80th birthday poem

Sue, Ron, Ed (et.al.), Marthha, Shirly, & I got Mom a digital cameers for her 80th. Here is the poem I wrote.

"What can we get Mother?"
This question has been weighty.
We wanted something special, 'cause
This year you're turning EIGHTY!

And so we've thought of all the things
That you consider fun.
You had fun on vacation, but
Vacation now is done.

You have got your pictures, so
You always will recall
The happy time at Myrtle Beach.
(But please forget the fall!)

You've always loved your pictures. You
Take pictures with great glee.
"A camera is the perfect gift!"
Both Sue and I agree.

But Ron, alas, says, "Cameras
For film are now pass*.
That type of camera is not sold
In any store today."

"You are loonie!" we reply
And run off to the mall
Where we find out that he's right -
They have them not at all.

Like old Victrola radios
Are not in modern stores,
Cameras for film are gone.
They aren't sold anymore.

So a new-fangled digital
We had to get for you.
To take a shot, just point and click.
That's all you have to do.

And when the camera is all full
Call Ron or Deb, and they
Can take the disc to CVS
And make prints right away.

Your pictures will look just like now!
And though you have turned 80,
This camera will show all the world
That you're a modern lady!

Part 3

And so I grabbed my Kindle and
I clicked on "Kindle Store".
I found "Romance 4 Dummies"
And I found a whole lot more.

"Write on Kindle. Make Big Bucks",
"Romance From A to Z",
I purchased these, but drew the line.
"Write Sex!" was not for me.

And thus encumbered, I was ripe
To start my new career,
I grabbed my Kindle, flipped the switch
And sadly groaned, "Oh dear!"

My Kindle's screen was just a blur.
The darned thing broke, you see.
And, though it soon would be replaced,
It disappointed me.

"Perhaps it is a sign from God".
I thought despondantly.
The truth, I fear, is not explained
So metaphysically.

Could the truth be that I'm lazy?
Are my excuses trite?
Might I just be inventing
All these reasons not to write?

Shakespear had no web page
(Although he has lots now!)
Dickens had no Kindle, yet
He muddled through somehow.

To write a novel, all one needs
Is paper and a pen -
Plus, one needs the fortitude
To simply just begin.

I will start now - yes, I will -
But first a quick respite
To make an entry in my blog
'Bout why I seldom write.

Maybe, though, a magazine
On "How to Blog" I'll find.
Its good, you see, that I have got
A ton of extra time.

I'm sure you'll soon be seeing me
In nearby libraries.
Were Oprah not retired, you
Could catch me on TV.

For TV, though, I need new clothes.
I can't write till I shop.
Besides, my class was cancelled,
And then my Kindle stopped,

My pen is low on ink, alas!
My paper's running out.
My desk is just a mess and I
Have got to clean it out.

Too bad these things all slow me down.
I'll someday write, you know...
But now the phone is ringing and
I really have to go...!

Part 2

Perhaps you think I'm petulent!,
But I cannot agree,
Because I heard this bummed out news
And it did not stop me,

I thought instead, "I guess that i'll
Just have to change my plans.
Perhaps I'll write romances, 'cause
Demand for them is grand!

"Readers love a lusty tale,
So that's what I'll write now,
But first, before I write one, I
Will have to find out how,"

Because, you see, I'd never read
A single romance tale.
"How hard can it be?" I thought
"I bet I do not fail."
TO BE CONTINUED

another way (revised 6/7/11)

Sometimes there is nothing
That makes good sense to me.
Things that seems the most absurd
Are likeliest to be.

Geriatric peers create
Confusion hourly.
Guarenteeing multitudes
Of small emergencies.

All of this I just expect,
For it is nothing new.
Languor and stupidity
Combine to pull me through.

But then I signed up for a class
I hoped would rescue me.
"Mount a web page. Make some cents",
The ad called out to me.

I'd hoped to launch a business
Where, for some quite modest pay,
I'd write a rhyme that said just what
The buyer hoped to say.

Alas, the class was cancelled!
So now I'm high and dry,
But low and moist or high and dry,
I know I'll still re-try!

TO BE CONTINUED

New Poem

My church holds an off-beat fellowship event every once in awhile that they call "Coffeehouse at the End of the Universe". Here is a poem I wrote to read at the event.

I have got a tale to tell.
It’s short and sweet and sad.
The tale’s about a waitress and
The troubles that she had.

Each day she carried dishes of
Fine food to those who dined,
But never ate a morsel or
Imbibed a sip of wine.

For she had not a nickel in
Her pocket or account.
She used each dime that she was paid
To help her parents out.

So she was often hungry and
Dehydrated as well.
Its no wonder that the lass
At last collapsed and fell.

Thank God her guardian angel was
On hand that very day.
She laid her gently on the ground
And then was heard to say,

“This lovely girl has worked real hard
And now deserves her sleep.
I’ll put a spell upon her that
Preserves her slumber deep.

Each day her beauty will increase
Till all on earth desire
To hold her tight in eager arms
And thus ignite her fire.

But she will not awaken till
Some very humble cutie
Explains to her why he deserves
The blessing of her beauty.”

And so it was that, for a year,
The lass maintained her slumber.
While just outside, in her front yard
Her suitors grew in number.

One by one, they each appeared
Before the snoozing miss,
Explaining how they knew she would
Awaken at their kiss.

For hey were strong, they said, and kind
And gave to charity.
Some said they weren’t doctors but
They played one on TV.

They counted up their Facebook friends,
They brought a resume.
But when they pecked her on the cheek
They all met with dismay.

For she snoozed on quite placidly
Oblivious as before,
There were some occasions when
The lady even snored!

One by one the suitors tried
Until just one remained.
“Step up,” the Guardian Angel said,
Expecting just the same.

“Name first, then credentials”
Guardian Angel said to him.
The suitor said, “I’m Jeri, and
I am a Lutheran.”

A harp glissando sounded and
There was a slight eclipse.
Beauty, rising from her bed,
Kissed Jeri on the lips.

They later bought a castle
By the Mystic Fairy sea.
And ever since the two of them
Have lived there happily

limerick

Lloyd, my dear friend, emailed me and asked me to write a limerick about Ann Coulter. (My friends tend to do things like that, thus the moniker "Dial a Writer") Here is the resulting limerick.

Ann Coulter thinks she’s a fine lady
Whose shit comes out smelling like daisies.
Only Protestant whites
Are right in her sight.
Which proves that she’s one off the crazies.

But, dear Lloyd, don’t you see, that’s just fine.
Let that bitch stay off with her own kind.
Then we cripples, gays, Jews,
White or black or confused,
Free of them, can invent, govern, rhyme.

Rhymes at last

I haven't rhymed in a while - used to be that I wrote rhymes galore, but no one needs them now, so I don't. I guess I need to work more of them into the blog...?

Anyway, Mom's and Dad's old folk's home has a poetry group that puts out a book of rhymes. Here are some of my favorites.

Mary had a little lamb.
It's fleece was white as snow,
And everywhere that Mary went
That lamb was sure to go

One day it followed her to school.
The children were agog.
Lambs are not allowed, as a rule.
So why didn't she just get a dog?
ISABEL STEINER

Jack Sprat could eat no fat.
His wife could eat no lean.
The doctor said, "Mrs Sprat,
YOU HAVE TO CHANGE YOUR CUISINE!
JOYCE GLOCKLER

Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep
Along with her keys and her purse.
It could be worse- -
She could have had a flat tire.
THE POETRY GROUP

Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet.
It wasn't the day for curds and whey,
So she jolly well ate as she pleased.
LINDA BURGETT


OK - I'll start rhyming again. Used to be that I sold rhymes on a web page. I actually made a tiny bit of money that way. It's easier to write rhymes if there is some reason they are needed. Maybe I'll try a web page again....?

SONG

TO: LEAVIN’ ON A JET PLA,NE

No, my bags aren’t packed but I’m ready to go.
I’ll buy new clothes in a second hand store.
No need to tell the staff or say good bye,
Now the crew’s arrivin’, its early morn.
Usually I would feel forlorn.
Instead I am so giddy I could fly.

So kiss me and smile for me,
I’ve decided to be free,
All I need’s a place to plug my chair.
It reclines, so I can sleep.
I’ll bet that I can eat cheap.
Oh, babe, I’m glad to go.

Shower poem

What Sunrise has discovered,
And it pays off handsomely,
Is that folks won’t pay for showers
If one hands them out for free.

Nothing here is free, of course.
To live here costs a fee.
This fee includes two showers.
If they’re skipped, folks might want three.

‘Cause, to a filthy resident,
The utmost luxury
Is found in taking showers,
So Sunrise will, for a fee,

Provide three weekly showers.
$600.00 is the fee.
If Sunrise gets folks real dirty
Then they’ll pay that happily.

I've fallen for this shower scheme,
Although reluctantly
And Sunrise will be quite content
To just clean up on me.

What's the Use?

I really just lost it. I get 2 showers a week here and one is supposed to be tonight and I've been looking forward to it for days and now THEY HAVE NO HOT WATER AND THEY DON'T KNOW WHEN IT WILL BE FIXED. I can't do anything but sit here and cry. I really am losing it.

Following is what I'd originally planned to write:
I'm super bummed out because my TV isn't working! It's pathetic how much one depends on the TV in situations such as mine, because it isn't possible to move around the room at will and just go over and get on the computer for a minute or grab a book. You have to sit where they leave you until you can get someone to move you, and then, where ever they move you, you have to make yourself content there for a while. It's much easier to do this with a working TV.

BUT get over it - right? I have an in-home TV repairman coming tomorrow, so hold your breath!!!!

I went home for Mother's Day this afternoon and borrowed a radio because I usually listen to music on the computer, which is all the way across the room from my easy chair, which is where I want to sit when I'm tired from being in the wheelchair all day, or else I listen to the music channels on TV, which is broken.

TO: BEVERLY HILLBILLIES SONG

Let me tell you all a story about Debaroo.
Her TV broke and she don't know what to do.
Then one day, just to satisfy her needs
She picked up a book and she settled in to read.
Novel, that is.
Lots of words.
Glory be.

Breakfast

Suddenly all the residents seem to be mad all the time. This is not what I would call, in, my totally unprofessional opinion, a typical group of cognizant older adults. To me, most of them seem to always be in a fog of confusion. Anyway, there is a lot of shouting and unpleasantness going on right now, especially at breakfast.

The other day this woman, who apparendtly thinks she is the queen of sheba, planted herself down at the table and demanded adamantly of any caretaker who passed within hailing distance, "Where is my toast!?" Finally, they brought her a plate with 2 pieces of toast on it, to which she respomded, "That is entirely too much toast! I only want one piece of toast! Take it away!"

They did!

TO: My Favorite Things

“Why are you sitting there? You are in my space.
I’ve been here 3 years and I eat in that place!”
“Where is my toast?” “Eggs are runny and cold.”
“I want to leave but I go where I’m rolled.”

“Nurse, won’t you help me?” ”My coffee’s like water!”
“Where is my prune juice?” “I’m telling my daughter.”
“Why am I here now and what should I do?”
“You’re mean and hateful and I don’t like you!”

Breakfast chit chat is the tune that fills the dining scene.
I’d just skip breakfast, abandon this place, except that I need caffeine!

Risque Christmas card (but funny)

Back 20 years ago, AIDS was a death sentence, not a managable disease. SIDEBAR: THEY HAD A STORY IN THE POST TODAY ABOUT HOW KIDS ARE NOW ASSUMING ITS 'NO BIG DEAL' AND BEING CARELESS, AND THAT IS INCREDIBLY SCARY! Back then, Whitman Walker had a program where volunteers could buddy up with individuals who had full-blown AIDS and help provide whatever they needed until the patient died. Actually, probably they might still do this. Here is a link to their volunteer opportunties. Anyway, I did this (remember, this was 20 years ago, and I wasnt sick yet!). My buddy was Bob Edwards, an outrageously funny queen in his early 50's. He had lots of resources and really didn't need much of anything but another friend. He did have 2 ancient, decrepit dogs, though. One of them was named Snuffy, though I have no idea why I remember that. Well, one day he went away and left it to me to walk the ancient, decrepit weenie dogs.
So I took them out the loading dock door, and was merrily dragging them down the street ('cause they were so old they could barely walk), when suddenly a fat man waddles up to me, drops his trench coat, and is naked. He chases me back to Bob's place, me dragging the startled dogs and him shouting lewd remarks. This was my Christmas card entry about the event.

TO: Jingle Bells

Dashing toward the door
While the doggies lag and play.
O'er the field I run,
Freaked out all the way.

Obscene cat-calls ring,
Giving me a fright.
Why did that fat naked man
Take his coat off in my sight?

Oh-h-h-h-h
Dangling balls, Dangling balls,
Dangling all the way.
Why did that damned fat man have
To pick on me today-aye?
Dangling balls, Dangling balls,
Dangling all the way.
Why did that damned fat man have
To pick on me today?

Limerick

This blog bears a stinky aroma.
It's so dull it's been known to cause comas.
My life is a snore,
So this blog's nothing more.
Perhaps I'll vacation in Roma.

animal poem

I got another gig. This woman who goes to my church works at a local park and wrote stories about the animals there, and she wanted me to do them in rhyme, and then her husband will illustrate them. Here is the first one:

My name’s Casey rooster.
It’s important you should know
That I wake up the morning sun
Each day with my loud crow.

Then I make sure the hen house is
The way that it should be.
Each chicken sitting on her eggs
And clucking happily.

Boys and girls might visit and
So I will cluck “hello”.
Then gossip with the chickens when
Our visitors must go.

Cluck, cluck, cluckty, cluck,
Clahk, clahk, clahk!
Cluck cluck cluck cluck
Brack brack brack.

To keep the hen house running smooth
I get the chickens fed,
And then make sure they have their rest
By sending them to bed.

The chickens sleep real cozy at
The setting of the sun.
For I will watch and keep them safe.
My job is never done.

Dark and quiet is the night.
Most sounds can be ignored,
For they are just the silly clucks
Of lazy chicken snores.

But then I hear a noisy “CRACK”.
And, much to my surprise,
See, way across the hen house
A pair of small red eyes.

At first I’m scared because I know
This might be something bad.
But then I see it is a rat
And I just get quite mad.

“You dirty rat,” I holler. “You
Have come our eggs to steal.
You think a nice warm chicken egg
Would make a good rat meal.”

I got so mad I went into
A total rooster fury,
I crowed and clucked and spread my wings
And flapped them in a flurry.

Then, much to my surprise, my wings
Smacked on a leaning shovel.
And, much to my surprise, it seems
That shovel took a tumble.

And, much to my surprise, a “CLANG”
Went ringing through the air,
A tub was lying on the floor.
The shovel landed there.

The greedy rat that caused all this
Went squeaking on his way.
He was too scared to steal a nice
Warm chicken egg today!

And me? I’m one proud rooster ‘cause
My hens and eggs were saved.
The hens all still tell stories of
The night I was so brave.

© Deborah Taylor, 2010 All rights reserved

For Lloyd - so why do you think he likes these??? He's really a nice normal guy!!

TO: UP ON THE HOUSETOP
Sometimes my tummy makes me pause,
Nausea seems to be the cause.
I start to sweat and lose my poise,
And then my throat makes a gagging noise.

Belch, yucko, who wouldn’t go,
Belch, yucko, who wouldn’t go, oh,
Off to the bathroom, quick, quick, quick?
Chicken was bad and I’m quite sick.

Poem about marijuana

My youth was squandered in a cloud
Of happiness and peace,
I grew up, though, to join the world
Of heartbreak and disease.

Thank god I didn’t waste my life
In sweet euphoric bliss
When I was fully capable
Of feeling just like this,

For it was irresponsible
To be a wanton puffer
When I could just give all that up
To languish, mourn, and suffer.

Why should munchies be my fate?
When I could eat my fill
Of icky meats and yucky beets
And such assorted swill.

So I rely no longer on
A bong to make me happy,
And live through each day soberly
Despite the fact life’s crappy.

nice poem about snow

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

I got a gig!

Back when David was alive, I used to write nonsense verse for him all the time. He gave tons of parties on people's birthdays, or when they retired, or got married, or had a baby, etc. He used different gimmicks to work the poem into the party entertainment-for example, he'd have me write the poem to the tune of a well known song and everyone, or a group of people, would sing it. He also might use a theme, and have each teacher read a poem that expanded on the theme. Once,
when he they were taking a well-liked principal (David was a school teacher) out on a dinner cruise to celebrate his retirement, he had me write a musical episode of Gilligan's Island, with different teachers playing the various characters (Skipper, Mary Ann, etc.) If you think this is a good ides and would like to do something similar for a friend or relative, just email me at dialawriter@yahoo.com I'll give you some examples in the next few posts.
Anyway, the gig is that a guy in the church choir called. He says some church people have decided to have a "beatnik style" coffee house on March 7. He wants me to write some "beatnik style" poems to read while a guy plays bongo drums. Now, of course, I have absolutely no idea what a "beatnik style" poem is. If any of you know of a good site to go to to learn, I would appreciate it if you'd let me know! All I know is a poem that Maynard G. Krebs read in a beatnik coffeehouse on the Dobie Gillis Show way back in my childhood. It was:

"Little bird,

With your beak pressed up against the pet store window,

There is no birdseed for you today,

Only death!"

More later...

Here is a link to actual beatnik poetry

Song

Sing to the tune of “I've Been Working on the Railroad”


I’ve been working on elections
Twenty-four long years.
Complicated new procedures
Don’t cause excess fears.

Then I hear the Board start going,
“Debbie is embarrassing to me.
We just hate her awful wheelchair,
So we all agree!.

Debbie’s got to go. Debbie’s got to go. Debbie’s got to roll away-ay-ay.
Debbie’s got to go. Debbie’s got to go. Debbie’s got to roll away.

Let’s say she retired!
That could work, you know-ow-ow-ow.
Let’s say that Debbie has retired!
‘Cause she is embarrassing, you know.

Singin' fi, fie, fiddly-i-o
Fi, fie, fiddly-i-o-o-o-o
Fi, fie, fiddly-i-o
Debbie’s got to go.

Time to Rhyme

I live in a tiny room,
A room that’s really not
Sufficient to accommodate
The tons of stuff I’ve got.

I straighten, sort, and throw away,
But still my things don’t fit,
And, no matter what I need,
I can not locate it.

Were I to be a Buddist monk
I would fit here just great,
For Buddist monks live austere lives.
Not much accumulates.

But no, not me, I’m not austere.
I’m sure, without a doubt,
That I’ve not got one single thing
That I could live without.

And so I try to organize.
And now I’ve done so, see,
I decided each thing’s proper place
Is just where it might be.

Cleaning by semantics is
A very pleasant chore
(Although it doesn’t help me find
The stuff I’m looking for!)