Rhymes With Messy

The Garlic

2011-06-26T13:58:00.000-07:00

This is my first experiment with repetition in a rhyme. I figured if any food bears repeating, it's garlic!

The Garlic

Glamorous, glorious garlic!
Your cloves are delightful to peel.
You're divine in a roast, or sprinkled on toast;
You add flavor to most any meal.

Gallant and generous garlic!
You're medicine for all that ails;
You keep blood sugar low, cure a gangrenous toe -
You're the remedy that never fails.

Gutsy and grandiose garlic!
You scare all the vampires away.
There is nothing I fear, for no soul will come near,
Since I dine on you three times a day.

The Plum: Now Appearing....

2011-06-09T18:33:00.000-07:00

My newest morsel of verse (complete with illustration!) is hanging out over at Project OpenBook. I hope you'll take a look!

The Zucchini

2011-05-30T08:49:00.000-07:00

A quick ode to the beautiful weather. Happy Memorial Day!

The Zucchini

A zucchini in a bikini
Is truly a sight to behold!
She's often spied under sunny skies,
But rarely when it's cold.
There are those who find her imprudent,
And beg her to put on more clothes
Ignoring their cries, she averts her eyes,
And turns up her little, green nose.
Defiant, unbowed, she calls to the crowd,
"You can nag and complain 'til you're blue!
But an absence of shame is built into my name -
This is what summer squash do!"

Avocado, In Three Acts

2011-04-03T11:09:00.000-07:00

Kind of a tragedy, but a noble one.

Avocado, In Three Acts

There is no fruit with more bravado
Than the youthful avocado -
Hard as stone, with reptile skin,
Unafraid of mice or men.

The months fly by with no remorse,
Bringing on life's "second course" -
Toughness loses its allure,
He's far more mellow, more mature.
As his insides start to soften,
He thinks about the past more often.
Was all that swagger really smart?
Is there a cold pit at his heart?

His final days are far from lush,
Since he's little more than mush.
By time's swift march, he's rendered lowly -
How else would we get guacamole?

3.14 a la Mode

2011-03-14T17:09:00.000-07:00

Another time-sensitive oldie. Happy Pi Day!

3.14 a la Mode

Pumpkin, cherry, pee-can, pe-cahn,
Ice cream off or ice cream on,
Key lime, apple, Derby winner,
Chicken pot, served up for dinner,
Chess or chocolate, coconut,
12-inch from the Pizza Hut.
Food as math? I'm set to try it -
But 3.15 equals "diet."

Ode To Daylight Savings Time

2011-03-13T10:52:00.000-07:00

Wrote this poem 4 years ago....thought I'd dust it off today. Now that I reread, the rhyme of "lasagna" and "upon ya" doesn't quite fit - but I just couldn't resist it. Poetic license.

New material is coming SOON!

Ode To Daylight Savings Time

Have you seen my little lost hour?
Somehow she's wandered away.
I dined with her yesterday evening,
But woke up without her today.
It could be she's knitting a sweater,
Or writing a short piece of verse
She'll slip from your grasp if you let her -
Her discipline's rather the worse.
She's often spied watching Top Model
Or playing around on the 'net
It's her inclination to dawdle,
But she's really a valuable pet.
In a pinch, she can bake a lasagna,
Scrub the bathroom with nary a rest
Unsuspecting, she'll creep up upon ya
My inbox is her favorite nest.
If you find her, please tell her I'm sorry -
My word choice was careless, I see.
When I mentioned, "I've been known to kill time,"
I never considered she'd flee.

The Annual Berry Reunion (for Famke - and Milla, too!)

2010-10-24T13:29:00.000-07:00

Correction: In an earlier version of this post, I said that my granddad spoke with Milla Jovovich. Actually, it was Famke Janssen. Milla starred in the movie; Famke wrote/directed it. Granddad said they're both lovely and talented.

This poem is dedicated to Famke Janssen.

Well, let me explain.

My granddad, a retired Colonel turned actor, recently worked with Famke in an upcoming movie. Somehow, the subject of grandchildren came up. (On a wild hunch, I'm thinking Granddad initiated the topic.) In the conversation that followed, Granddad mentioned that I often compose poems about fruit.

"What's your favorite fruit?" he asked Famke.

After some thought, she replied, "Blueberries."

Showing great faith in my rhyming ability, Granddad promised Famke I'd write her a poem about blueberries. So as not to discriminate, I decided to include all berries. I can only hope Famke doesn't mind berry much. (You knew that was coming...)

The Annual Berry Reunion

At the annual Berry reunion,
Things quickly got into a jam –
Cousin Straw said that she’d bring a shortcake,
But she showed up with biscuits and ham.
Uncle Blue baked a fine plate of muffins,
But they just couldn’t brighten his mood.
He sat in a corner, quite sullen,
While Auntie Goose gobbled his food.
Sister Black spent the whole event texting,
And wouldn’t get off of her phone.
“What’s wrong with all our young Berries today?”
She caused Grandpa Elder to moan.
Grandma Cran denounced the location:
"This should have been held in a bog!"
Her cries of complaint were only drowned out
By the yowls of Pa Huckle’s hound dog.
Father Rasp did his best to deliver a prayer,
But a cold made his voice much too hoarse.
In the time that it took him to wheeze out,"Amen!"
Fruit flies polished off the first course.
In the end, every Berry was sour,
And decided that, in years ahead,
They’d skip the traditional picnic
And go apple picking instead.

The Ballad of Colonel McCob (The Corn)

2010-06-30T10:15:00.001-07:00

Lately, I've been seeking inspiration in the books of my favorite children's poet, Jack Prelutsky. For this poem, though, I reread "The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill" and "The Cremation of Sam McGee" by Robert W. Service. If Service had been corny (*ahem*) enough to go for corn puns, I like to think he'd have written something like this.

The Ballad of Colonel McCob (The Corn)

"Gather 'round, all you children," said old Grandpa Corn,
"There's a story you young folks should hear.
Took place several decades before you were born,
And now it's passed down ear to ear.
Concerns a brave colonel I knew in the war -
By the name of MacArthur McCob
He was sweet on the outside, but tough to the core;
Protecting the land was his job.

Every morning at four, he took post at the door,
And patrolled the whole field until dusk.
Under his watchful eye, not an hour slipped by -
Never once did he rest in his husk.

If a carrot or beet ever tried to take root,
Why, MacArthur would tackle the varmint!
Not a leek would sneak past, not a caper or shoot,
'Twas a cornfield - no others would harm it.

I once saw Mac sack a potato;
With a cabbage, he went head-to-head
He minced onions, and would tie a tomato
To a tree, 'til his face turned bright red.

Not a soul dared to call McCob yellow,
Even though, as you know, that's our hue.
He would ransack a radish, yammer at yams,
And sever a parsnip in two.

His methods were fierce, but quite fruitful, indeed
Generations of corn could stand tall.
There wasn't so much as a hybrid cornseed,
With McCob overseeing it all.

But tragedy came out of nowhere one day,
(More precisely, it came from the ground.)
While shoving a trespassing shallot away,
Mac sadly failed to look down.

He heard a loud POP, then the whole place went black.
The shooter, he still couldn't see
It seems that McCob had come under attack
By a silent and stealthy green pea.

Mac's fingers and toes went bloated and numb,
But his body felt pleasantly light.
Like the arms of a friend, a soft gust of wind
Swept him into the dark, waiting night.

That might have been Mac's final curtain,
As he drifted off into the fog
But! I happen to know this for certain -
There's a fitting and true epilogue:
McCob made his way toward the city,
With that new, puffy body of his
He never surrendered or quit, he
Made a new life, pursuing showbiz!

Now, he's frequently seen in the theater seats,
Watching Hollywood films in the dark.
Never brutish or salty to people he meets -
No he's happy, they say, as a lark.
There's never a turnip to threaten, or a militant eggplant to maul
For, as everyone knows, at theater shows,
There are no fresh veggies at all.

Fruit Basket - The Banana

2010-06-17T10:32:00.000-07:00

The Banana

It is the banana's perennial wish
To begin a career on the stage
She knows she would quickly discover her niche -
Her slapstick would be all the rage.
She'd start with a tumble, leading into a split
Which would certainly foster a laugh
Then, she'd call for an aide from the orchestra pit,
Who would magically slice her in half.
She would hire a monkey to sit on her knee
And a parrot to perch on her head
With a backdrop resembling a tropical tree,
She would, as they say, "knock 'em dead."

Yes, they'd come by the droves
From the jungles and groves
Just to gasp as she hung upside-down!
She'd stand out from the bunch -
She could tell on a hunch
Her theatrics would make her renowned.

There's only one glitch to her vision of fame,
One small hitch keeps success on the shelf
Though her peel's quite elastic,
And her timing fantastic...
She can't seem to slip on herself.

Broccoli

2010-06-09T07:50:00.000-07:00

It's the birthday of my all-time favorite rhymer, Cole Porter. I hope he'd approve of this anti-ode to broccoli.

Broccoli

Many say that broccoli
Looks like a squat and sturdy tree
But it's no place to build a fort -
Its bushy branches are too short.
You cannot rest beneath its shade,
While sipping on your lemonade.
Its trunk won't do for hide-and-seeking;
Its stump's too small for public speaking.
Just try to take its sap in winter -
You're sure to get a broccoli splinter!

No, broccoli's of no use at all
...unless you are two inches tall.

Carrots

2010-04-15T10:37:00.001-07:00

Carrots

Carrots help you see at night -
Or, so my mother said.
But in the deepest, darkest woods
I'd like a lamp instead.

The Onion: A Tragicomedy

2010-04-14T11:03:00.000-07:00

Time to switch from fruits to veggies.

The Onion: A Tragicomedy

Imagine if Euripides
Had hidden onions up his sleeves -
He could’ve made his patrons bawl,
With practically no work at all.
Medea might have even smiled
Or offered candy to a child.
A cost-effective choice, I think:
Twice the tears for half the ink.

Fruit Basket - The Pear: A Tale of Skewed Proportions

2010-03-22T08:56:00.000-07:00

This time, the "WTD" word was BELLYING. How could I resist adding to my poetic fruit basket?

The Pear: A Tale of Skewed Proportions

The bellying frame of the average pear
Is a subject that’s up for debate:
Has his curious swelling always been there,
Or was it just something he ate?
Is he sucking his gut in the hopes of a date
With an enviably skinny banana?
Did a bumbling grocer step on his waist
And cause him to bulge in this manner?
My guess is that clothing’s to blame for this riddle -
He couldn’t find pants that would fit ‘round his middle.
But the belt that he purchased to make him look slimmer
Squeezed him right into a pear-shaped dilemmer!
What can we learn from his mis-fit mistake?
What is the message we’re destined to take?
Don’t fret about fashion – just be self-aware,
And try not to go to the depths of this pear.

The Potato: A Poem About Being Prepared

2010-01-27T06:56:00.000-08:00

Another "WTD"-inspired poem - the randomly generated word was PREPARATION.

(Yes, I did spend 30 minutes brainstorming and jotting potato prep techniques before I started rhyming. I came up with 41 total. Still can't figure out what rhymes with "vichyssoise.")

The Potato: A Poem About Being Prepared

There are infinite ways to prepare a potato.
Believe me - both Ireland and Idaho say so!
A quick boil will suit the no-frills spud eater,
Or a microwave zap, if you’re that kind of cheater.
Another fine choice is to peel it and fry it,
Though do this with caution if you’re on a diet.
(Your fries can be French, or, if you prefer, Freedom -
Makes no real difference after you eat ‘em.)
You can mash it with gravy, or throw it in stew
Whip it into a thick, sticky glue,
Cream it or steam it, bake it once – even twice
Stuff it into a samosa with rice.
If you’re constructive, build it into a gratin,
Or turn self-destructive and let it go rotten.
Sweet or unsweetened, bliss red or hash brown,
“Bangers and mash,” like in old London-town.
You might do as the Romans and sample some gnocchi;
For a Slavic approach, make your dumplings “pierogi.”
The flatter the better for a latke or chip
As an ale, it’s supposedly lovely to sip.
Curries, soups, salad – the list could go on
Serve the skins by themselves, when the insides are gone!

It’s fair to say, tater tots live with a curse:
As they grow up, they’re prepared for the worst.
You can look in their eyes...they all know that they’re doomed,
With so many methods for being consumed.
Perhaps, we should treat them – at least for one day,
Invite them to dine at our Sunday buffet.
And when they ask, “What’s the starch with this roast?”
Prepare to reply, “Why, a nice piece of toast!”

Fruit Basket: The Watermelon - Remix

2009-10-02T16:12:00.000-07:00

About every two weeks, my co-workers at FableVision challenge themselves to an artistic party game called "What The Doodle" (WTD). The rules are simple: 1. Click on the Random Word Generator; 2. Create multimedia to match.

This week, I joined the fun, with a poem inspired by the word "pelagic" (adj. of or pertaining to the open seas or oceans). My buddy Bob was kind enough to include my verse on FableVision's blog, Creative Juices.

The Watermelon: A Sweet and Sour Tale

The watermelon’s fate is tragic –
Despite its name, it’s not pelagic.
All day it lies with rooted plants,
Dreaming of the sea’s expanse.
It sees itself in sailor gear,
Spitting seeds from ear to ear.
A pirate of the bravest kind,
With parrots perched upon its rind!

When twilight falls, with one swift motion,
It breaks from land and joins the ocean.
With glee, it plunges o’er the dock
…and sinks more swiftly than a rock.

Sad but true, it failed to note:
All that’s “water” does not float.

(Though you might think this tale is gory,
There’s a moral to this story:
As you tear off on life’s pursuits,
It’s never bad to check your roots.)

Fruit Basket: The Pineapple

2009-09-28T04:45:00.000-07:00

The Pineapple

“Pineapple” translates to “puzzlement,”
In some forms of tropical dialect.
For it’s quite hard to know really what is meant
By “pine.” And to “apple,” I must object.
For this lexicon-twisting infraction,
Some fruits might demand legal action.
But the case would dismiss rather quickly,
Since the evidence is clearly too prickly.

Ode To My Boyfriend's New Female Roommate

2009-09-20T10:05:00.000-07:00

Jesseanna's note: A little insecurity from May 8, 2007. Epilogue - the "new roommate" was cute, but my boyfriend is now my husband. So, everything worked out.

Ode To My Boyfriend's New Female Roommate

Before you walk upon the rug,
I hope you’ll wipe your feet.
Before you cook, I hope you’ll ask:
“What would you like to eat?”
Before you go to work each day,
I hope you’ll check the lights.
Before you dump your laundry in,
Take your darks from his whites.
Before you watch a DVD,
You’ll see the volume’s low?
Before you split the bills, I hope
You’ll figure what you owe.

Before you sign the lease, I hope
You’ll take this with some salt:
I hope you’re quiet, clean, sincere, and gen’rous to a fault.
But one more wish, permit me, and I will not ask for more --
Those "before and after" photos?
...hope you look like the “before.”

Fruit Basket: The Cantaloupe and The Watermelon

2009-09-18T18:10:00.000-07:00

Gotta squeeze in my rhymes about melons before the summer ends! The first one's heavy on the punning - might be better read aloud.

The Cantaloupe

The cantaloupe is solitary –
A melon who will never marry.
He has two tickets to Tahiti,
But simply can’t approach his sweetie.
Meanwhile, she turns a greenish hue:
Whatever will his honeydew?

The Watermelon

The watermelon can’t lay claim
To the “water” in its name.
There is no fruit more ill equip’d
To be the captain of a ship.
It cannot swim, or even float
So, please don’t let it drive your boat.

Ode to My Crawfish Etouffe

2009-09-15T18:36:00.000-07:00

Jesseanna's note: Have a NOLA delicacy with your fruit! This poem is straight from a summer's day on the bayou - July 3, 2006.

Ode to My Crawfish Etouffe

O spicy crawfish etouffe!
Such fun to eat -
So tough to say.
Gumbo is not quite so willful
For it lacks the extra syll’ble.
Then, the choice of “cray” and “craw”
Which one to pick? Let’s call a draw.
For, after all, they are both fishes
Which makes them equally delicious.

Fruit Basket: The Grape and The Apple

2009-09-14T04:36:00.000-07:00

Ogden Nash never quite makes it on the syllabus in “serious” poetry courses, but he has always been my kind of guy. In 7th grade English, I was required to select a 4-minute snippet of literature to recite in front of my classmates. I chose nine or ten poems from Nash’s Zoo, a collection of rhymes about animals. Almost two decades later, I still remember “The Cow”: “The cow is of the bovine ilk / One end is moo, the other milk.” Also, “The Panther”: “When called by a panther / Don’t anther.” Not Shakespeare, but good for laughs (and an “A”).

I’ve always thought Zoo deserved a companion volume: a series of rhymes about food. Like llamas and monkeys, food can be big or small, gray or orange or spotted. And food is funny – just ask the guy who created the old banana peel gag.

Speaking of bananas, I’ll start with fruit.

The Grape

No pills or powders aid the grape
In slimming down its rotund shape
Instead, it basks au natural
On every beach in Southern Cal
And when its tanning session’s done
It puts on shades to shield the sun
Joining in a sleek quartet
It struts and sings a Motown set
But shrugging at its purple skin,
Its friends still say, “I knew you when.”

The Apple

The apple wears a cheerful glow,
But at its core, it’s full of woe.
Its post-traumatic stress runs deep,
As history’s arrows pierce its sleep.
It quakes and stirs in utter dread
Of toppling on Sir Isaac’s head.
And in the morning, more the same:
The apple can’t recall its name.
Granny Smith? Or is it Mac?
A sad dilemma for a snack!
It craves a pill to cure the pain,
But all its wishing is in vain –
For though it pleads both night and day,
The apple’s doctor stays away.

Ode To Graffiti I Spotted Yesterday

2009-09-13T10:47:00.000-07:00

Jesseanna's note: Actually, my mom spotted this graffiti (in Florida, I think). But she let me rhyme about it on June 19, 2007 - 'cause that's what moms do. Wish I had a photo for the last line!

Ode To Graffiti I Spotted Yesterday

When I see most graffiti displayed,
I think, “Words should be said and not sprayed.”
For I’m sure if my trashcan could talk,
It wouldn’t yell, “CHRISTOPHER RAWKS!”
And I doubt that most bathroom stalls care
Whether “JENNA WUZ HERE” or wuz there.
Surely exit ramps think thoughts more clever
Than “BILLY + DEBBIE 4-EVA.”
(If they don’t, well, they’ve still got more class
Than the average road underpass.)

But here’s an exception to note -
One stop sign had reason to gloat.
Its message rang both strong and true,
As a spray-written missive should do.
‘Neath STOP, an extra command
In lettering rendered by hand -
No four-letter-studded design,
Just one simple phrase: "HAMMER TIME."

Elegy For My Emoticons

2009-09-12T11:41:00.000-07:00

Jesseanna's note: I've written a lot of doggerel (arf!), but this poem from September 8, 2006, is probably my favorite. Three years later, it's time for an update - love sonnets in 140 characters or less, maybe?

Elegy For My Emoticons

It seems I’ve o’erstepped my bounds
In making cyber smiles and frowns.
As habits go, this one needs quelling,
Lest punctuation starts rebelling.
The colon groans, then gently sighs,
“Do quit using me for eyes.
I stand for lists, objects in rows,
Not atop a hyphen nose.”
Parentheses, they cannot speak -
Too horrified and incomplete.
The left one smirks; the right one glowers,
Forced apart by unseen powers.
Letter P retracts its tongue,
“My -oor heart, -ositively stung!”
And D, alas, finds nothing funny
Its -emeanor’s -oubtless less-than-sunny.
Letter O is not in shock;
X desires the chance to talk.
B’s opti-wear will soon be shed,
“Contact lenses, please, instead?”
Yes, yes, my dears, I’m quite aware,
The S likes -traight, not wavy hair.
Emoticons, I’ve listened well!
But, tell me . . . might I LOL?

Welcome!

2009-09-12T10:30:00.000-07:00

In the interest of full disclosure, you should know: this is not my first blog.

For vintage doggerel and frequently self-indulgent essays, you can visit “Goofus Musings,” the blog I started in 2005 when I worked as an editorial intern for Highlights magazine (i.e. literary home of Goofus and Gallant, the blonde twins who hang around in dentists’ waiting rooms). There’s really no need though, since I’m pulling the “best of Goofus” onto this blog. It’s the brotherly thing to do.

Why am I bothering to create a new blog? I’m a newlywed, and much of “Goofus” feels past. I now live in Boston, not PA or post-Katrina New Orleans (as I did for two blogging years). My mentality has changed, too. If good writing requires a tortured soul, then I was better off in ’05. But I’m going to ignore history’s Faulkners and Plaths, for now, and say that the best is yet to come. So, visit often!