Category Archives: Humor

Fresh Worms for Sale

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Fresh Worms for Sale

Many have not come to terms
with the benefits of worms.
They find them repulsive and squishy.
Revolting, creepy, crawly, ishy.

But these folks tend to just react
without examining each fact
of all that folks could find to do
with worms if they’d just buy a few.

Granted, worms that wad and mingle
lack the charm of just a single
worm that can be used for bait
on a hook and with a weight,

but every person knows this use,
which always calls for worm abuse.
Worms, however, also toil
to break up and aerate the soil.

In jars with holes poked in the lids,
worms make good pets for little kids.
Good for hours of watching, they need
little care and little feed.

Worms don’t need collars, leashes, dishes,
never go against your wishes.
They are not barkers nor run-arounds.
None of the nastiness of hounds.

They have no hair to grow and shed.
You do not have to pat their head.
They have no other nasty habits
like gerbils, hamsters, cats or rabbits.

You don’t have to change their litter.
When traveling, you don’t need a sitter.
No vet bills when your pets are worms–
no fleas nor ticks nor mites nor germs.

Worms take up very little space
and may be trained to run a race.
And if you make a well-placed bet,
they just might get you out of debt.

The benefit of worms now told,
May I consider this worm sold?
Surely you’ll find much to do
with one or two that leave with you.

If you’re not a  fisherman
and if a pet’s not in your plan,
If you are a sadistic sickie,
just put one down your girlfriend’s dickie!*

*for the youth among us, a dickey is a turtle neck or collared inset
that may be worn under a vee-necked sweater or jacket to create the illusion that one is wearing a sweater or blouse under it.

The Prompt: Embrace the Ick–Think of something that truly repulses you.  Hold that thought until your skin squirms.  Now, write a glowing puff piece about its amazing merits.

Enough’s Too Much

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Enough’s Too Much!!

Enough’s too much when it comes to fish
or any other smelly dish.
Too much for castor oil in spoons
or relatives on honeymoons.
Amoebas?  Any one’s too much,
and a date who wants you to go Dutch
clearly tells you he’s not “it.”
One mosquito, when you’re bit,
is not “enough,” but “one too many.”
when your preference is “not any!”

Kids with colds and snoopy neighbors,
tiresome chores and heavy labors,
bitter pills and jerked-off scabs,
rainy days with no free cabs,
diarrhea, scabies, gout?
Too much! Too much, without a doubt!
“Enough’s enough” is repetitious,
obvious and almost vicious.

So don’t go spouting it at me.
I hate cliches from A to Z.
I won’t have any said to me.
If you use them, you’re dead to me!
“It is sufficient” I will accept.
“I’ll have no more”  is most adept.
But don’t go muttering platitudes
at folks like me with attitudes,
or I promise we’ll be getting rough
enough to prompt, “Enough’s enough!”

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Enough Is Enough.” Wow, this sounds so grouchy.  It is meant tongue-in-cheek.  I’ve probably used the phrase hundreds of times myself—usually directed at myself when I have lost my keys or glasses for the dozenth time that day!

Once Upon a Lime in Mexico

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Once Upon a Lime in Mexico

I was just a small amoeba living on a lime,
and though Judy disinfects her fruit every single time,
I fear that the bartender doesn’t bother to
so that is how the tale occurred that I am telling you.
She squeezed her lime above the ice, then dropped it in the drink.
The Coca Cola fizzed up and the ice began to clink.
As she took her first big swallow, I lost hold of the lime
and slid down a soft pink chute into another clime.

I’d heard of other journeys and knew how this might end,
but I decided I’d enjoy every curve and bend.
I wound up in a reservoir where I gave in to sleeping,
but woke up to a million of me jumping, kicking, leaping.
It wasn’t half so pleasant as it had been before,
so I commenced to swim around, looking for the door.
Unfortunately, though I found it, it seemed to be blocked.
The wind was brisk, the waters churned, but the way out was locked.

When I heard the one who had consumed me groan and cry and cuss,
I rued the fate to which that Cuba Libre had doomed us!
For as distressed as she must be with headache and each cramp,
I was suffering equally from jostling and the damp.
For two days she lived on Electrolit, in bed and with no food.
And I held on for my dear life, listening to my brood
tell of what we could expect, flushed to a watery hell
down in the earth with all our kin—this legend they knew well.

Two days I lived like this, just holding on for my dear life,
listening to her pleas as spasms cut her like a knife—
too ill to go for help and unable to even sit.
I wondered how much worse this grisly tale was going to get.
Then suddenly, this morning, I felt the waters swirl.
I felt myself slip-sliding right out of the girl
into a clear container where I could see the world
from prison I’d once more escaped, or rather, I’d been hurled!

I felt the jostling and the engine of the moving car
which set up small vibrations in my little jar.
Yet still my progeny and I enjoyed the five mile ride.
It was so much better now that we were not inside
that dark and windswept place where we’d resided for two days.
Though I’ll admit none of our legends accounted for this phase.
No other amoebian Aesop had written any story
that took a turning such as this. Former endings had been gory!

I heard the car door open, footsteps and a creaking door.
Other footsteps, blinding light, and I was freed once more!
Spread onto a sheet of glass, surveyed by a big eye,
I breathed a sigh of pure relief. I’m such a lucky guy.
While they weren’t looking, I slipped off and landed on a shelf
where ever since I’ve been observing others like myself
who have escaped amoeba hell at least for a small time.
While I’m in amoeba heaven, and my dears?  It is sublime!!!

So clean, well-lit and active. Just like a picture show.
I sit here so languidly and just go with the flow,
calling out encouragement to visitors like myself.
And now and then, others come and join me on my shelf.
The girl who works here likes to put her sandwich very near,
where it serves as a good cushion for those of my kind, I fear.
The moral? Take care what winds up inside you, please, my friends;
for in spite of all my warnings, this story never ends.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Once Upon a Time”—tell us about something that happened to you in real life last week — but write it in the style of a fairy tale.

Sorry, friends, this one is another groaner!!!!

Hindsight: From Grief to Verb Tense and Beyond!

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https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/hindsight/

From Grief to Verb Tense

The Prompt: Hindsight—Now that you’ve got some blogging experience under your belt, re-write your very first post.

My very first post was made on March 27, 2013. At that time, I thought my purpose in establishing a blog was to promote the book I’d been working on for the past two years,and so the blog was an announcement of the book and the next posting was a call for stories of how different people experienced and dealt with the grieving process. A few people did write in, but very quickly, I found that I didn’t want to be writing about and dealing with grief every day and this blog very quickly turned into a celebration of life again. Here is my very first post:

I’ve just sent the book I’ve been working on for 12 years to the printer!!!!

1 Master embossed -cream big & little spine copy copy
Lessons from a Grief Diary: Rebuilding Your Life after the Death of a Loved One
a new book by: Judy Dykstra-Brown and Anthony Moriarty, Ph.D.

 A widow’s grief diary chronicling the illness and death of her husband as well as the process of her recovery from grief over the next eight years is analyzed in alternating chapters by a psychologist. Includes methods of overcoming grief, suggested further reading and ending notes that summarize main points of the book.

Available on Amazon, Kindle and in Bookstores, including Diane Pearl Colecciones and Jose Melendrez’s store in the plaza in Ajijic, MX.

(The only change I’ve made to this post is to say that the book is now available.  For some reason I’d never changed over from saying it would soon be available.)

Then, on April 1, 2013, I published this post:

Someone sent me an invitation from NaPoWriMo to write a poem a day for a month, but I need a website to post them.  Since this is the only blog/website I have, I’m going to use this one.  There will be a poem each day for a month, all written on the day they were posted, dashed off quickly, but what fun to have completed 30 poems by the end of the month.  Please join me and post your poems here, as well.

Earlier today, someone posted a comment, then wrote back to change “lying”  to “laying.” Of course, I had to fight my better nature and write back that he was actually right the first time.  I then included this little poem, written in about a minute, to soften that pedantic blow.  Yes, I really am a “reformed” English teacher.  But I backslide now and then:

Old English teachers never die.
They just advise on “lay or lie?”
Driving friends who are grammatically hazy
Completely crazy!!!!

With that 4-line ditty, the course of this blog was reset and quickly became what it is today.

 

 

 

RESOLUTION

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The Prompt: To Be Resolved—We’re entering the final days of 2014 — how did you do on your New Year’s resolutions these past 11.75 months? Is there any leftover item to be carried over to 2015?

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Resolution

It isn’t my fault that my storybook’s still
thirty-two pages piled in a hill
next to the scanner on my kitchen table.
I’ll get it formatted when I am able.
Right after I glue all this beach stuff together—
each seashell and heart stone and pelican feather—
to make a Yule tree, then to make a Yule altar.
For weeks I’ve worked on them. Never did I falter.

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Then I had beach walks to do, daily swims,
tequila to drink as the sun slowly dims.
Everyone gathered to put down the day
and bring on the night time. What more can I say?

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A Saturday writing group, dinner with friends.
Of new obligations, the list never ends.
Now it’s two days till Christmas with parties to go to.
And a party to give that no one has said no to.

And so I’m not sure how many will come
I said “bring your friends” which I fear was most dumb.
It seems that I really don’t know how to do
a party where I only ask just a few.
I don’t  know how much food or know just how many
napkins to buy. Plates and cups? How uncanny
that I haven’t planned this thing better this year.
I’m not only slipping—I’ve lost it, I fear.

My thought streams are verging on, “Hey, what the fuck!”
I don’t know how many are bringing potluck
so there may be no food and not enough booze.
This party I’m giving may be a real snooze.
And right after this one are three potlucks more.
I think that it calls for a trip to the store.
I must clear out my house once I am able.
Clear all of my art projects off of the table.

 Hide my computer, relocate my scanner,
put up more Christmas lights under the banner.
There is so much for this writer to do
that I fear it will take one more week, maybe two
to format my book both for Kindle and print,
for somehow, my time has just got up and went.
This retreat to make time for my book has been taken
once more by busy work, book tasks forsaken.

But right after New Years, I swear they’ll be done.
No more excursions and no more beach fun.
I’ll sit at the table, right there in my chair.
I’ll chew on my pencil and worry my hair
and get this book formatted. Then get it sent
off to the printer so I can say “went.”
Instead of “will go” when all my friends ask
the state of the manuscript, stage of my task.

“I’m finished!” I’ll say. “Glory be, I am done!”
And I’ll feel less guilty for swimming and fun.
Then I’ll start in on the next book or two.
It won’t be hard, for there’s nothing to do
to distract me or keep me from doing my task.
Nothing to go to. No one to ask.
Except for my writers’ group, Friday night dance,
and a trip up the coast, if we have a chance.

The art show where I said I’d show a few pieces—
a ” few” obligations? The list never ceases.
I guess the truth is that our lives are made up
of what we must do and what we give up.
The irony, though, of the whole situation
is that it’s a matter of choice and duration.
The more tasks we find that we just have to do,
the more that we put off the remaining few.

I guess it’s a case of just fitting in
who we will be with who we have been.
That I keep on writing’s important because
I’d rather write “is” instead of put “was”
in front of “a writer” for the rest of my life;
but also in front of a friend, sister, wife.
For if we don’t put off living, doing and seeing,
the best stories we write will be tales of our being.

This is the tree in daylight. Palm fruiting stem covered in heart-shaped rocks and shells found on the beach, pelican feathers and flowers I made out of painted egg cartons.

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and may all your resolutions be met.

Why Kim Kardashian Should Have Another Helping of French Fries

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Why Kim Kardashian Should Have Another Helping of French Fries

Kim Kardashian made a shelf

of the back side of herself.

If she wants to make a chair,

she’d better add some more back there.

Calling Uncle Duckie

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The Prompt: Calling Uncle Bob—Have you ever faced a difficult situation when you had to choose between sorting it out yourself, or asking someone else for an easy fix? What did you choose — and would you make the same choice today?

Calling Uncle Duckie

I can’t get my link established. Guess I’m just unlucky.
Luckily, I have a fix. I just call Uncle Duckie!
He can fix most anything from formatting to routers;
but you’ve got to stay real calm. He doesn’t work with pouters!

“Uncle Duckie, dear,” I say via email or on Skype.
“I want to post my post now, but I have a little gripe.
I can’t get my poem to post in single space, my dear.
It looks too long when double-spaced, and I have a fear

no one will read a two-paged poem. Long postings are no fun.
Is there any way that I can get it down to one?”
“Hit shift-return at ends of lines,” he tells me really pronto.
On my blog he wears the mask. And me? I’m merely Tonto!!!! **

** Note: In Spanish, “Tonto” means stupid. In other words, if viewed in Guadalajara, our favorite childhood program would be called, “The Lone Ranger and Stupid!”

Pieromaniac

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stock-photo-homemade-organic-berry-pie-with-blueberries-and-blackberries-139194887

Pieromaniac

At any time of day or night,
I’m always open to a bite
of pastry stuffed with something nice,
in fact, pie is my favorite vice!

I am very very very
fond of all things flavored cherry,
and of all this cherry pleasure,
pie’s the one that I most treasure.

Good for breakfast, good for lunch,
on pumpkin pie, I love to munch.
Coconut or chocolate cream?
They are my fantasy and dream.

Banana, apple—oh, and peach!
Put one of them within my reach,
and I’ll purloin a piece or two.
No pie is safe within my view.

On the window ledge or table,
I’ll grab a piece if I am able.
In a coffee shop or grandma’s kitchen,
pie’s delicious. Pie is bitchin’

At picnics, parties, celebrations,
with coffee or with small libations,
at any occasion or event,
pie is the best accompaniment.

Yet there is one aspect of pie
that I hope never meets my eye.
I don’t like pie in just one place.
Please don’t shove it in my face!

Today, I’m using the weekly challenge: Pie—The scent of pastry baking, the sound of a fork clinking on a plate… This week, make our mouths water with stories about pie.

Sticking to the Text

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The Prompt: Bad Signal—Someone’s left you a voicemail message, but all you can make out are the last words: “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you months ago. Bye.” Who is it from, and what is this about?

“Corpus linguistics reflects the shift in academic focus from the brain
to the text as the appropriate source of information.”

Sticking to the Text

Mister tall, dark and handsome has left me in the lurch,
standing at the altar in my little hometown church.
My friends are all around me and my niece clutches her flowers.
The guests have entered all their pews ‘neath ribbon-bedecked bowers.
My bridesmaids stand around me in their pastel-colored gowns,
My father close beside me, all their faces swathed in frowns.

I have my cellphone with me in a special little pocket
sewn into my wedding dress beneath my granny’s locket.
It buzzes reassuringly. I know it is my love.
I fumble as I strip my hand of bracelet and of glove.
I reach into my bodice and switch my cellphone on.
I notice that my mother is looking sort of wan.

I ask at once if it’s my groom and if he will soon come.
“The guests are restless, dear, I say, and father’s looking glum.”
But it is not my true love talking. Rather, it’s his brother.
(The one I’ve always loved the most, though I would wed another.)
He voice-texts me he’s sorry, but I’m making a mistake.
His brother’s a philanderer, a scoundrel and a rake

who really loves another­—a lowlife moll named Ruth.
He says he’s tied him up for now ‘til I can hear the truth.
Their plans are just to bilk me, to steal my money and
make off with it together once he has claimed my hand.
He’s so sad he has to relate this, he tells me with a sigh.
“I should have told you months ago,” he adds, and then says, “Bye.”

The guests sit in stunned silence, for they’ve all overheard.
I hear a mourning dove call out—a most appropriate bird.
My father begins sputtering. My mom says not a word.
My bridesmaids begin fluttering. The day has turned absurd!
I hit “reply” upon my phone and hear it dial him.
It rings and rings and with each one, this day becomes more grim.

But finally he answers and I ask one question of him.
I ask him what his motives were and tell him that I love him!
He answers that he loves me, too, but never guessed the truth.
To take away his brother’s girl just seemed to him uncouth.
But now that he’d found out their plan, he couldn’t let me wed him.
He couldn’t stand to see me say my vows to him and bed him!

I asked him where he was just as he walked right up the aisle.
And love suffused my body to replace the shame and bile.
It mattered not a whit to me my groom had found another,
for I found a happier ending when I hitched up with his brother!
I’ll just let your imagination guess what happened next.
Just let me say I’ve always preferred sticking to the text!

 

An Ode to Dog Companions

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The Prompt: Literate for a Day—Someone or something you can’t communicate with through writing  can understand every single word you write today, for one day only. What do you tell them?

An Ode to Dog Companions

Darling little Frida, dearest Diego, too.
I have a little something I have to say to you.
If you’d like to go out walking every single day,
you have to start responding when I shout out, “Hey!”

That word means “Pay attention!” Its volume says “Right now!”
It doesn’t mean to take off after every passing cow
pulling me right after you, cause it is two to one,
and since my last foot surgery, I don’t much like to run!

Another little something I’d really like to tell
is that it was all your fault the last time that I fell.
When one of you runs toward the lake, the other towards the town,
your leashes wrap around me and the way I go is down!

Please don’t jump up on the screen whenever mealtime’s near.
I’ve had it mended more than once—a dozen times, I fear.
If you sit there quietly, your meal will be served fast.
I tell this to you each day, but my words don’t seem to last.

Another little something that needs badly to be said
is that it would be lovely if you’d shit behind the shed
instead of on the footpath or all over the grass,
for pooping over everything is really rather crass.

You don’t have to answer that dog across the street,
for he sets a barking record that you don’t have to beat.
The fighting cocks can crow without your high accompaniment.
(Albeit that your howls are growing quite magnificent.)

The hound of the Baskervilles was acting on a curse
and now that you have matched him, there’s no need to rehearse.
The owl will hoot hoot every night no matter what you do.
Ignore him, please. This is your mother begging it of you!

The dog food is for you dogs, and the cat food is for cats.
If you keep forgetting this, it’s going to drive me bats!
It does no good to try to knock cat dishes from the wall.
Those antics will not ever get you anywhere at all!

Diego, when I get home, please don’t drive Frida away!
You won’t believe there’s love enough, no matter what I say.
I have one hand for each of you, so let her have her share.
You are a dog and not a pig, so gluttony’s not fair.

Please don’t eat the cat bed and please don’t chase the cat.
Bullying’s not an answer. I will have none of that!
You found me on the street and did all that you could do
to make me bring you home with me to join my motley crew.

I am allergic to you dogs, and also to each cat,
although I know that you cannot be cognizant of that.
And so you want to sleep real near and have me stroke you often.
But when I do, it ends in itching, nose-blowing and coughin’.

Your species is a puzzle to which I don’t have a key.
Though it was at your insistence that I brought you home with me,
why is it every single time an open gate you see,
you’re through it, running down the street, so anxious to be free?

(for a similar prose answer to this prompt, go Here)