Another Hour Of 2020

I had a bad dream last night, cried out in my sleep, and woke Kish up. As I rolled over to try to go back to sleep, I looked at the clock and noticed it was precisely 2 a.m. It’s probably not a coincidence that 2 a.m. is the specific time that Daylight Savings Time ended, and the clocks were being set back an hour. My subconscious may have sensed that and cried out in horror at the thought of adding an hour to 2020. As I went around the house today, changing the clocks, I decided that the experience should be memorialized in bad verse:

Another Hour Of 2020

We’ve worked to stay strong,

And tried not to cower,

But we grimace at adding just one more hour.

It’s already too long,

We don’t want to extend,

No, we all just want 2020 to end.

The year has been cursed,

And unremittingly sour,

Why prolong the misery with one more hour?

We’ve been looking forward

To when this year is done.

And it’s time to celebrate that it’s 2021.

We don’t want another,

No, sir, we’ve had plenty!

We don’t need another hour of 2020!

“You’re On Mute”: A COVID Poem

We’ve probably used the word “mute” more times over the past 7 months than we have in the rest of human history, combined. Telling somebody that they need to unmute themselves is a standard feature of just about every Zoom or Teams call that has occurred since the coronavirus work-from-home process started. The constant references to being on mute moved me to write some bad COVID-19 verse:

“You’re On Mute”

A point was made, I disagreed, and started to refute

Folks shook their heads and sadly said

“I’m sorry, you’re on mute.”

You have a point to make; a comment that is cute

But no one else will hear your thoughts

If you forgot you’re “on mute.”

It should be easy to recall, this Teams call attribute

The microphone icon is there to see and click

And yet: “You’re on mute.”

The icon is needed, to be sure; there is no substitute

To avoid echoing, and barking dogs

We Zoomers all must “mute.”

Some people don’t use it at all, but I won’t go that route

At times you don’t want people to hear

You’re grateful you can “mute.”

In these days of “work from home,” we’ve got no commute

But new skills are replacing driving

Like remembering to “unmute.”

Same Old, Same Old (A Poem)

We’ve turned a page on the calendar, and the fact that the act of doing so is a source of excitement tells you something, doesn’t it?  The quarantine life is so unremarkable that it is . . . well, remarkable, and my remarks come in the form of some bad verse.

Same Old, Same Old

I bet I’ve said “same old, same old”

A million times before

But now, amidst this quarantine 

I’ve never meant it more.

As “endless April” now is done

And May spring lies ahead

Maybe they’ll let me leave my ‘hood

And go someplace new instead.

But while the shutdown lingers

We’ve cooked and kept on cooking

And looked at every TV show

That seems to be worth looking. 

We’ve walked, walked, and walked again,

Until our feet are sore

But since there’s nothing else to do

I guess we’ll walk some more.

We hope that it soon will end

This whole enforced staycation

And going out for a haircut

Will be cause for celebration.

Coronavirus taught me a lesson

I’ll remember now and then

When it’s all over I’ll never say

“Same old, same old” again!

A Heartfelt Coronavirus Verse

I’ve been waiting for a night just like tonight,

To enjoy a warm fire and its bright light.

In its dancing flames I yearn

To see the coronavirus and watch it burn!

Handwashing 101

This week small posters providing CDC guidance on techniques to combat the spread of the coronavirus have been popping up everywhere, including on the door to the men’s bathroom on my floor at the firm.  One of the topics addressed by the poster is the need to wash your hands for 20 seconds.  Looking at it moved me to compose some bad verse:

Handwashing 101

I learned it as a tiny tot, and it was kind of fun

But this week I’ve been enrolled in Handwashing 101.

I always wash up, for sure, but now from what I gather

The CDC says it’s quite key to work up a good lather.

Twenty seconds sure is long, much longer than my plans,

It’s tough indeed for those of us with short attention spans.

I rub away, in water warm, and feel my mind wander

“Is this how Pontius Pilate felt?” is one thing that I ponder.

The water’s getting hotter still, like flames from a lit torch

But if it helps to stop the spread, my fingers I will scorch.

At the end of my countdown, with digits squeaky clean

I feel that I have done my part to stop COVID-19.

My hands have been boiled red, redder than the setting sun

It’s how you get a passing grade in Handwashing 101.

 

Another Crease In The Head

The other day I was brushing my teeth when I noticed that yet another wrinkle had appeared on my forehead. Because there’s not much else to be done about it, I decided that writing bad verse was the only reasonable response to this monstrous act of facial cellular betrayal:

Another Crease In The Head

Alas! Will wonders never cease?

Today I found another crease.

A crease! A seam! A furrow deep!

Arrived while I was well asleep.

Behold!  A visage, once unmarred,

Is by another wrinkle scarred.

And a forehead that ere was proud,

Appears to have been freshly plowed.

What caused my skins cells to decide

To carve a groove into my hide?

Are age and toil just brought to bear,

Or is this the price for poor skin care?

So welcome, crease! Join the collection!

And taunt me in the mirror’s reflection.

And yet, I’m grateful to my skin

For not adding another chin.

Last Piece Of Pie Lament

It was a fine Thanksgiving holiday, marked by good food, good company, and another glorious win over That Team Up North.  But as the weekend drew to a close, one last piece of culinary temptation remained, to remind me of one of my weaknesses:  I’m helpless in the presence of pumpkin pie.

Last Piece Of Pie Lament

O get thee gone, last piece of pie!

I can’t resist you and I don’t know why!

I’ve gobbled taters, stuffing and turkey

So much the details seem quite murky.

Yet still with you temptation remains

And once more my willpower strains.

Is it the spice, or the moistened crust

That reduces my resolve to dust?

Or the sweet memory of pies gone by

That causes the impulse I can’t deny?

Whate’er it is, I know I’ll succumb

And have to finish every crumb.

You’ve won again, and your crusty ilk

So now I’ll eat you with a glass of milk. 

 

Ode To An Early Morning Flight

Richard said he liked my occasional verse on the blog. Every wannabe writer likes a compliment now and then, and it’s been a while since I’ve composed some doggerel, anyway. So below is my ode to an early morning flight.

Ode To An Early Morning Flight

Whene’er I fly there’s a choice for me

Do I fly at 6 or half past 3?

The pros all say the morn is right

To avoid delay and cancelled flight.

From that viewpoint, a.m. is best —

But what about my lack of rest?

If I book a flight that heads out early

I know my sleep will be all squirrelly.

I’ll worry that I’m oversleeping

And miss the plane and end up weeping.

I’ll toss and turn, and slumber poor

And wake up when the clock strikes four.

But later flights I must beware

For fear of storms around O’Hare,

That leaves the schedule all akimbo

And put me in a traveler’s limbo.

There’s no good answer, sad to say

So I’m at the gate to start the day.

Deploying The Mad Bomber

The weather app on my iPhone cautions that it’s 2 degrees Fahrenheit outside, on its way down to a low temperature below zero.  There’s a brisk 14 miles per hour wind blowing steadily from the west that, combined with the temperature, has created a wind chill factor of minus 16 degrees.  And the National Weather Service has issued a warning that the extreme cold and wind could produce wind chills as low as 40 below zero, which could cause exposed skin to experience frostbite in as little as 10 minutes.

That kind of scary cold is an assault on all that’s holy and everything warm and pleasant in the world.  But nevertheless, in a few minutes, I’ve got to take an exuberant, cold-loving dog out to do her business.  What to do?

Alert the armed forces!  It’s time to deploy the Mad Bomber!

The Mad Bomber is easily the warmest hat in the house.  In fact, it’s easily the warmest hat in any house.  Made in China, it features a nylon shell, natural rabbit fur trim and interior lining. It even has a little clasp that allows you to lock the hat around your chin, the better to protect those delicate, flabby neck wattles by swathing them securely in fur.  When you don the hat, your encased head immediately begins sweating.

Of course, it’s not a stylish piece of headwear, as a bit of doggerel I composed some years ago acknowledges.  The Mad Bomber belongs on the head of a rustic villager trudging across the windswept Siberian tundra, or perhaps your high school janitor out salting the teacher’s parking lot on the coldest day of the year.  But then, no one turns to the Mad Bomber for style.  It’s deployment is purely a defense mechanism, designed to give humans a chance at surviving the most brutal temperatures and crippling cold.

Brace yourselves, Columbusites — it’s Mad Bomber time!

Much Ado ‘Bout Betty Boo

Russell’s dog Betty has been staying with us for a few weeks while Russell gets some work done on his builling.  Betty — who is known to Kish and me as Betty Boop or, in abbreviated form, Betty Boo — is making herself at home, as dogs always do, and there couldn’t be more of a contrast between the youthful Betty and the aging Kasey, who likes nothing so much as good morning, afternoon, and evening naps.  Betty is pretty much the exact opposite, and the difference between the two moved me to write some bad verse:

Much Ado ‘Bout Betty Boo

Damp tennis balls found in the halls,

A tattered sock and battered shoe.

These all, we know, are telltale signs

of Betty, Betty Boo.

Kasey wants to sleep so deep.

But things to rip, or tear, or chew

Are the very favorite things

Of Betty, Betty Boo.

She’s still a pup, and not grown up

With more energy than me or you;

A whirlwind of devilish play

Is Betty, Betty Boo.

It’s time to walk, no time to talk,

Then we’ll play fetch anew.

But she’ll never tire, no matter what

Will Betty, Betty Boo. 

 

Happy Halloween!

All Hallowed Eve today is here

A dreaded day of horror and fear.

Our wish for you this dark, dank night

Is to make it through without a fright.

One way to ensure you feel just dandy:

Gorge on leftover Halloween candy!

Ode To My Allergies

The spring allergies hit like a freight train over the weekend, leaving me a drippy, sodden mess.  Their arrival is inevitable, but always quixotically unpredictable.  This year, my allergies came earlier than ever.  I never know why they are timed as they are, or whether the unpredictability is just part of their devilish game to inflict maximum disruption and physical malaise.

When the allergies come, there’s nothing you can do but suffer through — that, and compose some really bad verse:

Ode To My Allergies

Oh, allergies!  My allergies!  Oh crap!  You’ve come again!

Now I’m sniffling and sneezing, with sinuses adrain!

Oh, allergies!  My allergies!  You leave my head befogged

And my ears and nasal passages feeling heavily clogged.

Oh, allergies!  My allergies!  My wallet you also vex,

’cause thanks to you I now must buy 10 boxes of Kleenex!

Oh, allergies!  My allergies!  You literally are a pill.

Each year when you arrive I gobble lots of Benadryl.

Oh, allergies!  My allergies!  You ruin a day or two,

but I’d rather deal with congestion than a bad case of the flu.

‘Twas The Day After Christmas

It’s the day after Christmas — which for some beleaguered people in the package delivery business is probably about as important as Christmas itself.  This year online retailing once again set a record, which means the package delivery guys have been busting their behinds for weeks and probably are still hustling to deal with the last-minute orders.  As I reflected on the plight of these uniformed soldiers of the modern economy, the poetic muse once more took hold:

The Day After Christmas

‘Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the land

Fed Ex and UPS remained fully manned

They’ve set a record for deliveries this year

But the last-minute orders have yet to appear

Oh, Amazon!  Oh, Apple!  Oh, Pajamagram!

Your specials and discounts created a jam

The packages and boxes were stacked to the ceiling

The onslaught of orders left deliverers reeling

And because so many waited ’til the last minute

The Christmas Crush?  They’re still in it!

The delivery guys are trying their best

But it’ll take time before they can give it a rest

So if your order hasn’t yet come to your door

Don’t take it out on the delivery corps!

And by the way, I’ll be doing whatever is necessary to avoid going within a one-mile radius of any shopping mall today.

Merry Christmas!

To friends and family, near and far

Merry Christmas to you, where’er you are

And to all of those whom we hold dear

Glad tidings as well, and holiday cheer

A cookie and a carol are just ways to say

May you know peace and joy this special day!

First Snow Of The Season

We got our first snowfall last night.  Its appearance moved me to compose this bit of doggerel about snow, and its impact on some of my fellow Ohioans:

The First Snow Of The Season

It’s bright outside and what’s the reason?

We’ve had our first snow of the season

We’ve seen a flake or two before

But today we got a whole lot more

So now the ground is oh so white

And the gelid air has a special bite

The cold and snow make a special code

Telling snowbirds they should hit the road

Farewell for now, my thin-blooded friends

We’ll meet again when winter ends!