It wasn’t bad, as Mondays go.
I think I could do better, though.
I’d like to take it from the top
So you go on ahead. I’ll stop
And circle back to Sunday night
And try to get my Monday right.
(If I can just work out the snooze
Alarm, the rest will be a cruise.)
No, really, I’ll be fine. Don’t sweat it!
One take–two, at most–I’ll get it,
Then jump straight to Thursday, where
I’ll meet you near the paisley chair.
If anybody asks or wonders,
Say I’m fixing Monday’s blunders.
What’s that look? I’m not a freak!
As Monday goes, so goes the week.
I’ll wake up when I meant to, and
The rest is easy. Understand?
Give Tuesday my regards, and say
I’ll make it up to her in May.
(If Wednesday asks, just say I’m sick.
I’ll pull the call-in-coughing trick.)
So, Thursday by the chair, then, right?
Cool beans. I’ll see you then. Good night!
Might have the intervocational chops
To show when my nose either flows or it stops.
Calm and mid-40s, it runs like a faucet;
Gale-force warm winds waste the hanky–just toss it;
Too cold, and it’s not just its snot that gets froze
But the whole hydrological shop in my nose
Will completely shut down and the hardware turns brittle;
80s, light breezes, it runs just a little.
Toss seasonal allergies into the pot…
Have I come to grips with my dripping? I’ve not.
Since I can’t predict the drip’s start or its end,
If you’re jogging beside me, you’d best stay upwind.
Cow pies stacked eye-high
Crowned by cloud-enshrouded cow
Cow: “Who’s stupid now?”
(For context, see Hai Cow #1. I’ll wait … Ah, you’re back. See? All makes sense now, right? There’s a #3, too, but not today. It will be worth the wait, though, I promise.)
When public budgets take a hit
The way they have since late ’08
State workers take the blame for it–
The group the public loves to hate.
Supposedly, state workers make
More money, get more benefits
And cushy pension plans that take
Taxpayers’ cash. They’re money pits!
No matter that they’re underpaid
Compared to private sector staff,
Or that the pension deal was made
In trade for raises cut in half
Or frozen altogether back
A year or two, last time we lost
A chunk of our state money stack
And someone had to pay the cost…
Not that I’m bitter, mind you, when
I read and hear the public cry,
State workers are at fault! (again)
Like we’re a leech that’s sucked them dry.
So, anyway, though we’re all bums,
In February every year
The State Employees’ Food Drive comes
Around, and lo, we’re always here
To pitch in cash and gather food
For hungry folks in Oregon,
And I’ve become the Fitness Dude
At Justice (where I work). We run
Or walk, or dance, or ride a bike
And people pledge so much per mile
That just by doing what we like
We tend to end with quite a pile
Of cash that Food Banks use to buy
The staples hungry families need.
These verses are the ones that I
Sent out this year to plant the seed.
On 7 July, just a week before I turned 15,
In ’77, my grandmother mailed me a letter.
She wrote, check the postmark. The date was the coolest I’d seen:
The month, day and year were all sevens! It couldn’t be better!
Eleven years later, I posted a note of my own:
8/8/88 was the date, and she laughed, I remember!
Two great-grandkids later we marked the occasion by phone:
The year was 1999, on the 9th of September.
The decade that followed 2000 we spoke every year
On the annual triplicate date, 1/1/1 through three tens.
This Veteran’s Day we’ll have one extra reason to cheer,
And Three-Dozen Day (12/12/12) will be worth a few grins.
So, why do I bring this up now? What’s with 2/24?
It’s my grandmother’s birthday today: She just turned 98!
When I called her, I realized something I hadn’t before:
There was more than repetitiveness underlying that date.
July 7, ’77, Grandmama and I
Stumbled into a numerological theorist’s heaven.
Add seven and seven: The sum is significant. Why?
‘Cause I was still fourteen years old that year on July 7!
My grandmother, on the same date, was a young 64,
Which is two to the power of seven, divided by two.
I’ll turn 49 — seven squared — in July, and there’s more:
What’s two 49s? 98! Who’s that age? You know who!
I hope you got everything that you like
For your birthday this year.
I love you!
Love, your grandson,
It’s s’posed to snow
It hasn’t yet
What if the weather gods forget?
What if we go
To sleep and wake
Tomorrow and there’s not a flake?
Drenched with drool
At prospects of a lack of school
Will cradle faces
Clenched in pain
If morning brings them only rain
I like the white
Stuff well enough
Although it makes commuting tough
But kids delight
In closures, so
Don’t disappoint them: Let it snow!
The clouds are coming back, they say
So if you plan to run and play
Today’s the diem. Go carpe!
Clean off your desk another day.
Prophesied by witches three
Will adolescentimentality reign
O’er political bitterness
Or cause more pain?
Tormented by malignancy,
Iago: Major S.O.B.!