Ode to the Diet Beverly Hills

I've started my stand-by diet: a few different fruits each day,
and having repeated it time and again, I feel qualified to say
apples, unless of a rare and crisp nature, are mushy and generally gross.
Halfway into the core of one, I'm still starving and feeling morose.
The diet's mainstay, pineapple, for its fat-burning enzymes revered,
when fresh, is somewhat palatable.  If it's green, though, ones mouth can be seared.
And that popular phallic banana, which when peeled, fast begins to rot:
That one I'll leave for the monkeys though it's garnish for sundaes or not!
Tomorrow I'm finally in for a treat.  It's a watermelon to eat.
But for all my thumping to test for its ripeness, it well could taste flat and not sweet.
Blueberries, too, and cherries are good.  I wish there were more fruits like these.
However, I long to see them all "berried" ‘neath Cool Whip atop cream cheese.
Plums or grapes, frozen or plain, "not bad" until they are dried.
By the time I'm consuming ghastly prunes, I'll be famished for food that is fried!
Mangoes, too, are on my list of what I must partake.
But (gag me) their texture lends the sensation I'm swallowing snails or a snake.
I've noticed of late with this regimen, its slimming magic is slowing
as with each precious year's dissolution, my metabolism's lowering.
Next week (so I say) I'll banish forever this obsolete, once-potent "cure".
It long since has extracted from me any craving for food that is pure.
With a dull kitchen knife I took my papaya today and reverently sawed it.
With its flavor lingering there on my tongue, it struck me it hinted of vomit.

Ballad of Charlie and Molly

(Parody of "Frankie and Johnny")

Charlie and Molly were playmates
Golly, how they could play.
Mornings they'd meet at a corner
To plan how they'd spend summer days.
He was her pal, and she was his gal!

Molly ran down to their corner,
A melody filling her head.
‘Twas the ice cream man a-coming.
She was searching for Charlie instead.
He was her chum, but he was a bum.

She asked the ice cream vendor,
"Has my Charlie-boy been by?" 
"I seen him with some little cutie-pie
back there," was his reply.
He was her chum, but he was a bum.

Molly took off like a rocket
For she knew who the "cutie-pie" was.
And sure enough, she found him.
She lost it right then because
He was her chum, but he was a bum.

There by a scummy ditch
As he kissed her neighbor Grace,
Molly unwrapped her popsicle
And smeared it all over his face.
Then she kicked that bum into the scum.

"Pick me up and quick.
Pick me up from this ditch.
Now I have got nothing
When once I was so rich. I was your pal.
 Now I've lost my gal." 

A Little (Hiccup) Tale

A little tale I have to tell. (Hiccup)
Wish I could muddle through without a screw-up.
It starts out at a comic show. (Hiccup)
The stand-up doing jokes was such a crack-up 
My laughter turned to choking then.  (Hiccup)
And from my nose there squirted diet 7-up.
Embarrassed by all this, next I (Hic!)
Excused myself to the lady's room and quick.
I tried to drink some water and to (Hic!)
Apply another coat of Rose glow lipstick.
When I returned, that comedian was (Hiccup)
doing stuff best seen by only a grown-up.
I guess I got back just in time for (Hic!)
That crazy guy's most hilarious shtick.
Laughing violently, I felt (Hiccup)
I once again was gonna have a flare-up.
But why I just kept choking I don't (Hic!)
Know, but this time I was feeling rather sick.
That's when I first started doing (Hic!)
This.  Wish I'd gone instead to see some flick.
This all happened thirty days a (Hic!)
go.  I think I've now tried almost every trick-
From breathing into bags to even (hiccup)
Drinking from the opposite side of a teacup.
I'm tired of my husband trying to (hiccup)
Scare me and my talking just like this, so I'll sum up.
A guy like me was on Jay Leno's (Hic!)
Show. Why,  I could be the famous hiccup chick!
However, if I see again a (Hiccup)
Comic, I'll settle for a comic that is dried-up!

Admissions of a Sloth

I like to exercise my mind, but how I hate to work.
Whatever needs exertion is the action that I shirk.
Labor with the brain is fine.  I do it all the time.
How I love to sit and read or think of words that rhyme.

But send me to the bathroom with a brush so that I'll scrub,
And I'll barely rub the ring off.  Then I'll lie there in the tub.
Peek inside; you'll find me, a novel in one hand,
Resting as I'm soaking in my own little Bubble Land.

Clean the oven?  What a joke.  The most that I can stand
Is loading up the wash machine (a task that's merely bland).
Maybe run the vacuum once a week across the floor,
And quickly dab where dust is bad; most stuff I ignore.

As my jobs all pile up, housework's even more a chore.
Why must work that's physical be such a dreadful bore?
My well-ingrained aversion to utilizing muscle
Does have one exception: at the gym I like to hustle.

Kick boxing is rather fun though it makes me sweaty.
Step and dance are choreographed.  For those I'm always ready.
But I wish that just as quickly as from running on a tread
I could burn up calories doing  workouts in my head!

Something to Sneeze At

Such a strange phenomenon the sneeze,
A tickling in the nose that likes to tease.
But sneezes in succession cause unease,
Especially if accompanying a wheeze.
Jeeze! Think of someone swung from a trapeze,
Reaching for two arms, assaulted by a sneeze!

Just a silly reflex, yet everyone does sneeze,
Friends so keen make comments much like these:
"Fingers neath your nose; then give a squeeze,"
or "Sneezing before seven, and company's
expected," and also there is Germany's
"Gesundheit" to one's health upon a sneeze!

Some are even predisposed to sneeze,
exposed to light too bright or when they tweeze.
"Achoo," a syndrome's called, and one "disease,"
labeled  "snatiation" plagues its families,
who after having feasted, find nothing to appease
Their singular and constant need to sneeze!

At eighty miles an hour (when we sneeze),
Viruses escape into the breeze,
so if one day a winter's cold does seize
possession of the chest neath your chemise,
When I visit, keep a hanky handy, please,
And I shall say "God bless you," should you sneeze!

One Life To Live(Should Be Enough)

For more than twenty years I've watched my soap.
I guess that makes me something of a dope,
For I have had a lead role as the wife
In a soap I call "The Opera of My Husband's Crazy Life."

The Blessed In-Between

They say that in your twenties, your body's in decline,
And birthdays can get frightening after one hits 29.
Age 40 is even scarier. The downhill trend is hastened.
Age 50, maybe 60, for some can seem a dead-end.
I think if I could choose the age when things were at their best,
Looking back from where I'm at, my thirties were the finest.
I much enjoyed my teenage years except for all the stress
Of college tests and acne and sporadic miserableness.
My twenties were all right, despite our little money,
Years of dirty diapers, sleepless nights and noses runny.

Now I'm in my forties; the cream these years could be
Except for neck and back aches and new trials to beset me:
Man's dawn of recognition that time is much too fast.
I'm longing for a way that I can make a moment last.
Most will reach their seventies, an easy fact to glean.
The decade of the thirties thus becomes the "in-between."
Underlings, you should be wise.  Floss and moisturize.
Slather on the sun screen, especially round the eyes.
Watch your diet, cherish your kids, get a retirement plan.
Embrace the blessed in-between.  You can't live it again.

My Own Poetic License

Sometimes when I write, I tend to stretch the truth.
Same as when I gossip; I've done that since my youth.
It's not so much deliberate, but to tell a story well,
People stray from tedious facts to magnify the tale.

This habit's often utilized a bit, I have surmised,
In speeches heard at funerals for loved ones eulogized.
By writers of the news I'd say it oughtn't be employed.
If you want to see some "doozies" though, just look inside a tabloid.

I think, for my defense, especially in writing nonsense,
I need to find the place to get my own poetic license.
I pose to you this question-In my practice as a poet,
If I get a license, then when and to whom would I show it?

Practice in Prose Poetry

I turn the computer on and start to type.  The world turns
upside down with me inside.  My dog is purring to me to
come out.  My cat chases him around the world.  Around
they go twenty-five hours in a day.  I can't get out.  My
dog begins to shout.  Come out!  Come out!

I see poets everywhere, but few of them are making rhyme.
Even fewer are making good rhyme! Some are making crap
like this.  Now I know that I do not belong.  My dog is
begging on his paws.  Come out!  Come out!

The cat chases him around the world.  Around they go
twenty-five hours in a day. People are asking me the
symbolism in that. I laugh.  Now I really know this is crap.
Let me out.  Let me out.

I see the down part of the world above my head.  The poets
there are mostly dead.  Shakespeare smiles down at me.
Elegant John Donne behind Will stands beckoning to me.
I'm amazed to see dear Frost in this topsy turvy world.  He
must have got lost on a road not taken. My dog is sobbing
by the looking glass. When I get out I'll kill that cat, and
this crap won't be filed on my computer.

Child's Play (The Animal Song)

I wanna be a kooky kangaroo
And jump big circles all over the zoo.
I'd wear a big pocket on my body too.
I wanna be a kooky kangaroo.

I wanna be a dolphin so cool,
Having lots of fun swimming in my school.
The smartest of the mammals, the ocean as my pool.
I wanna be a dolphin so cool.

I wanna be a cute kitty cat
Sleeping all day getting happy and fat.
Adored as the king of my little habitat.
I wanna be a cute kitty cat.

I wanna be a parrot so bright
Showing off my plumage, ascending into flight.
I'd chatter with the cheetah in the jungle all night.
I wanna be a parrot so bright.

I wanna be a little playful dog.
No, I don't wanna be a lizard or a frog.
The comforts of home beat living on a log.
I wanna be a little playful dog.

So tell me, little one, what you would like to be.
there's so many animals on land, in sky and sea.
Would you live on a farm, in a swamp or in a tree?
What kind of animal do you wanna be?

Body Image

Sometimes studying the mirror I'm overcome with chagrin
So miserable and misshapen is this shell I'm dwelling in.
With thick disproportionate midriff there above my underwear,
I'm more the rotund apple than alluring luscious pear,
Making ludicrous comparisons to girls with waspy waists,
And my nose, Lord, Pinocchio's, upon my pleasant face
With its odd small accompanying hump Placed what!...To accentuate?

Next my hair that annoyingly won't grow; Colored tints I can't get right.
Moreover, my smile would much improve if my teeth were straight and white.
I'll barely touch on the other stuff, the biological no one can choose.
Suffice it to say I've shirts that I've stained,
And it's wise (in close quarters) to keep on my shoes!

Later, however, on better days, my focus redirects
To reviewing my favorite qualities, and what I see reflects
A somewhat shapely figure; Legs lean, well-formed and strong;
Lovely eyes, lips and breast, and lashes that are long.
And of my arms I'm particularly proud for my labor in the gym.
Still, I'm delightfully taken aback to hear someone say I'm slim.
So I'm obliged to acknowledge with accepting certainty
My temple, though flawed, was gifted by God
(And there's always rhinoplasty).

On Being American In Brazil

That tiny speck in the photograph
In a 10th story window- that's me.
I was leaning out to indicate
Where I stayed at the Hotel De "bree."
At least that's the way I pronounced it
Till my friend said, "Not that way.
Debret, the name of an artist from France,
one enunciates De "bray."
Then at an elegant restaurant
Was a chocolate treat, "cajuzhino" (ca/zhuw/zee/no)
Which again and again I mispronounced
Till I got it right "un pequino" (a little).
I barely could utter "coxinha de galinha,"
The name for a snack I prefer.
But knowing not how to say such a word
Does not my persistence deter.
I'd point or gesture with both my hands
To show them what I required.
And lucky for me, one often knew English,
A language which some have acquired.
If not, I'd "pull out" my Spanish,
Unpracticed and just a bit crude.
I think it's a myth that Brazilians know Spanish,
So maybe they thought me rude
When I spoke to them in a tongue not their own,
For theirs to me seems so strange
When the sound of "Rio" uses no "R"
For the "R" in this case is an "H."
They probably thought me an ignorant snob,
Just a tourist in their land.
I'm not a racist, but I smile and "get by."
I'm Ameri"can"a. so I can.

If This Be Near Heaven

I smell that pan-fried chicken that you splatter,
Your pies that others' reputations shatter;
Rings of onions dipped in buttermilk batter.

I look on cheese bread sure to make one fatter,
Fresh baked cakes that each adorn a platter;
Rolls from dough I saw your fingers patter.

I reach for treats delectable in matter,
Warmed casseroles served up midst social chatter;
Pot roast making all feel somewhat gladder.

Relief it is to see so many here.

I smell the pan-fried chicken that you splatter,
fresh baked cakes that each adorn a platter;
Rolls from dough I saw your fingers patter.

I look on cheese bread sure to make one fatter,
Warmed casseroles served up midst social chatter;
Pot roast making all feel somewhat gladder.

I reach for treats delectable in matter,
Your pies that others' reputations shatter;
Rings of onions dipped in buttermilk batter.

Relief it is to see so many here.

I smell the pan-fried chicken that you splatter,
Warmed casseroles served up midst social chatter;
Pot roast making all feel somewhat gladder.

I look on cheese bread sure to make one fatter,
Your pies that others' reputations shatter;
Rings of onions dipped in buttermilk batter.

I reach for treats delectable in matter,
Fresh baked cakes that each adorn a platter;
Rolls from dough I saw your fingers patter.

Relief it is to see so many here.

I smell that pan-fried chicken that you splatter,
Fresh baked cakes that each adorn a platter;
Pot roast making all feel somewhat gladder.

I look on cheese bread sure to make one fatter,
Warmed casseroles served up midst social chatter;
Rings of onions dipped in buttermilk batter.

I reach for treats delectable in matter,
Your pies that others' reputations shatter;
Rolls from dough I saw your fingers patter.

Relief it is to see so many here.

Though now I can't take food, dear friends, don't mourn.
My "grieving" wife cooked more than she's ever done.
Rejoice, Oh Ball and Chain, we're both reborn.
I'm out of here.  Sweet Heaven, meet your son!

Allotment of My Chocolates

Chocolates after holidays are even twice as nice.
I buy a lot of boxes and rarely less than five,
Which tides me over nicely til the next sale does arrive.
Best of all, I get them for less than half the price.

Ego Boost in Produce

Late night in the super mart, I see a father's son.
Insistently he tugs at Daddy's pants.  I hear him say,
"Daddy, look.  Look and see."  I look around.  There's no one.

I want to thank the boy that made this not-so-young gal's day
With "See the pretty lady!"   Dad turns red.  They rush away.

Explaining Andie "Pandie"

I heard today a crazy little fact
Which might explain what always I have lacked.
The female panda only comes in season
Several days a year, and for this reason
The panda on tv ran up a tree
When papa bear approached .  Subconsciously,
I think I'm she.  This explanation's handy
For why I've no libido and my nickname's Andie Pandie.

Comebacks for the Jerks Who Helped My Puberty Along

Hairy legs, you say?  (Can't see the forest for the trees?)
At least they're strong and shapely.  Yours are vines that grow from knees.
With glasses now I'm "four-eyes?"  (Yes, I'm skinny.  Yes, I'm plain.)
But it baffles me you noticed since you haven't got a brain.
My skin's so white!  No kidding?  You should see me when it's red!
You too were born my color and you'll be it when you're dead.
You say I have a mustache?  (As if I didn't know)
You haven't got one whisker masculinity to show!
I'm frigid and unloving ‘cause I won't go all the way?
Well, you don't even turn me on.  I bet you turn girls gay.
I got "lucky" playing ping pong when I beat you.  Is that right?
Let's see what you got.  Put ‘em up,  Sour Grapes.
I've gotten better . . . . . . . and now I can fight.

Daughter of a Clean Freak

I was raised mostly with women (with girls).
We did what we wanted and flouted Mom's rules.
We'd play until dark, our life one big lark,
Think not of the chores as our mom mopped the floors.
My mom was a clean "freak" You see how it works?
Her eldest, a "new" freak, at spotlessness smirks.