Friday, June 27, 2014

Dearest Family

Always, it seems, the three of you are trying to force me to stop writing, forcing me to come to drastic measures.

            Many authors do not achieve the success I have. Think this over. I’ve been an honorable mention by the Upper West Side Christian Journal three times. If that is not success, what is?

            At the very least, your demands of me as both a father and a husband are unreasonable. For the kids, I must cook meals, help with homework, read bedtime stories. I like to do these things, but time should be made for my writing, as well.

            Wilma, my loving wife of twelve years, you also have demands of me. For you, I must clean, watch Dancing with the Stars and make bubble baths 24/7. How can I write the Great American Novel when I must focus on Tom Bergeron asking America to vote for their favorite?

            Really, I must wash the dog, take out the trash, mow the lawn; wash the car…the list goes on. Henry, you are of age that you can begin to assist your old man with some of these things.

            Instead of demanding I do certain things, listen to my demands. I want unconditional love, support, and cases of grape-flavored soda, like I used to have when I was a kid. Forget what Dr. Trundle says, this mild-mannered author throws caution (and blood sugar) to the wind!

            Time for me to write should be a given, I think. Please, my demands are very reasonable, I believe. With all that I do for this family, Daddy needs alone time. And Wilma, you have to stay with the kids in this rare, literary instance.

            Even geniuses can’t produce masterpieces all the time. My massive brain needs rest, which is my final demand. Then, I will write the Great American Novel, make loads of money and live comfortably for the rest of our lives.

            Read the first letter of each section, dearest family, and you will finally understand how I feel. It’s a secret message, like my beautiful little daughter Greta loves. You can force me to do these chores, you can try to take time away from my writing, but you cannot force me to quit doing what I love. Read my demands carefully, think them over. I’ll be at the grocery store, because I’m about to begin my first chapter. And we’re all out of grape soda.



Saturday, May 17, 2014

'Twas the Plight Before Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even my spouse.

When I heard the noise from downstairs my children were asleep,
They were journeying through dreamland, counting some sheep.

The humming from my front room got louder as I neared ,
That was when I saw the fat man with the scruffy white beard.

He was wearing a large coat the color of an apple,
It stood out from my furniture like a dachshund of dapple.

He was bent over my tree, messing with my kids’ gifts,
He was taking in the Christmas cookies with long, thoughtful sniffs.

He was listening to a gift (a doll) talk with one large ear,
When I finally said: “What are you doing here?”

The man turned in surprise and yet out a short yell,
When he turned his belly knocked down an ornament (a bell).

“Didn’t I say don’t come to my house when my husband’s around,
If he gets ahold of you, he’ll kill you, you’ll drown!

“If he catches you, Nicky, you’re done for, you’re history,
Christmas will be ruined, your disappearance a mystery.

“My kids are here, it is Christmas night!
What are you trying to do, give me a fright?”

The fat man smiled and strode over to me,
His breath smelled of peppermint, his eyes twinkled with glee.

“I have to deliver presents all night, in the cold, on my sleigh,
Can’t I spend a little time with my sweetheart, make my holidays gay?”

His voice was so convincing, his tone was so sweet,
He squeezed me tight in his coat and lifted me off of my feet.

We were kissing each other when my daughter’s presence made me pause,
She was standing there, screaming: “I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus!”

Saturday, April 19, 2014

The Weather of Ohio

It casts a shadow across the land,


Many who see it cannot stand


The weather of Ohio.



Sometimes cold, snowy and gray,


Then clear and sunny the very next day,


The weather of Ohio.



Meteorologists cannot decide,


Whether to stay indoors or go outside


The weather of Ohio.



It sinks its claws of cold air in deep,


When we twist and turn and try to sleep


The weather of Ohio.



The heat of the state makes situations dire,


As if we are all standing in a big pit of fire


The weather of Ohio.



We'll wait another thousand years,


To see if Mother Nature ever cheers


The weather of Ohio.

The Sunshine State (Retirement Home)

Palm trees are swaying in the summer breeze,

Mr. Potter sits in his easy chair and pees.


Oranges grow plentifully all around,

Ms. Woo in the home can't hear a sound.


The waves hit the beach with the sharpness of a sword,

The sunburnt old couples play shuffleboard.


When vacation time comes the families arrive,

Mr. Swanson in room 64 is no longer alive.


Here are the dolphins coming out to play,

Mrs. Johansson plays bingo all day.


Running across the beach is the sandpiper,

Mr. Tanner is quiet, pooping his diaper.


The flea markets are full of rich women and men,

Mrs. Andrews is laying there, naked again.


The golden sand is soft on the tourists' toes,

Mr. Layton is sick, and should blow his nose.

On the clear ocean floor swim several sea turtles,

Mrs. Daniels and Smith try to pull up their girdles.
The theme parks open and people flock in like sheep,

Mr. Ormond yells: "Cut that racket, we're trying to sleep!"