Tag: humour

What Is It About Me?

Intelligent woman,
moderately attractive,
seeks insignificant man –
expectations minimal,
availability unimportant
(avoiding commitment)
accepts hollow vows.

Funny, entertaining –
life of the party –
suitable for social
outings, work place
functions, and other
excursions not requiring
intimate input from mate.

Am willing to set aside
reason, subjugate self
to abuse and rejection
in exchange for moments
(scraps really) of affection,
depraved passion welcome,
no prerequisites necessary.

Must be able to overlook
complete lack of direction,
social uncertainty, unresolved
issues of abandonment  –
scars from childhood abuse
a legacy of poor choices, and
other emotional baggage.

Apply with a subtle gesture –
warm smile, gentle touch –
insinuate state of unhappiness,
suggesting I possess remedy –
be sure to stipulate promises
nonexistent – insist all former
lovers incomparable to me.

Procrastination’s Fallout

Deadline’s coming –
prepare to duck!

Every available surface
strewn with papers,
warning: Stay away!

Body splayed on bed,
bemoaning undeniable
stress: Whoa is me!

Tiptoeing commentary
begets snappy response:
I work best under pressure!

Expletives erupt, slicing
the early morning calm,
wall of tension follows.

Deadline’s here –
run for cover!

Unthinkable happens –
computers disable,
programs run amuck –

Tongues bite back
told you so’s, temper
peaks:  crunch time.

Hold your breath –
sudden silence –
is it progress?

Deadline’s here –
nobody move.

A shuffle, a click,
a sigh signaling
relief – an end?

Damn, I’m good –
lightness of tone
stress deflating…

Deadline’s here –
are we in the clear?

Assess damage,
step over debris,
resurrect living…

Shaking heads,
clucking disapproval
only re-perpetuate.

Deadline’s coming –
prepare for onslaught!

 

 

 

Maybe, Leave Me Out of It?

Please be warned,
if you invite me to share
in an issue about which
you are overworked,
I will involve myself.

While you are
attempting to ascend,
I will be vetting out
the underminer –
aiming at sizeable
transformation.

I will dress myself
in false shades of
compassion, pretend
grace, while all the
while prodding –
trigger-happy.

No doubt, my
pursuit will result
in mortal injury –
chasing redundancies
is an obsession
of mine.

While you’re looking
for closure, I will
be killing the
proverbial
‘fat lady”
so there will
be no end.

Please be warned,
if you engage my
participation,
on any level,
you can be
sure of
overkill.

 

Speaking of Clouds

overcast-1

“Look, Grandma!  We match!”
We are both wearing gray.
“You match the clouds, too.”
Grumpa adds = perplexity.

“No, the clouds are not gray;
they are white.” Consternation
spreads across 3-yr-old face,
examining the overcast sky.

“I can’t see them!” Panicking.
“I don’t see gray clouds!”
“Do you see white clouds?”
Hoping to restore rationality.

“No; they just look dirty. Why?”
So, not gray, will be the answer.
“They are full of rain.”  “Ohh!
Dark clouds mean a storm.”

“Or snow,” I suggest; am corrected.
“Snow clouds aren’t dark, silly!”
“They’re not?” Serious revelation.
“They are white!” Sound logic.

“Do you know, Grandma, when
the snow comes all the leaves
will fall down from the trees?”
“That’s right,” Grumpa asserts.

“When your cousin was two,
she was worried the trees were
broken and wanted to fix them.”
“Even I know that’s not true.”

“It’s not?” irresistible goading.
“No, the leaves will grow back
when the winter is over.” Precise
wisdom charms this aged mind.

 

Come Back, Mr. Sandman

He’s comes each day at seven,
wearing the cloak of night
humming a lulling lullaby
hypnotically taunting me
with the dance of fatigue.

I resist, of course,
too early for sleep,
brush off his advances
busy myself, pretending
he doesn’t matter to me.

He pulls me onto the bed
lures me with shady promises
Just close your eyes, Love,
rest your weary head awhile;
I won’t keep you long.

I push away, incensed
by the indecency of it –
no one goes to bed so early!
What does he think I am?
Who does he think I am?

He shrugs and tips his hat
letting himself out as
quietly as he came.
See you tomorrow Babe;
you know I’ll be back.

I shake off his residue
slap myself out of his reverie,
ready myself for another night –
of what – monotonous routine?
Did I really have a better plan?

By ten I’ve caught up on the pvr
and restlessness sets in –
should I start a new book,
sketch a thing or two,
or eat to ease the blahs?

I choose, instead, to write
this silly poem, hoping to
soothe this aching regret
for chasing away the Sandman
I’ve bought myself a guarantee
that slumber will not be mine.

 

What’s In a Name

If my life was a book and each of my addresses was a chapter it would read like this:

Chapter 1: Dawn : Early Years

Chapter 2: King’s Way: Learning Who’s In Charge

Chapter 3: Towering Heights : Oppression

Chapter 4: Wake 1: Something Has to Give

Chapter 5: Black Acres: The Angst of Adolescence

Chapter 6: Break shire: The Only Choice is to Leave

Chapter 7: Wonderland: Free at Last

Chapter 8: Will I Am: Establishing Myself as an Adult

Chapter 9: Topping: The End of A Marriage

Chapter 10: Wonderland: Returning to Freedom

Chapter 11: Kill Worth: The Beginning of a New Era of Abuse

Chapter 12: Beached Wood: Learning to Drift

Chapter 13: Hardsley: Life with Children and a Disappearing Husband

Chapter 14: High View: An Attempt at Having It All

Chapter 15: Deck Her: Abuse Isn’t Always Physical

Chapter 16: Bricks Ham: Living a Bare Bone Existence

Chapter 17: Base Line: Starting All Over Again

Chapter 18: Griffiths: Chasing the Fantasy

Chapter 19: Base Line: Starting All Over Again, Again

Chapter 20: Crest Lea: At Last, Refuge

Chapter 21: Mark Us: A Noteworthy Time

Chapter 22: Iron Wood: This is the Stuff We’re Made Of!

(I took liberties with the street names.)

What would your life chapters be?

Spider Woman

Noiselessly, I meander
industry my motivation
slipping through cracks
undaunted by darkness.

I skitter and hop,
avoiding detection
wary of the fear-frenzied,
not wanting to displease

(my thick-bodied hairy-ness
tends to invoke repulsion;
my weak and spindly legs
beget sweats and tremors

I am the stuff of legend –
the black widowed
man-killing, horror queen
with venomous fangs.)

Tragically misunderstood
by overblown accusations,
overlooking the deficiency of size
and the precariousness of my being.

(Sure, I’ve been known to
eat a husband or two,
but who can blame me,
I carry the children alone.)

I am a weaver of tales –
I spew silken threads
whose poetic intertwining
produces the perfect trap

enchanting artistry
of undeniable beauty –
carefully construed tapestries
to ensnare the unsuspecting.

I am not a flesh eater.
I turn my prey to liquid
devour their essence
live off their emotions.

Vulnerability propels
constant motion
I’ve been crushed,
brushed aside, exiled

(sometimes swallowed alive;
it’s a hazard of life –
the unfortunate outcome
of dropping into open mouths.)

My strength is in the telling,
gossamer fibers of truth
spewed from the belly
of this decided ugliness.

I am, in fact, a warrrioress
capturing and annihilating –
through patience and deliberation-
impertinent pestilence.

 

*Note:  this poem is inspired by a series of dreams, in which spiders were the central symbol.  See Dream Along With Me