Category: Humour

Fatal Fury

Really wasn’t your fault
this fury that overcame –
Words evoked onslaught,
a raging river of pain.

Didn’t mean to push you,
miscalculated my aim,
swimming in swamp waters
not a recommended game.

You floundered, gurgled,
cursed me by name –
our love story, now viral
brought an alligator fame.

(Image my own. Tale is totally fictional, I promise.)

Back Seat Only

I can’t remember a time
when elegance chose me
to sit in the front seat
ride along in style

She’d be clad in white
and I’m ever too messy
can’t control myself
might tarnish the upholstery

She’d want to go shopping
rings and jewels flashing
like Pretty Woman
after the haul

I’m second-hand
typically slink in and out
grabbing what I need and going
lest anyone see me – a disgrace

No, elegance does not choose me
moose built, ratty hair
likely forgot to wash my face
Class passes me by

But I’ll tell you this –
what I lack for on the outside
this heart is solid and sturdy
and I will not pass you by.

(Image my own)

Age and Obstacles

Sloth-like she shuffles
each stride an argument
against unwilling muscles,
ignores spasms, lips pursed
in concentration, advances

Cockeyed he totters,
step…hop…step, poker-hot
stabs punctuating his effort
moves swiftly as if to out run
pain, face set in determination

They are out of sync, oddball
awkward sightseers, obstacles
for the fast-moving able-bodies
that whir past unable to fathom
motivation in crooked spines.

The race here is against time,
propelled by insatiable thirst,
they forage for snippets worthy
of hoarding, squirrels readying
for winter’s harsh call, days

when minds still alert will hunger
despite bodies inert, they will
dine on memory, boast about
the daring, reminisce fondly
over adventures hard won.

(A portrait of aging, first published in 2017. Image my own)

Domestic Madness

The pot simmering on the stove
really should be boiling, but
baby needs changing, and
He-who-is-charged-
with-watching-the-children
is asleep in his chair…

Where to lay the infant –
her soiled and sodden diaper
threatening its own release –
when her siblings
have dragged all the bedding –
fort-intended, now abandoned
under foot?

Turkey is in the oven
legs trussed, flesh
buttered and salted…
Baby’s skin is red
her squirming legs
noncompliant

Dog offers his presence
curious nose intervening…
I leave the wriggling bundle
to dispose of offending nappy –
images of dog mouthing contents
beyond current capacity

Children’s giggles signal
misadventure, as bath water
spills into the room,
husband stirring,
“Smells good!” says he
pushing buttons
on the TV remote

Ankle deep in water
contents of pot now burning,
awareness dawns –
the forgotten baby
is now missing…
madness achieved.

(Another dream inspired nonsensical poem. Image my own)



Red Shoes

Mama says wear red shoes
Gives a woman power

But I wobble and stumble
six inches makes me tower

So I trade in my stilettos
for a crimson pair of docs
and much to Ma’s dismay
some days I don crocs

It’s not the shoes that determine might
I tell her, but the soul in the fight.

(Photo: Mom and red accessories – shoes no doubt match. She is posing with her baby brother.)