My Mother Sits Out on the Couch

My Mother Sits Out on the Couch ~

 

 

Why do mothers lay,

Out, for us all,

To see as they,

Throw out their,

Arms and legs,

For us all to study?

 

Truly she’s a,

Beauty,

But, at certain times,

I would be inclined towards,

Ego-bashing.

 

How can my mother find,

Peace when she,

Spreads herself like a,

Butterfly,

For,

Is there no modesty here?

 

Even butterflies have them.

 

When I walk through,

The hallway this,

Unashamed butterfly,

Flaunts its toes at me-

 

I can never seem to escape!

The bug out of her cocoon,

Her blankets falling,

Around its form haphazardly.

 

Mother, I’m trying . . .

But you do look a sight.

Cold Tea?

~ * Cold Tea? * ~

{Oh, no, you have got to be kidding}

 

 

My tea became cold,

Can you believe that?

It sat upon the ledge in,

The fridge,

Never steaming,

As it used to steam,

Without the heat,

That toasted my hands,

As I held the cup.

 

No,

It is transformed . . .

No, no,

It is no longer tea,

But some-kind of iced-up,

Atrocity,

That a stone age man,

Might have-

Described as,

Cool water.

 

No, no, no . . .

How could this happen?

My poor iced,

Cup of tea in the refrigerator-

Heart’s disaster!!

Toilet Problems

~ Toilet Problems ~

 

So I stood,

Changing,

Minding myself,

Happily,

Until, behind me gurgled,

Another lively,

Item.

 

It sounded like it,

Wanted to blow,

Its own nose,

As I was,

Carefully minding,

My own business-

I hadn’t e’en,

Sat upon it!

 

It got into my,

Face and,

Made that sad-

Noise-

The water went down-

Again!

 

I tried to hurry,

As outside my stall,

I heard people begin,

Muttering.

 

A kind woman,

Knocked and asked,

After my well-being,

And I squeaked out,

“No worries!”

 

But,

To defy my words,

The toilet blew,

Again,

I moaned.

 

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

 

My face burned.

 

“Fine,” I moaned,

“perfectly fine.”

 

I walked out at last,

With my head held high,

As the toilet-

Burped out,

One last,

Good-bye.

 

I didn’t say good-bye,

And I ignored the crowd,

Truly dismayed.

Buick

~ Buick ~

 

 

The Buick across the street,

Shining back at me mercilessly,

Gleaming through the fence as it stares-

Staring in a malicious Snape-sparkle,

I don’t understand what I did,

To make the black polish pinpoint me-

 

Perhaps it isn’t really staring at me,

Because it sits on its four weeks fatly,

Winking up at all the passers,

Who go their merry way past it.

Perhaps it is very clever,

After all, it is a Buick- I think,

And- maybe- just perhaps-

There is nothing left of the car,

Save for the nonchalant way it talks,

To everyone that passes,

The gleaming polish that it uses,

To intimidate babes in strollers,

And dogs that want something to bark at.

 

Maybe this is because there is nothing left,

Of the poor car,

On the interior.

Perhaps- perhaps it is all gleam,

And it feels that need to intimidate me,

Because . . .

The interior is demolished.

 

That must be the reason for this.

Creatively Mindful

Creatively Mindful ~

 

 

Pinkish, bizarre, cat-kisser,

Stylistic,

Curly-haired,

Nonsensical,

Need-obsessed,

Swing-dancer,

But compulsive horrific rude,

Person,

That doesn’t seem,

To feel,

As if,

These things,

Are fashionable.

 

Yet,

I enjoy not having fashion . . .

In the middle of,

The night,

It’s difficult,

To be ill-used,

By these thoughts,

Yet I must be,

Slightly insane,

Because,

It can be,

More than one would think as just,

Creatively-twisted,

 

To be plagued by these thoughts,

At night,

When beneath,

The ghostly covers,

I think of all of the words,

That describe who I really am-

So in the end,

I really am quite,

Glad,

That I can display my real colors . . .

In the dark night-

So fashionable . . .

I- love it.

Newt Bubbles

Newt Bubbles

 

 

Squeezed like choking throats,

The bubbles from my newt tank,

Cute little sweet guy,

He makes me coo,

As I have not done in ages-

Like baby coos.

 

I know he just wants to eat,

But when he lifts his black head,

That is hard to imagine-

I know that it’s me the newt needs,

Because,

He’s mine!

Oh, darling newt,

Little hands and little feet,

Swimming beneath the bubbles,

Of that filter I never changed-

But glory! He loves me!

No bigger than my pinky,

The black and orange fiery zest,

Its tank-

Loves me, loves me-

 

So . . . I guess that’s it.

Who cares about the bubbles,

My darling zest,

For how could one so tiny,

Even care that I have yet to change,

Its filter-

Let it choke! Choke!