Our Mother's at a Meeting

Our mother's at a meeting
for some big, important deal,
and couldn't be at home tonight
to cook the evening meal.

She left some short directions
for my sister just to follow.
Instead my sister cooked up things
impossible to swallow.

Like Brussels sprouts in vinegar
and jellybeans in mustard,
an onion-pickle pudding
and a lemon-radish custard.

She burned a stick of butter
'til the house was filled with smoke,
then fried a pound of pepper
with a half an artichoke.

She put a whole banana
in the blender with a steak,
then mixed it up with tunafish
and baked it in a cake.

She stirred some chocolate ice cream
with garbanzo beans and bacon.
A single bite was all it took
to leave me feeling shaken.

We should have ordered pizza
but we didn't know, alas,
my sister is the only kid
who flunked her cooking class.

Don't Ever Ask a Centipede

Don't ever ask a centipede
to play a game of soccer.
Remember, he has 50 pairs
of sneakers in his locker.

He dribbles 50 soccer balls
with 50 pairs of shoes,
and kicks them all concurrently.
He doesn't often lose.

He's such a fierce competitor
that, if you ever meet,
at first you'll see his hundred legs
and then you'll see defeat.

On New Year's Day

On New Year's Day a year ago,
I started off the year
by making resolutions
that were probably severe.

I said I'd save my money,
as this seemed so very wise.
I vowed I would improve my health.
I swore I'd exercise.

I stated I would do my homework
every single day.
I'd brush my teeth religiously
to ward off tooth decay.

I'd eat my fruits and vegetables
and keep my bedroom clean.
I'd treat my sister kindly
though she's often very mean.

My resolutions lasted me
about a half a day.
I promised I would keep them
but I broke them anyway.

So now I'm fat and penniless.
My homework's overdue.
My sister's mad. My teeth are bad.
My room is messy too.

And yet I think I may have found
the best of all solutions,
and this year I've resolved
to not make ANY resolutions.

My Birthday's On St. Patrick's Day

My birthday's on St. Patrick's day.
I wore no green at all,
and got a pinch from every kid
who passed me in the hall.
You get "a pinch to grow an inch"
whenever birthdays fall.
I guess they must have worked
because I'm thirty-nine feet tall.

April Fool's Day

Mackenzie put a whoopie cushion
on the teacher's chair.
Makayla told the teacher
that a bug was in her hair.

Alyssa brought an apple
with a purple gummy worm
and gave it to the teacher
just to see if she would squirm.

Elijah left a piece of plastic
dog doo on the floor,
and Vincent put some plastic vomit
in the teacher's drawer.

Amanda put a goldfish
in the teacher's drinking glass.
These April Fool's Day pranks
are ones that you could use in class.

Before you go and try them, though,
there's something I should mention:
The teacher wasn't fooling
when she put us in detention.

If You Give a Mouse a Motorcycle

If you give a mouse a motorcycle,
don't be too surprised
if he starts behaving strangely
once he knows he's motorized.

He may act a bit bizarrely.
He may dress a little weird.
He might buy a leather jacket
and then grow a honkin' beard.

When he straps a helmet on his head
and boots upon his feet,
then you'll see him pop a wheelie
and go racing down the street.

Pretty soon he'll find he's fond
of doing motorcycle tricks.
He'll be jumping over cars and trucks
and buses just for kicks.

He'll start working at the circus
where he'll take away your breath
as he rides with other rodents
in the flaming cage of death.

When he accidentally crashes
he'll have no more fun and games;
just the screech of twisting metal
as his bike explodes in flames.

And without his motorcycle
he'll be fired from his job.
He'll become depressed and lonely
and a sad and smelly slob.

And the only way to save him
from this misery and pain
is to buy another motorbike
so he can start again.

So remember this advice:
Don't even trust him with your keys.
If you need to give a mouse a gift,
it's best to stick with cheese.

Poems

the greatest Americans
have not been born yet
they are waiting patiently
for the past to die
please give blood
those crumbled tablets
were to share a story
with a burning Bush
where is that voice from nowhere to remind us
that the holy ground we walk on, purified by native blood has rooted trees
whose fallen leaves now colour code a sacred list of demands?
who among us can give translation of autumn's hues to morning news?
the anchor man
thrown overboard
has simply rooted us in history's repeating cycle
a nation in its Saturn years that won't acknowledge karma
where is that voice from nowhere, the ones your prophets spoke of?
there are voices from fear
disconnected from their diaphragms
dangling from coffee covered teeth
that spill into our laps
and scorch our privates
there are voices from the sides of necks
some already noosed
dangling participles
pronouns running for sentence serving life in corner offices
and ghetto corners
their voices are the same:
dead to themselves numb to the possibility of truth
existing beyond that which can be palmed into your hand, period.
there are voices of elders
which seem to do no more
than damn us to our childish ways for in many households wisdom no longer
comes with age
so where is that voice from nowhere?
that burning bush?
that passing dove?
for i hear generals calling for ammunition presidents calling for arms and
women calling for help
where is that voice from nowhere?
that god of abraham?
can he be heard over the gunfire
the wizz of passing missiles
the crash of buildings
the cries of children
the crack of bones
the shriek of sirens
or is that his mighty voice?
your angry god craving the sacrifice of generation's sons degenerate
your holy books
written in red ink
on burning sands
your prayers between rounds do no more than fasten the fate of your children
to the hammered truth of your trigger
a truth that mushrooms
it's darkened cloud
over the rest of us
so that we too bear witness to the short lived fate
of a civilization that worships a male god
your weapons are phallic
all of them
that dummie that sits
on your lap is no longer
a worthwhile spectacle
his shrunken pale face
leaves little room for imagination
we have spotted your moving lips and have pinned the voice to it's proper source
it is a source of madness
a source of hunger for power
a source of weakness
a source of evil
we have exited your coliseum and are encircling your box office demanding
our families back
our cultures back
our rituals back
our gods back
so that we may return them to their proper source
the source of life
the source of creation
our mother's womb
the great goddess
we will cut through
the barbed wire hangers
and chastity belts
we will climb in and
incubate our spirits
through the winter
we will wait through
the degenerate course
of your repeated history
we will wait
for the past
to die