“We’ll bring it up later,” We said about our underwears Then we left the pile of’em On the bottom of the stairs, And on the step above’em Rolled neatly into pairs We left a dozen socks And three brushes for our hairs. On the 4th step from the bottom My stack of comics went Right below my sister’s piggybank Chock full of Lincoln cents. A tennis racket and mobile device Were on the next step up. Three picture frames followed, two candelabra, Then one antique porcelain tea cup. Mom don’t love when we put stuff there We don’t get what’s the matter Though to climb up the steps The way that they is We sure could use a ladder.
Tag Archives: moms
MOMMY MATH
Mom helps with math
And is usually good
But subtracting sometimes
She takes more than she should
Like when I take ten
Candies out of our jar
And she says “Give them ALL back!”
That’s taking too far.
So I say, “If you take one
Then I’ll have nine.
Not great, but a difference
I guess will be fine.”
Then she says “I think
That I’ll take all ten now.”
That she ever passed math this way
I don’t know how.
RETURN OF THE ROUND TOP
Shift attention from the whales
Disregard the Barrier Reef
There’s a new endangered species
Needing focus and relief
At one time its abundance
Rivaled all the Earth’s insects
But nearly never now does one spot
Sweatshirts with classic crew necks
Where hoodies have not overrun them
Vests nip at their cuffs
So crewnecks get almost no love
On streets, beaches or bluffs:
For their nifty circle collar
For their lack of drawstring knots
For the Farmer Tans they gift
(If Farmer Tans are what you want).
So sing a song for crew necks
Say a prayer that they’ll come back
The Return can happen slowly,
starting on the discount racks,
Until more than Moms and rowers
Sport’em and help lift the hex,
on the classic crew neck sweatshirt:
comfy, harmless, unisex.
EIGHN’T THAT THE TRUTH
Mom’s a driver, hand on the van
Mom’s a cook, hand on the pan
Mom’s a shopper, hand on the bread
Mom’s a tailor, hand on the thread
Mom’s a scrubber, hand on the towel
Mom’s a builder, hand on the trowel
Mom’s a math whiz, hand on the bills
Mom’s a doctor, hand on the pills.
It all proves that
Mom’s part octopus:
At least eight-handed
Looking after us.
NOT POSITIVE ID
When she brought home
my new kid sister
Mom said,
“Say hello to Carrie.”
I thought that’s what Mom said,
but am I certain?
Well, no.
Not very.
Because Dad calls the kid
“L’il Chicken”
or
“Queen of Sheba-Geneeba Sleuth.”
While Mom says to her,
“Just look at you,
My Sweet Precious Little
Houndstooth!”
Gramma sings
“Hi Boo-ga-loo,”
while strolling baby
‘round the block.
Grampa asks Dad
for pictures of
“My favorite l’il
Cuckoo Clock.”
Me?
I’ve learned:
forgetful silly tongued grownups
can be scary.
Lucky for my sister
I for one
will be sticking with her real name:
Carrie.
THE BOOT FLEECE POLICE
Mom got new rain boots
Red, rubber, and tall.
Dad asked, “How’d you choose’em?”
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 in those 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 even 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.
Tweed Typewriter 