Grampa had a hip replaced
and then the other hip,
then he got one old knee replaced,
the other after it.
With all these leggy changes
now I wonder if by chance,
Grampa must go shopping
and replace his old length pants?
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Tag Archives: kids
BELLY, BELLY
Dad had many sayings:
By George!
By Jove!
Great Scott!
and
No matter what you think,
There is a lid for every pot!
But we knew we’d really boiled
His patience into jelly
When with wide eyes he whispered,
By Roosevelt’s horse’s belly!
We don’t know where it came from
We don’t know what it meant
Except it was time for our
Misbehaving to relent.
T.R., I bet, would dig the line
Most likely, too, his horse.
His horse’s belly would think it
Poetry, of course
Even better than the classic
One-worder of Ted’s, “Bully!”,
Its cousin, Dad’s much longer fave,
“By Roosevelt’s horse’s belly!”
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LARRYING UP
PRECORDED HISTORY
A caveman carved a photo
With a lens of stone:
Of a bubbling tar pit,
Of brontosaurus bones,
Of a running horse
In a French cave drawing,
Of a sabretooth with
His t-rex neighbor, jawing.
Then going “MOTION PICTURE”
He shot two glaciers racing,
The footage looked like still shots ;
Blame the racers pacing.
Capturing the land before time,
His stone Nikon in hand
A photog Missing Link he was
The Caveman Cameraman.
CHRISTMAS CLOUD COVER
Christmas night rain
Was causing trepidation
For reindeer who worked
Through precipitation.
There were no good galoshes
To cover a hoof
And also give traction
To walk on a roof.
A red nosed windshield wiper
Had not been invented
A slicker for antlers
Nowhere could be rented.
So wet Christmas Eves
Rudolph would fear
Along with his team
Until finally one year,
They became so distracted
Checking the weather
Their boss caught wind of
His team’s ruffled feathers.
Mrs. Claus heard and said,
“Let me ring a friend.
I bet once and for all
Their concerns we can end.”
A couple weeks later,
It was early December,
A large package arrived addressed
KRINGLE TEAM MEMBERS.
As he opened it Saint Nick whispered,
“What have we got here …
‘SAINT ELLA UMBRELLA’S
REINDEER RAIN GEAR’?!?”
“Just in time,” said Mrs. Claus
walking in, “it’s arrived.
Ella said she could help.
I knew that was no jive.”
The Reindeer Rain Gear
In the box was a boon,
With it on Santa’s team
Hoped they’d face a monsoon:
Water tight goggles,
Impervious slickers,
Treaded hoof booties,
Fur sealing knickers,
All there among Saint Ella
Umbrella’s tricks,
The Reindeer Rain Gear
For a wet Christmas fix,
Thanks to Mrs. Claus
And the power of friends,
Since that year the reindeer
Viewed rain through a new lens.
CLEMENTINE WHO
To the tune of
“O, My Darling,”
did a Mama sing sweetly,
to her girls,
Rose and Mary,
when they were just
one and three:
‘Sissy Ro-Ro,
Sissy Ro-Ro,
Sissy Ro-Ro,
Sissy Mare!
Sissy Mare-Mare,
Sissy Mare-Mare,
Sissy Mare-Mare,
Sissy Ro!’
As they grew up
Rose and Mary
Agreed Mama’s words were fine.
So not ‘till now in
this here story,
did they hear of
Clementine.
STANDUP STORY
There once was a bird
who wanted to be
any bird
but the one
that he was:
an ostrich named Stanley.
Sometimes he’d act like
the macaw
(you’d guffaw)
or a chick
(it was sick)
bird of prey
(yech…no way!)
Even more than those acts
that Stan couldn’t master
other tries were plain bad,
no worse,
a disaster:
His strut recalled peacocks
less than it did newts,
his night hunting efforts
made every owl hoot.
And when he carried on
like some bird he wasn’t
the Small Stan inside him ‘tsked,
“Big Stan you mustn’t.
“You’re an ostrich,
Be proud if your head’s in the ground!
Don’t clown cluck around
like The Birdbrain of Town!”
Some messages
the first time
are loud and clear,
while others
don’t arrive
for some reason
for years …
So it was one day it hit Stan
And he could see,
“What I really know how to be best
is me.
Not them
or they
or he
or she.
The feathers of others don’t fit on my frame
And trying to force them has made me look lame.”
So Stan said to himself,
“Let’s forever agree
For you to be you
And me to be me.”
From then till forever
Stanley didn’t mince,
Nor did that old ostrich
once lack confidence.
BIG BREAK
Half way through October
Columbus is my best friend
For his famous trip that led us to
A three day-long weekend.
The next month comes the long weekend
When three days turn to four:
When we say, “Thanks, Thanksgiving,
For serving us that much more!”
There’s the great week-long weekends in
December and the spring,
They make me smile, yes,
But only one weekend makes me sing:
It begins the day that school lets out
Sending fun into high gear:
It’s the biggest best break ever,
The Longest Weekend of the Year.
At the start of it the end of it
Looks way further away
Than the New World looked from Europe
On an explorer’s set-sail day.
On this magical most-long weekend
That lasts a quarter year
You don’t need navigation,
It’s permissible to veer
From late nights to slow mornings,
There’s no brakes on this big break:
The Longest Weekend of the Year
Means having and eating your cake.
And when sadly in late August
The Longest Weekend ends
You’ll appreciate again Columbus,
Our three-day-gifting friend.
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ON KIDS
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THE ZEN HEN: On Diligence
If in the world’s largest pig pen
the assignment you receive is
to install a country mile of fine tile,
pay no mind if the farmer’s blind
grab a bucket, trowel, and towel
and until that floor’s all in
stay snout to the grout.
UPDATED 10/28/17 with a graphic version:
FLOWER SHOWER
A flower shower
Turned the tree green
Turned the grass pinker
Than I ever seen:
Cotton-candy colored
It yesterday was
When into and out of it
All the bees buzzed.
Then the quick change.
Perhaps it was the breeze:
Petals went packing
To the lawn from the leaves.
Now the Pink Tree Photo
I had taken in my head
Resembles Sun-dodging
confetti instead.
ALL FIGURED OUT
Want in on my Master Plan?
Come closer and listen to me.
Because the blueprint of it’s now taking shape
Oh so satisfactorally.
When’s it start, my Master Plan?
Well don’t worry it won’t be long now.
Just know by the end life will be so sweet
We’ll sweat candy bars from our brows.
Before that part, the Master Plan middle
Involves espionage and boats,
Action car chases, exotic horse races,
Fine jewelry, machine guns, fur coats.
What’s the Master Plan Step 1, you ask?
Simple: win the lottery.
Huh?
Well….
…..guess what…
If you’re gonna’ roll on the floor laughing at it,
Then out of the Plan you can be.
Lighting in a Bottle – New Orleans
ON DR. SEUSS’S BIRTHDAY
Grab 100 candles
Add a baker’s dozen more
For what happened this day
In 1904:
Little Ted Geisel
Arrived on the scene
Who could know at that time
What he one day would mean?
To the Doc who still keeps
Brains and funny bones fed,
To a Cat like none other,
Happy 113th, Ted!
To see more like this, go here, where it originally appeared on 3/2/17.
SKIN DEEP DIVE
Studying the dictionary,
Johnny Corkforbrains
Got stuck up at the top one day
Then down his knowledge rained:
“Avocado, alligator …
skins not not the same …
and an A resides
at the start of both your names!
The gator grows in swamps,
The ‘cado grows on trees,
But trees are FOUND in swamps …
How different can you be?
How leathery you feel,
How deep dark green you look,
Like pictures of each other
That I have seen in books.
Of course in person, no,
I’ve never met your kinds,
But don’t see how not doing so
Could put my views behind?
The chance you’re NOT related
To me seems mighty small,
No two such similar dermises
Could not be connected at all.
For further proof, consider:
The gator’s alias, ‘Croc’,
Which just so happens sounds just like
The ‘cado’s alt-name, ‘Guac’.
If you must, pretend they’re not the same:
Avocado, alligator.
But trust me there’ll be evidence:
Birth certificates released later.”
JOINED CHIEFS
Pow saw Wow
across the street
Pow and Wow
exchanged greets
Pow approached Wow,
“Rest our feet?”
Pow and Wow agreed:
that couldn’t be beat.
Pow and Wow
got out of the heat
Pow and Wow
found a seat
Pow and Wow
were loud and discreet as
Pow and Wow’s
talk roamed like a fleet.
Pow and Wow’s
chat got so neat that
Pow and Wow
decided to delete
Any words between them,
and that’s how
a close meeting of the minds
became called a powwow.
WINTORY LAP
On the shortest day of the year
The sun takes an extra long lunch,
So long it doesn’t end until
Almost the next day’s brunch.
Head lights and night lights get lots of action
The day of the year that’s shortest.
While that day more than any other is for
golf clubs and lawn mowers the boredest.
It seems like it should be relaxing and yet
There’s always so much around you,
On the year’s shortest day, falling as it does,
Right about when the holidays do.
Still songs like “Oh, What a Night” or “Thank
the Lord for the Nighttime” spread cheer,
Of how happy folks get after early sunset
On the shortest day of the year.
Among everything else it is, the shortest day of the year is half a calendar away from its cousin the longest day of the year.
THE RIGHT STUFFING
Perhaps the best meal of the year
comes weeks after Turkey Day.
It’s a nest built from all the trimmings
That have not yet by then flown away.
Start with any bits of gobbler left
Toss them in a bowl,
Add a scoop of stuffing, yams, mashed potatoes,
Whatever you’ve got … it’s all gold.
If you still have it, stir in gravy,
Then pour it all in a crust.
Cinch the dough, bake on high, that’s it.
No other meal prep takes less fuss!
It’s the yummiest food recycling
That’s plain easy to get right,
So try Thanksgiving Pie:
Send that old crusty bird back in flight.
THE BOOT FLEECE POLICE
Mom got new rain boots
Red, rubber, and tall.
Dad asked, “How’d you choose those?”
Mom said, “They’re cool. That’s all.”
Now my Mom’s no liar
But I thought, nonetheless,
Let’s take those cool boots
And put’em to the test.
So when she was too busy
To stop my experiment
I took some cold milk
And into her boots it went.
Like a good scientist
I let my test tube be
And went off to play
For an hour or three.
Perhaps it was longer
I lost track when Mom screamed,
The unexpected milk
In her boot had her steamed.
I said, “Wait one sec, Mom,
Take a breath, cool down.
Allow me to measure that
Milk puddle on the ground.”
Once I had I said, “Mom,
I’d be angry too!
This spilled milk is warm.
So those boots? Not so cool.”
The thing that they sold you
Is not what you bought.
It seems in some faux-thermo-boot-scam you’re caught!”
Overcome with shock
Or maybe with grief
Like anyone who’s been
Taken by a thief
She said not a word but just looked at me,
And I wondered perhaps if deep down she felt glee
At her little scientist’s new discovery.
Yes, I thought to myself, pride must be what I see.
MOON TAKER
As they headed home from Nana’s house
late one clear, dark night,
Fred said to his Mom and Dad,
“See the moon there,
big and bright?
Could I pretty please this once
take it home with me?”
“Why, Fred,” his mother said,
“that idea sure is…….
lovely.
“And maybe you could,” she said,
“But how will you reach and get the moon?”
“How I get the kickball from the garage top shelf,”
Fred said,
“by knocking it down with the broom.”
“That sounds good,” said Fred’s Dad,
“but how’ll you catch it when it falls?”
“Easy,” said Fred,
“in Baby Jane’s old crib
where we keep all her dolls.”
“And just where would you keep the Moon,” Dad asked,
“once we got it to our place?”
“No problem,” Fred said,
“I’ll clear out my big wagon,
the red one, to make some space.
Then I can drive the moon around,
and show him our whole street.
The way he’s movin’ above the trees,
makes me think
he thinks seein’ stuff is neat.”
“Well that’s just it,” Fred’s Dad said
as their house came into sight.
“Here we are, back from Nana’s,
and the moon’s still with us,
big and bright.
That makes me think the moon loves traveling
just like you have guessed.”
“So, maybe,” Fred’s Mom said,
“leaving him to roam the sky
would be best.
And the next night that we’re out like this
and see the moon again,
I’ll bet he’ll hang out with us some more,
to prove, once more,
we’re friends.”
Fred gazed up at the sky and thought
about what his Mom and Dad had said.
“Yes, maybe you’re right,” he told them,
“I’m tired.
And the moon doesn’t quite look ready for bed.”
CLOVERDEALED
So you found a 4-leaf clover.
Well, I hunt bigger things:
Like five and six leaf clovers
And the extra luck they bring.
And the highly coveted clover
With leaves that number seven,
Legend says those who find one
Will go straight to heaven.
The eight leaf clover doubles up
What a plain four leafer brings
The 9-leaf clover isn’t lucky at all:
Touching it actually stings.
Ten leaf clovers are what I’m really after
They’re the best it gets.
So you’d like to come hunting them with me?
Hmmmm….well, ok…let’s.
I’ll bring you along for the low low price
Of that old 4-leaf clover you’ve got.
What’s that? I said 4-leafs don’t interest me?
I said that?!? Well. I must have forgot.
Field Notebook Renderings of Members of Genus: Polyleaf – (from upper left corner) The Basic aka The Four Score ; The And-1 ; The O’Six Pack ; The Stairway to Seven ; The Octclover ; The Stinger aka the Paul Newman aka The Henry Gondorff ; The Big Time aka the Green Whale aka The O’Derek
BuccanAir
The Pilot Pirate
flies a peg-leg plane.
The Pilot Pirate
keeps booty on the brain.
The Pilot Pirate
has a sneaky parakeet,
who’d rather have an aisle
than a window seat.
The Pilot Pirate
navigates sea and air.
The Pilot Pirate
doesn’t have a care.
The Pilot Pirate
makes the world his lair,
soaring and swording
and ARRRR-ing everywhere.
The Pilot Pirate
wears an eye patch,
and when putting it on, yells,
“Batten down the hatch!”
The Pilot Pirate
goes fast but doesn’t run,
because swashbuckling sweaty
ruins the fun.
This photo first appeared on Instagram. For more like it, click here.
BEHIND THE BEARD: A #ShowYourWork Story
Beginning:
Middle:
End:
From the barber’s chair Abe leapt,
Tall with vigor and pep.
Someone yelled,
“Hey, Sweetcheeks!”
On the inside, he wept.
And forevermore a beard Abe kept.
CORNER OF WORD
Not quite as far out as
Where the sidewalk ends
Is where Word Street into
Other Word Street bends.
And at that intersection
Is a Dutch French Horn
And a squirrel swirl
And a torn acorn,
And a Bizarre Bazaar
And a big clinched couch
And Dorian DeLorean
In a crazyman crouch,
Holding over his head
A zydeco xylophone
To play a song for Aunt Cake
Louder than a cyclone,
Or a superbomb blast
From an Arctic typhoon
Howling over the surface
Of a baboon lagoon.
And inevitably when
That sound causes debris,
What acceptable receptacle
Will there possibly be?
Well that stripe of insight
Might be too great an onus
To expect even from
Wizened Old Bonus Jonas.
But there where Word Street bends
To Other Word Street
The junction’s real function’s
Clear as a snare beat:
To be a place friendly
to sound percolation
And weird letter unions,
night, day, and morn,
A magic locale of
twinkling tongue twisters,
the spot on the map
where poems may be born.
TOM BROWN ROAD
Old Tom Brown
Was a very slow man
Who crawled when he walked
And walked when he ran,
But when a name was needed
For the slow road through town
The inspiration came quickly
Thanks to Ol’ Slow Tom Brown.
CAN’T BE LICKED
All day I could eat ice cream
Then still have more at night
To say there is a time I can’t eat ice cream
is not right.
That’s why in all my belt loops
I hook on sixteen spoons,
It’s why at my house there’s
Ten freezers in each room
And toppings stashed inside the pocket
Of each coat I own
And why I’m working on a way
To eat ice cream through my phone.
Ice cream may not be perfect
But it’s very very close
So to sundaes, cones, and chipwiches,
Let’s raise an ice cream toast.
