His Favorite Things

Physics and math jokes and CPU towers,

open source software, and wizards with powers,

hobbits named Bilbo who chase after rings …

these are a few of his favorite things.

Linux and “Star Trek: The Next Generation,”

that rolly-polies are landbound crustaceans,

Lannisters fighting so they can be kings …

these are a few of his favorite things.

Cool 3-D printing, Joss Whedon, and Slashdot,

all pyrotechnics and building a flash pot,

knowing the reasons a pendulum swings …

these are a few of his favorite things.

When the code fails, when the part dings,

he is not deterred …

he simply revisits his favorite things,

and carries on like … a nerd!

Lyrics ©2015 Bridget Ayres

Set to Rodgers’ and Hammerstein’s “My Favorite Things”

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What Was Sown

That brute, Igor Wilhelm, got older each day

while sitting alone on his porch,

his once-strapping shoulders, a wilting display,

his words finding no one to scorch.

Way back in the day, he directed his brood

by yelling and swinging a belt,

those caught in his path all subject to his mood.

He’d brand them each day with a welt.

One night he fell down and called Junior for aid,

which drained the last charge from his phone.

His grown son decided it’s time that he paid,

and left him, to languish, alone.

Oh Printrbot, Oh Printrbot!

100_1685*

Now the future is here;

it’s inside of my house!

My inventions appear

with the click of a mouse.

Filament from above

feeds extruder below.

Great productions thereof

I can watch as they grow.

Appearing before me

the stuff of my dreams,

or what downloads for free …

it’s as cool as it seems!

Oh, sweet 3-D printer,

a maker you’ve made me.

You’ve done it this winter,

so I serenade thee!

(*mustache cookie cutter by dhulihan)

What Santa Doesn’t Know

rhymaphilia

It’s time for Christmas! Ho-Ho-Ho! I hope that Santa doesn’t know

my indiscretions here and there, like how (inside my head) I swear…

’cause other drivers make me mad. On Santa’s List, they’d count as bad.

In fact, it really is quite best he doesn’t know. He hasn’t guessed.

It’s also fine he doesn’t know that if a cookie’s not just so…

I can’t expect to serve it, right? And since it’s more or less a “bite…”

I go ahead and eat it. So? I’m just saying…he can’t know.

And since I don’t mind telling you, there has been something else I do…

From time to time I hit some sales to buy things for my family’s males,

but find that I am fixed upon some darling thing I then try on.

And if it doesn’t look too bad, and if the price won’t make me sad,

I take it…

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Clueless

In honor of NaNoWriMo!

rhymaphilia

 How dare you disobey by skipping town!

How dare you threaten suicide this week!

As far as jerkwads go, you take the crown!

I’m so damned mad, I almost cannot speak.

Who told you you could act like you’re a star?

Who told you those were okay things to say?

Who told you you could go and steal a car …

who taught you how to do that, anyway???

So figure out a way to get back home.

And come up with a good excuse (this time).

That ego that you’re using’s just a loan,

with which you perpetrate outrageous crimes.

I’ve never met a man as cheap as you.

I can’t believe the liberties you took.

When I say I’m surprised, it’s ’cause it’s true–

This wasn’t in the outline of my book.

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Diversions

It’s only three days in, and yet I’m behind.

I want to clear all but my book from my mind.

Instead come distractions that flood my poor brain.

And not one of them is remotely germane.

I try hard to focus and block out all noise,

resist interference my cell phone deploys,

to keep to the subjects that boost my word count,

a problem I promised, this year, to surmount.

But here I am pausing to dally in rhyme,

a thing which, on most days, is sweetly sublime.

Yet, now, on this day, it’s an unwelcome path.

The goal that I’ve set? I have reached only half.

So now I must go and push on for the day …

just me, my computer, and cheap Chardonnay,

skipping through NaNo Land all through the night,

to share with the world my main character’s plight.

I’ll bust out my blinders! Hole up in this room!

Draw in a deep breath. Let my story resume.

A NaNoWriMo How-To

You’re taking part in NaNoWriMo? Want to find success?

Get settled in, resigned to live November under stress.

So, first things, first, you’ve got to start, or else you can’t complete,

for if one doesn’t start, one faces guaranteed defeat.

Just pick a plot and go with it, or else be left behind.

And do not stop to edit, yet, although you’ll be inclined.

Tell all your friends and family. Let Facebook know it, too.

You’ll feel much more beholden and be apt to carry through.

 Put stickers on your calendar; mark days you reach your goal.

You’ll want to keep momentum once you see you’re on a roll.

You’ll write it out so quickly, you will have a great excuse

for why it’s kind of cheesy (you can put that fact to use).

Continue writing, even if you’ve nothing else to say,

as sometimes brilliance happens when one plows on through that way.

The most important thing is to remember, this is fun!

Write 50,000 words within November, and you’ve won! 🙂

Procrastination

Procrastination rears its ugly head, prepared to strike.

He has intent to slow me down and bring me to a halt.

But his deliberation works more quickly than he’d like,

and I complete my goal, his hesitation most at fault.

NaNoWriMo Approacheth

Yes, NaNoWriMo comes again in just a short few days.

I’ll stay up long nights typing in a caffeine-powered craze.

We will not have clean laundry and our supper comes in bags,

as long as I can say my target word count never lags.

The trash will pile and wait a while for me to take it out.

What’s left inside the fridge will turn to green and start to sprout.

Our cats become proactive or they may not get their food.

They must meow to shake me from my focused writing mood.

At our Thanksgiving dinner, I’ll inhale my meal and dart;

for when the month’s end nears, I reach the most intensive part.

Sweet pumpkin pie will fuel me for the climax of my book,

it being the one thing I’ll stop to do my part and cook.

For now, I work my outline so I’ll know how it will end.

Or, maybe I’ll find out that it won’t go as I intend.

My research time is winding down and drawing to a close.

There shall be great technology in what I will compose.

A world like none have never known is in my brain this year.

So, welcome back, November! I’m excited you are near!

blue sky, go away

now he hopes for cloudy days

they come when skies are blue

drone strikes set his town ablaze

informing his world view

school will wait or disappear

his life is torn apart

every moment filled with fear

that we put in his heart

Making Do

rhymaphilia

depression-84404_150

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. That’s what people say.

I guess I’m forced to test the theory now that you’re away.

I know that it’s for business and you won’t stay past a week.

It’s still too long to go without your kisses on my cheek.

I’ll live in your blue sweatshirt and I’ll spray it with cologne.

I’ll bring the cats to bed with me so I won’t sleep alone.

I’ll buy another toothbrush and I’ll put it next to mine.

I’ll tell myself that while you’re gone, I’m gonna be just fine.

I’ll put on all the TV shows I know you like to watch.

I’ll wear your robe and slippers and I’ll sip your favorite scotch.

I’ll transplant my butt to your indentation on the couch.

I’ll ask myself each morning, ‘Who’s my favorite little grouch?’

I’ll do all those mundane things, like taking out the…

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Illegitimi Non Carborundum

 Don’t ever let the bastards get you down.

Don’t give them what they want and take the fall.

Brush off your fear and turn yourself around.

Make sure they all can see you standing tall.

You’re so much better than their lies and hate,

far stronger than their arrogance and greed,

no side show in the circus they create …

there’s nothing state-of-mind can’t supersede.

To live well is the fiercest counterblow.

Deprive them of their precious schadenfreude.

Take charge and redefine the status quo,

and never let them know you’ve been annoyed.

It’s easier to be said than be done.

I promise, if you do it, though, you’ve won.

her

see her in the parking lots

pushing carts of treasures past

tattered dolls and tarnished pots

harshly judged and never asked

scraggly hair and faded eyes

hollow bones, a shaky frame

pure of heart, though none surmise

human rat without a name

someone once belonged to her

needed her like lungs need air

all that happened now a blur

echoed in her vacant stare

Affected

 I think of you and what you’ve taught as my true inspiration

although you weren’t trying to pass on your calm savoir faire.

Your wisdom is manifest broadly without affectation.

It’s living, between our encounters, that makes me aware.

I find myself out on the fence or beset with a quandary,

with so many ways to approach, to destroy, to succeed.

I’m set into motion and act, little time spent on pondering,

decisiveness coming from your gallant words that I heed.

The lessons pour in from wide range of topics and actions.

If I were to just beg advice, I’d not know where to start.

I’ve gleaned what I need from unseemingly linked, broad abstractions,

that graciously set up a residence here in my heart.

Mirage

fearless, clinging to the underside of sheer rock faces

roaring underwater, out of primary habitat

the wind sweeps through removing what scant vapors and traces

remain of the hate your verdure doth heartily diffract

singularly bold, your wings spread steal my quickening breath

words trip and fail to stack high enough to reach your ascent

held out in sparse offering the lusty, voiceless vignette

which, lacking all else, frames the height of all my good intent

Fair Warning

Kick and scream and stomp your little feet.

Sing out how it isn’t nice at all.

Wallow in your misery and defeat.

Rant for hours because you took the fall.

Gossip will take place; accept it now.

Know that folks will talk of certain things.

If you don’t like talk … don’t break a vow.

Otherwise, expect the mud one slings.

Rising Above

Kill ’em with kindness, as Mother would say.

They’ll look the fool and you’ll come out on top.

When they get ugly, just yield right of way.

Don’t let it bother you if they won’t stop.

When I was young I resisted the task,

spitting right back when my foes would incite.

Now grown, I gladly will don the full mask,

work to be classy, and swallow my spite.

Like so much else, she was right on this front.

I’ve seen results she predicted back then.

I remain calm and deflect each affront,

hold my head high as they judge and condemn.

Soon all involved see our disparate styles,

wondering why I’m deserving of hate,

rising above as I deal with such trials,

keeping my cool till my troubles abate.

Vanquished

When the paint dries, it’s a much darker shade,

no way to judge till the moisture is gone.

Left in the sun, tubs of plastic will fade.

Cygnets grow up into glorious swans.

Life, left unguided, evolves on its own.

So too, those children, mistreated, grow up,

somehow resisting the seeds that were sown,

good men in place of the terrified pups.

It Felt So Good To Write It Out

‘Don’t send it … don’t send it,’ I say to myself.

‘Just leave it alone. Wait at least one whole day.’

It’s best that it spend ample time on the shelf.

My words are so harsh that they merit delay.

Although what I write is undoubtedly true,

these frail circumstances require due tact.

Sound sleep should take place ’fore the final review,

for after it’s sent, I can’t ever retract.

It’s time that heals wounds, as it will do with this.

I’ll try to keep such to myself until then.

To send it off now would be sadly remiss …

I won’t get the chance to start over again.

The Socially Acceptable Thug

Someone should pay for this. Someone’s to blame.

Give me an address and give me a name.

Accidents happen, and yet, I am owed.

I’ll do my part to see justice corrode.

My foot was broken; two million sounds fair.

I can’t live life as a mere thousandaire.

Call up a lawyer and tell him the tale.

Take them to court; let due process prevail.

Find me a good ol’ boy judge to preside.

Find me a jury who’ll be on my side.

Pass off a judgment and make them comply.

They have insurance, so bleed them all dry.

Then, when your premiums triple in size,

I can pretend that it’s all a surprise.

If all my actions remain unimpugned,

sympathy swells from this new-made tycoon.

Birthday Story

On my birthday, every year, my mom would tell the tale,

the story of the day that I was born,

when first I tasted air and belted out my premier wail.

It happened on a pleasant Friday morn.

I know what was in the bag she packed to take along,

and how they passed an orchard on the way,

the smell of blossoms from the orange trees wafting, sweet and strong,

their favorite song the radio would play.

I know the cast of characters who helped in my breach birth.

Dr. Annie Lamb would see me first,

a great role model, who would bring me forth to greet this earth,

as from my mother’s womb, my rear end burst.

It’s a great tradition I looked forward to each year,

hearing all about my grand debut.

When she’d tell my sister’s story, I would always hear,

catching, each time, something that seemed new.

 Now that Mom’s been gone some years, we slowly lose some parts,

grasping at the bits we both have left.

We share what we remember of our humble, messy starts

and of our mother, whose death rendered us bereft.

summertime

singing in the floor fan in my room

organizing rocks that I have found

ice cream in our freezer to consume

bare and calloused feet upon the ground

whistling with a single blade of grass

catching fireflies in a mayonnaise jar

sleeping late, attending not one class

trampolining closer to a star

wearing Off! and sunscreen everyday

playing in each rainy summer storm

taking rides in wagons full of hay

drinking from the hose, its water warm

iced tea, watermelon, lemonade

picking figs and peaches for my mom

crickets sing their nightly serenade

rollie pollies tickling on my palm

food: I’ve all a growing girl could eat

bills: like magic, all of them get paid

hardest task: to keep my bedroom neat

enemies: in games at the arcade

someday I would be a girl no more

someday I would lose my innocence

someday I would be the guarantor

someday deeds would earn no recompense

that day came and I’m a woman now

that day came and I know grown up things

that day came to leave lines on my brow

that day came and I have sprouted wings

though I have to buy my food myself

though there’s lots of money that I owe

though there’s crazy clutter on my shelf

though I face transgressions of a foe

summertime’s a bastion of relief

summertime’s contentment on a tray

summertime’s forever, although brief

summertime’s import eludes decay

 

 

 

Puppet Master

You pull the strings and watch the puppets dance.

You bend them to your will with loving threats.

You tell them lies to put them in a trance.

You keep them busy turning pirouettes.

You build yourself a pedestal on high,

your puppet beasts remaining down below.

From far above the stage they occupy,

you plan their coerced warfare blow by blow.

You promise they will change from wood to boys,

but only if they grant your crazy whims.

You treat them like abandoned, dusty toys,

yet dictate every movement of their limbs.

You wait to hear the crowd is most impressed,

bedazzled by the spectacle they’ve made.

The problems you’ve ignored have been addressed,

your puppets filling orders that you’ve bade.

But someday they will learn the awful truth,

that they were boys before you made them wood,

that innocence was stolen from their youth,

becoming soldiers long before they should.

Vacation

I pack up every outfit they will wear.

I gather entertainment for the car.

I bring the booster seat for any chair.

I answer questions (most about “how far?”).

I feed them first, and then my food is cold.

I take them to the bathroom if I must.

I make sure tummy aches are all controlled.

I comfort children anytime they’ve fussed.

I pack again each time we leave hotels.

I wash out underwear along the way.

I disinfect when led to messy smells.

I take in stride each problem and delay.

I hear vacation’s nice, relaxing fun.

I might find out someday (when childhood’s done).

 

Solace

How long have I been tensing both my shoulders to my ears,

taking my frustration out on everyone around?

It seems like it’s been going on for six or seven years.

Now the solace lost so long has once again been found.

 Breathing comes so easily, beloved peace at last,

never looking back behind me; I know this is real.

Now I’m certain struggles fought remain far in the past,

giving my existence an enlightened, weightless feel.

Modus Operandi

I will remain calm and I will stay collected.

I’ll take a deep breath and I’ll smile.

I’ll hope my reluctance remains undetected.

I’ll hold out, but just for a while.

I plan to fend off the impending eye contact.

I’ll find some excuse and I’ll go,

while leaving with some trace of dignity intact.

As ever, it’s on with the show.

‘Well, hello!’ ‘Oh, hi, there!’ ‘It’s so nice to see you!’

‘Excuse me, I’m meeting someone.’

‘Where’ve you two been hiding?’ ‘Well, how do you do?’

‘Your first time? I hope you have fun.’

We all hate small talk, but it comes in so handy.

I  use it to zip through a room,

no thought to amend my modus operandi.

Thereafter, my life can resume.

Pussy Problems

This circumstance is not what you presume.

It isn’t voyeurism; it’s just gore.

I really wish they’d find a different room.

The pillow I was using’s on the floor.

I try to just ignore them and relax.

I turn the other way and heave a sigh.

I look up at the ceiling, counting cracks.

If they don’t finish soon, I’ll start to cry.

I have no choice but waiting till they’re done.

I’d be asleep if not for all the noise.

I long to find a nice spot in the sun,

or curl up in my basket full of toys.

Attempts at using doorknobs all fall flat …

the trials and tribulations of a cat!

 

 

Incubus

First slumber imparts disingenuous peace

as day fades away and I’m plunged into night.

Trance beckons a torrent of fright to release.

Sleep’s righteous new guardsmen invoke fight or flight.

My heartbeats make dents in attempts to break free;

their echoes clank like jagged rocks in tin cans.

Control leaks from pores, my legs deaf to my plea.

I waste too much time as foes execute plans.

‘They’ all want me dead and I’ve nowhere to go.

I’m scaling high fences and crawling in mud,

gauche ducking and rolling as daggers ‘they’ throw,

blades piercing my flesh and discharging its blood.

All safe houses dangerous, floors turn to dust,

air jilting my feet as they scramble to grip.

Huge flakes of sunned freckles chip off like old rust.

I bolt for the door, but on dead skin, I trip.

Disguise my last hope, I spot wigs and a cap,

their blackness such contrast that soon I can hide.

Once on, they turn orange, their betrayal a slap.

They flaunt my location. Concealment denied.

Half-conscious, I’m twisting, adjusting my sheets,

one slice of me screaming ‘wake up or you’ll die,’

unable to rouse till the horror completes,

my will to resist ‘them’ in dwindling supply.

I prostrate myself, left no haven or choice,

submitting to torture and pain that results.

I howl at the dawn with what’s left of my voice,

reflecting back onto my soul those insults.

Awakening sweaty, I punch at my bed

and toss pillows high to unearth stowaways,

reluctantly grasping: they’re trapped in my head

alongside fixed squatters I scorn nowadays.

The Like Button

We need something other than “like” we can click.

At times, it just doesn’t feel right,

for often I read things that make my heart sick,

but feel not to click’s impolite.

 

Bury The Hatchet

We never will agree on the events that once took place.

By now, all we can do is start again and work from here.

Let’s both quit acting like we’re in a nuclear weapons race,

each purposely provoking, every action more severe.

There’s not a one of us who hasn’t someone else to blame,

pretending like our own mistakes are pure and innocent,

when really, in the end, our motivations were the same,

for none can claim so righteously he’s only good intent.

Let’s bury deep the hatchet and then move on with our lives.

We’ll share only the joyous and hold back our tongues in rage,

for when we look beyond, we see resilient love survives;

it still remains accessible, and pays the ideal wage.

Dinner Party

As soon as they arrive the mood is light,

strong appetites accompanying all,

the music and the table set just right.

My canapés do no less than enthrall.

They audibly appreciate the food,

“Yum-yum!”ing, “I want more!”ing, and the such,

all standing by the hors d’oeuvres like they’re glued,

all saying that they love my food so much.

The compliments don’t ever seem to end.

Each course I serve tops what could not be topped.

The flavors fuse to yield the perfect blend.

I’m Queen of All the Cooks! I can’t be stopped!

It worked with toddlers. Soon, I’ll try adults …

if only I can mimic the results!

The Lap of Luxury

I finally have folded all the clothes.

I washed the dishes and put them away.

I smothered all the bonfires that arose.

I cleaned up all the finger paint and clay.

I planned out all the meals we’ll eat this week.

I purchased the supplies they need for school.

I made the time to “play” some hide-n-seek.

I took them all for swimming at the pool.

I helped the eldest find his poster board.

I scraped the bubble gum from Boo-Boo’s hair.

I straightened out the wireless router cord.

I treated all the stains in underwear.

“You used to work before you had a kid?”

Sigh. ‘Once upon a time, I guess I did.’

Poetics’ Aesthetics

I love the shape a poem takes, its special own tableau,

some lines drawn out, others rather wee.

Although their lengths may vary, there’s a gratifying flow

whether meter’s set or verse is free.

The longer lines might demonstrate a complicated thought,

mirroring their value in broad lines.

Conversely, sometimes denser words reveal a complex plot,

manifesting though their width declines.

Appealing to man’s fundamental zeal for symmetry,

fold my work in half see it match.

Then draw some sine waves on each side with trigonometry.

Look for other shapes I didn’t catch.

It satisfies to click the “center” button from the start,

oohing as the balanced words appear.

It adds that certain something … more than concepts I impart,

the icing on my views as they cohere.

When I’m done writing, I will take a glance from further back,

stopping to admire the form it took.

Perhaps it will propel the potent punch I planned to pack,

meriting, ideally, one more  look.

Homewrecker

There once was a mother with hate,

who threw in the garbage the meal on her plate.

There once was a mother who left,

her children in agony, lost and bereft.

There once was a mother who cried,

“Take care of my children as though I have died.”

There once was a mother who moved,

her gross inattentiveness all that she proved.

There once was a mother who judged,

her perfect mascara remaining unsmudged.

There once was a mother turned green,

who couldn’t sustain consequences unseen.

There once was a mother afraid,

unable to live with the choices she made.

There once was a mother absorbed,

expecting to claim what she’d passed and ignored.

There once was a mother who foiled,

inciting a riot amongst those embroiled.

There once was a mother obsessed,

herself the one reason she raided my nest.

There once was a mother with guilt,

so viciously jealous, she smashed what I built.

 

 

 

Perpetuity

You all should shag a poet who is free if you’ve the chance.

A poet offers more than just a true, whirlwind romance.

For if you do it well, you will influence what she writes.

There’s just no way around it, if you take her to the heights ….

Then your love, she’ll immortalize, your essence living on,

your most impressive sexy feats persisting when you’re gone.

Perhaps you may pass on to kids your striking DNA.

But there are certain parts of you, your children can’t convey.

And though her silly writing’s not as famous as The Bard’s,

not spoken on the stage, nor used in cheesy greeting cards,

all words writ live forever. They’ll endure throughout the years,

for writing goes beyond your genes, or when love disappears.

Plus, even if your dalliance has ended in a mess,

from time to time, she’ll read her work, and think on your caress.

“Not Me!”

I’m not quite sure who “Not me!” is, but he acts up a lot,

for when I ask, ‘Who did this?’ it’s the answer you’ve all got!

“Not me!” “Not me!” “Not me!” come your three voices, loud and clear.

You all must think I’m stupid, ’cause you all sound so sincere.

Oh, sure, it wasn’t one of you who put snails in my shoe …

that’s something that a 6 year old would never think to do.

You’re saying maybe I had left the milk outside to rot?

 “Not me!” appears to be the only patsy that you’ve got.

Perhaps it was your father who poured soda in the plant?

See, I would love to blame him, but that’s crazy, so I can’t.

I also know he’s not the one who left the water on,

or drew with my mascara until it’s completely gone.

I can’t imagine using magic marker on the cat,

or leaving a green puddle on the sofa where I sat.

The dog can’t use a doorknob, so he cannot let in flies.

He really is an animal; it’s not some great disguise.

It’s not like Grandma wets a slice of bread and puts it back.

If Grandpa ate that bacon grease, he’d have a heart attack!

Your cousins haven’t been here in at least a month or two.

Through process of elimination, it was one of you!

I’ve heard “Not me!” so much that now I’m starting to believe,

though I know it’s ridiculous … exceedingly naive.

But said with such conviction, that I’ve taught you all to use,

it’s tempting to just disregard the pile of damning clues.

I know I’ll have revenge when you three have kids of your own.

But in the meantime, I guess I must wait until you’re grown.

 

 

Supreme Hypocrisy

Hobby Lobby doesn’t want to pay for birth control.

They don’t feel their employees should have the right to choose.

Yet they were investing in the companies whose role

is making products that they feel that no one else should use!

How is it they profit from but don’t support Plan B,

or an IUD or Ella? They just want the dough!

What a grand display of sickening hypocrisy,

preaching but not practicing! The whole damned world should know.

Even pro-life sympathizers should be up in arms.

Now they know that Hobby Lobby’s not one after all.

Tell all of your friends and help us signal the alarms.

Then stand back and smile while you applaud as down they fall.

I am from the USA, where worship is a right,

not something that employers get to force upon their crew.

I hope that everyone who’s free will help support this fight,

and give the hypocrites the boycott for which they’re past due.

I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Major Side Effect

I am the very model of a modern major side effect.

I bring you many problems that could give your children birth defects.

I interfere with how the neural pathways in your brain connect.

I pile on top of other nasty health issues you now collect.

You don’t know if I’m symptoms of your illness or I’m indirect.

You’re worse than any time in recent history you recollect,

but need to take your medicine or your new organ you’ll reject …

so suffer through the problems that it’s caused that you cannot deflect.

If you don’t take meds everyday you’ll find you can’t get out of bed,

or possibly one day you’ll wake to find out you’re already dead!

In short, you’re feeling much worse than the last time that your doctor checked.

I am the very model of a modern major side effect.

There’s aches and pains, a bleeding stomach, restless legs that make you cry,

edema, headaches, rashes, weird behavior, or your eyes are dry,

strong allergies that make the muscles quiver in your upper thigh.

If you don’t swallow quickly it tastes like you have ingested lye.

You know if you don’t take it you have health on which you can’t rely.

Sometimes it’s so bad you decide today you will not even try.

You take the drugs but often when it’s bad, you cannot figure why …

with all these side effects, to medicine you’d like to say goodbye.

You hope that someday you’ll be well so you no longer feel this sick.

But once you discontinue your bad health returns so lightening quick!

In short, you’re feeling much worse than the last time that your doctor checked.

I am the very model of a modern major side effect.

Sometimes I cancel out the benefits, but you’ll put up with me.

You hear a buzzing in your ears that sounds just like a bumblebee.

To keep from falling down you’ll tolerate the shaking of your knee.

You’ll live with some results that mimic thrush or hepatitis B.

You pay a lot to feel this way. Your medicine is never free.

You’re real depressed ’cause this might be the healthiest you’ll ever be.

Your doctor says you’re doing well, though sometimes you may disagree …

and anyone who had these side effects would, but of course, agree.

I give you hunger so you’ll break your diet and gain lots of weight.

Your mirror shows you images you look at and then start to hate.

In short, you are much fatter than last time that your doctor checked.

I am the very model of a modern major side effect.

 By now you have diseases that were caused by taking medicine.

It makes you feel just like you fight a battle you can never win.

You want to heal, but with your problems you don’t know where to begin.

You wonder why you’ve been struck down, like you’ve been punished for a sin.

The time rolls on. These days you’re not sure how long it has really been.

You curse the situations that your illnesses have put you in.

It never ends, the cycle goes on, stealing every urge to grin …

the smile you try to fake in public each day’s wearing very thin.

You wish you had a choice but you can’t stop your meds or you’ll expire.

You need these stupid chemicals. Your situation’s rather dire.

But still, you’re feeling much worse than the last time that your doctor checked.

I am the very model of a modern major side effect.

Lyrics ©2014 Bridget Ayres

Set to Gilbert & Sullivan’s “I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Major General”

–Public Domain–

Little Child

My little child, I’ve seen you grow so tall.

The top shelf is no match for you these days.

How times have changed from when you used to crawl!

You’re so mature  in oh so many ways.

You’re using words I have to look up now.

Your grasp of physics now surpasses mine.

You’ve learned, yourself; I need not show you how.

I wish I could reverse the march of time.

You’re old enough to make kids of your own.

Though, if you’ve listened, you won’t do it yet.

I bask in the good judgment that you’ve shown,

and hope the things I’ve taught, you won’t forget.

(And when you snap the photos that I’m in,

your height helps hide my horrid double chin!!!)

🙂

True Love

I love to be alone, just you and me.

You take me places I’ve not ever been.

You show me things I’d otherwise not see.

You never care what kind of mood I’m in.

You offer me your whole self, never less.

We do not play those lovers’ games or fight.

No matter how I feel, you ease my stress.

I want you in my bedroom every night.

I love the feel of you—your size and heft.

Your smell, alone, invokes the peace I need.

Sometimes I feel you’re all that I have left.

That’s why I make sure I have books to read.

You’re only more distinguished as you age.

I relish reading every single page.

Parallel

 I never said that I was more important than you are.

That’s just what your wild imagination chose to hear.

My explanations start, but you won’t let me get too far.

Please back off and let me talk. I’ll make my feelings clear.

I am no more special than another on this Earth.

That’s the first thing you should listen to and understand.

When it comes to others, I’d say I’ve an equal worth.

All I mean is that my trials and woes are just as grand.

With my plight dismissed I make a point to plead my case,

making it appear as though I think that I’m the best.

If I hadn’t had to struggle just to keep my place,

I’d remain here waiting for my turn, like all the rest.

Tabula Rasa

the debtor who’s avoided obligation comes to pay

finally the mist has cleared, evaporating fog

food caked on the dishes has dissolved and floats away

the collar engineered to shock’s been taken off the dog

the agitated whirlpools mellow into swirls, serene

the horse imbibes the water to which he’s been often led

past offenses all forgotten wipe the slate off, clean

freeing room to write another story there, instead

 

The Delay

The screeching of the tires defaced the air,

its echo blotting out the sun at first,

the crash that followed next a solar flare,

inflicting on its victims life at worst.

The acrobatic vehicle’s routine:

a horrifying double somersault,

no harnesses or god to intervene,

a graceful, irreversible assault.

Thick-skulled chimpanzees gripe; they will be late,

ungrateful they will live another day,

ignoring lessons offered them by fate,

presented in such glorious display.

I sit and count my blessings till it clears,

aware my own mortality yet nears.

The Immortal

she’s a living breathing organism pulsing

infinite stimuli always contributing

tidal waves melding harmonious convulsing

division of labor stresses distributing

the flock mentality fads cliques what’s hot today

follow the leader or maybe you become one

the vendor sets up his stall his goods on display

persisting till the horizon swallows the sun

the morphon ebbs and flows beholden to the moon

sleeping every night with one eye still open wide

repellent offerings moot the vibe changes soon

endless nesting dolls boundless potential inside

Unpolished

I saw you in the mirror just today.

You’d love the way the curls surround your face.

You wished you had my hair, you’d always say.

You do, your countenance now set in place.

 I came across an article last week.

A fascinating study had been done.

I quoted some statistics, like a geek;

your legacy is not to be outrun.

Engrossed in my beloved TV shows,

I’m caught off guard: I hear you laugh out loud,

for ev’ryday my laugh, more like yours, grows …

so many traits of yours I’ve been endowed.

Elusive still, your wisdom’s what I seek.

I haven’t quite yet mastered your technique.

 

 

 

I Had It Coming …

“Dear Mrs.,

     I am going,” said the note left by my couch.

“You suffocate me all day long. I’ve got to get away.

Throw pillows didn’t care to leave; for them I’ll no more vouch.

                                      Farewell,

                                           ~from your (old) Couch

P.S. I’ve something else to say.

Your sneakers up and left last week. They both made up their mind.

They feel so useless here, they’re gonna find some other feet.

You didn’t even notice. You just sit on your behind.

They waited till they had their chance and beat a fast retreat.

Your microwave is overworked. I’d watch out for him, too.

You’re stretching out your underwear. They hate it … so you know.

                                      And finally I leave you,

                                           ~Syonara! Bye! Adieu!

P.P.S. When  the others leave, just think: I told you so.”

Opportunity

abandoning corporeal restraints

discovering your perfect chance to fly

no longer subject to the pain that taints

autonomy in infinite supply

absorbing new sensations full of ease

rejoicing as you’ll never fear again

unlocked now are the chains of your disease

no bleeding like a ruptured fountain pen

eluding facts of crime and war and hate

no challenge scaling rubble or steep scree

ascending high above embracing fate

examples you set writ on my marquis

all enemies are vanquished and dissolve

as far beyond mere humans you evolve

Unearthed

I constantly discover whom I am,

each new experience, a catalyst,

a psychoanalytic self-exam …

an invitation I just can’t resist.

 I learned, one year, that both my thumbs are green,

that horseradish and mustard stole my heart,

that I’d maintain an exercise regime,

that really, it is not too late to start.

But other things, I didn’t want to know,

like how harsh I can be when it gets tough,

that things I’d hoped were always, I’d outgrow,

that sometimes, words would never be enough.

 It’s tempting, to avoid perceiving more,

to skulk back in my cave and latch the door.

By The Gate

We stood there waiting for our boarding call,

the flight before not fully deplaned yet,

when something happened that would make me bawl,

a moment that I never will forget.

We heard the thick applause from near the gate.

It spread, all heads directed toward its source.

Six soldiers marched, returning from Kuwait,

their uniforms: Untied States Air Force.

A little girl stepped up, who’s maybe five,

and all at once a hush fell on the crowd.

She said, “Please Sir, my daddy’s not alive.”

And down to her, the gentle soldier bowed.

“Can I please have a hug before you go?

You look like him. I miss him really bad.

I wish he could be here to see me grow,

and with a hug, I wouldn’t be so sad.”

No eye within the crowded gate was dry.

The soldier swooped her up and held her tight,

as even he, too, would begin to cry,

along with all the men who fought the fight.

Saluting to the mother and the girl,

the soldiers left our gate with hard-earned tears,

the men who fought for freedom ’round the world,

immersed in grateful, patriotic cheers.

Before the men would disappear from sight,

they turned to find the girl and give a wave,

a gesture that would fill her with new light,

which she returned in kind back to the brave.

The Inevitable

Again, this May, I gained another year.

An extra inch or three are on my waist.

The lines upon my brow grow more severe.

My keys and purse are constantly misplaced.

I have to have these bifocals to see.

My sunglasses near cover my whole face.

At times, when I am tickled, I will pee.

I always carry safety pins, in case ….

Just yesterday I found a hair that’s gray.

I value having comfy underwear.

  Those memories I’ve cherished fade each day …

if there’s an app for that, I’m unaware.

I wish  I could remain composed and calm.

The problem is, I’ve realized I’m my mom.

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