her head
She feels the same way too
And notes how even microwaves
Won’t cook all the way through

“You pray that friends and family
Will not find you too rude
You hope they leave by mealtimes lest
You have to offer food”

And then the moderator offers
“Next up is Diane”
She wrings her hands her eyes well up
“They just don’t understand

They give me simple recipes
They say they’ll cook with ease
Do they not understand I even
Ruin mac n’ cheese?

By friends and husband, family
I have been scorned and jilted
I tried to toss a salad and
The lettuce even wilted”

And then the moderator says
“Okay that is enough
I know this is a stigma but
We really must be tough

I know there’s not much we can do
To aid our situation
But I’m asking you to join
Our daily affirmation”

And so we all just bow our heads
Chant as our hands do link
“I am not a bad person even
though my cooking stinks.”

Our mantra goes on quite some time
And then reaches it’s end
Feeling hopeful, feeling we’re
Miraculously cleansed

And after all that bonding we get
Right back on our feet
Poised by the door we are to make
A most hasty retreat

For though bad cooks we all may be
Means not that we deserve
The punishment of sticking round
For coffee and hors d’oeuvres.

With a shout out to Rara for the inspiration and for being part of the club.