To My Husband on His 46th

It’s been years and we’re still together
Outlasted doubters and bad weather
But with these handcuffs I’m still tethered
Though many said I should know better

I say to hell with their opinions
And laugh about their lack of vision
And stand firm ‘hind my decision
Marrying a devil’s minion

Our house may smell of rotting flesh
Hints of decay andĀ mold and death
But babe I still think you’re the best
Well beyond my dying breath

Forever in the bowels of hell
A blissful life in which we dwell
The flames of burning bodies swell
I’ve gotten quite used to the smell

Dismembered heads, our home’s decor
We dine with sinners, ghouls and whores
And I could hardly love you more
Here’s to 6 hundred twenty more

Every year I pass the torch to my husband at midnight on Sept. 14. It’s his birthday now. Happy Birthday darling. I love you!


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 helpĀ 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.


Adventures In Assembly

Put number 9 in right slot A
Slide left and turn around
But now the thing is backwards, loose
And somehow upside down

My husband’s cursed the parts, China
The less than fit construction
But still insists he doesn’t need
To look at the instructions

Now veins pop from his forehead an
alarming shade of blue
Since I don’t seem to know what thingee
He’s referring to

And righty tighty lefty loosey
For those who are deft
But somehow in there left was right
And then right became left

And then there is a crank, a turn and
One dubious crack
And there my husband stands somehow
With both fingers in tact

He gloats he grins he boasts to me
“I’d say it’s looking fine!”
Though on the floor lies parts 15
11 and A9

I smile blankly as he shifts
The table into place
And never tell him it was meant
To have been a bookcase.



Fifteen pairs of underwear
Left on the bedroom floor
Fourteen items I forgot
To pick up from the store

Thirteen times reminding you
About tomorrow’s plans
Twelve frenzied calls from freeways cause
I don’t know where I am

Eleven times of coming home
From a day from hell
Ten TV dinners eaten that
Did not heat up too well

Nine times I asked “the garbage out?”
You claimed you didn’t hear
Eight peanut butter Oreos
That somehow disappeared

Seven days complaining that
I’ve got nothing to wear
Six drains that need plumbing since
They’re clogged up with my hair

Five neighbors pissed because we are
Rehearsing on their heads
Don’t forget the four in-laws
I think that’s enough said

About three dumpsters worth of junk
That have since accrued
The two monkeys that lie around
And eat up all our food

And then one other sleepless night
Spent listening to you snore
But I love you darling
So here’s to 15 more

For my husband on our Anniversary!

Inspired with the help of Dina over at Wine and Cheese Doodles and her post 15 to Life.


Seven Urns

The Widow Foust lived in a house
On her sill 7 urns
Each for a spouse now dead and gone
And posthumously burned

But time went on the widow set
Her sights on new romance
And really she just needed some
More space to put her plants

For the urns she thought she could
Just dump them in a box
Or put them in that drawer where she
Kept all her unmatched socks

But with the ashes thought she might
Be more commemorative
What to do she’d not a clue
She had to get creative

Remodeling supplies were short
She needed help posthaste
So there went Dan the handyman
Into wallpaper paste

And Arnie loved Fido so much
She thought he wouldn’t quibble
To be the little bits she served
There mixed in with his kibble

And Joe he was a plumber yes
He had the magic touch
She knew just what to do that night
The toilet wouldn’t flush

So down into the pipes he went
And with a giant splat
So there you go, her toilet flushed
Much better after that

And drummer Josh, he had the beat
To hold it all together
Now he’s camped inside an amp
(It seems to sound much better).

And Audrey loved the laundry so
I’m sure she would be pleased
She’s mixed with the detergent and
Then small bits in the bleach

Jen was a cosmetologist
The widow bid adieu
Now she’s in an eyeshadow
A favorite shade of blue

And Jason was a garbageman
So fitting that his ash
Was easily disposed of with
The Tuesday evening trash

And so with each spouse aptly placed
Each one she held so dear
A weight is lifted from her mind
Her conscience almost clear

For if they saw their final digs
Sure they’d rejoice quite gladly
And forgive her for just why
It had to end so badly


After the Cow Jumped Over The Moon

Hey diddle diddle the cat and the fiddle
The dish ran away with the spoon
For a shotgun wedding that was most upsetting
And destined to leave them in ruin

The Spoon’s family said, “how could they be wed?
You see he is only a minor.”
The Dishes were coping but secretly hoping
She’d leave him soon for some fine china

I guess I’m going to kind of cheat by adding this as my first submission to the photo challenge I’ve been nominated for by Erika Kind. I actually came up with the text first but…shhh…don’t tell anyone.


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.


Ides and The Beanstalk

A mountain farmer was poor Ides
To the market he went
To sell a magic cow he had
So he could pay the rent

Ides met a Rastafarian
Who said, “Mon what you need
Is just to go sell me your cow
For these here magic seeds.”

And so Ides came home with the seeds
Which his wife promptly threw
Into the soil mutt’ring “Why’d
I ever marry you?”

But the next day the two awoke
And up into the sky
Grew there a skunky leafy plant
Twas really really high

And every day Ides would climb up
With a cold can of suds
And bring down to his wife each night
Some potent stinky buds

One day as Ides was hanging there
He met a giant fellow
Who said he smelled an Englishman
Which harshed Ides’ righteous mellow

He feed and fied and foed and fummed
And took a mighty sniff
Which knocked poor Ides right off his feet
Right as he toked a spliff

And though I saw the sad sight not
I hear the story goes
The giant just inhaled poor Ides
He went straight up his nose.

His widow she did dedicate
Unto his memory
Her own quite groovy Ides Bergen
Weed Dispensary

And she got filthy stinkin rich
But she never forgot
Her dear departed husband see
She missed him quite a lot

But one day when the spring it sprung
A pollenated breeze
Brought her dear Ides right back to her
After a real loud sneeze








This is my second submission in the Five Day Photo Challenge, though maybe not the most timely submission. The photo above inspired the post but I feel as if I would be remiss if I didn’t also include these fine photos that proceeded that one. No, you’re welcome.





Some couple’s meet on stormy streets
In shared cabs business meeting
A common friend, or enemy
A smold’ring look once fleeting

I met my lover years ago
The details are so gory
And tried and true I say to you
Of the whole ugly story

As I sat over by the bar
I stared into my wine
About to take my sad self home
It’s just about that time

But as I scanned the crowd that night
My gaze would become prone
To a table set for two
A girl sat all alone

Her eyes they darted nervously
From her watch to the mirror
As I studied her movements and
Her story became clearer

It saw she was anticipating
What would be her fate
There was no mistaking it
She would meet her blind date

A tap came on my shoulder and
He was just my type
So tall and dark and handsome too
And I thought ‘Mama likes’.

And he was just so innocent
He asked if I was Beth
It didn’t take me long to think
My eager answer ‘Yes!”

The most magical night we had
And now it does appear
That that magic has lasted on
For the past three years

Though sometimes I am wracked with guilt
And sleep fitfully
I tell myself it’s karma’s way
And surely meant to be

Just yesterday he bought a ring
Asked for my hand in marriage
I wear it in good faith and hope
That he will not disparage

In his opinion of me for
I’ve no choice to confess
That I am just a desperate girl
And my name is not Beth.


Bubbe Madge

I’ve decided I should get
More in touch with my roots
To visit with my ancestors
In wild days of youth

And capture some of that good old
Inherited black magic
Digging through the boxes that are
Lying in my attic

Perhaps it was delirium
Maybe the mothball smell
But soon standing before me there
My Bubbe Madge herself

No waxing sentimental, no
From that she did refrain
And did what Jewish grandmas do
She started to complain

She asked if I was married yet
She asked me what he did
She asked me whether I had wed
A goyem or a yid

She asked me why it was I wore
Those short skirts like a shiksa
She asked me was I planning to
Get my son Bar Mitzvahed

She talked about her daughters and
She told me that truth
Was that she never really liked
Our poor old Aunt Ruth

She talked about her death and how
They thought it was a schtick
How her tombstone should really say
“I told you I was sick!”

And as she complained on and on
My vision became waves
And right before my very eyes
My Bubbe seemed to fade

And with relief I thought about
What I had heard and seen
And thankfully soon realized that
It had been a bad dream

Until I smelled a distinct smell
I sniffed until I found
A great big pan of kugel there
Upon my looking down

I saw the note she left and knew
My dream was much too real
It read, “Darling you look like you
Could use a decent meal.”