It has been a poetry-filled few weeks. A couple of weeks, Allison wrote me a poem, which I was going to annotate, but really, isn’t it more fun without context?

There once was a young man named Bryce
Who I think is wonderfully nice
He doesn’t mind puns
We have lots of fun
We have our own “thing” that’s precise.

And one time we had a balloon tree
(As usual, we had to agree).
It grew in the ground
And is now quite renowned
A red, blue, and green jubilee.

There once was yellow “Seniors” sign
Which our brains could not quite define.
We thought for awhile
It was quite versitile
But then, our interest declined.

On Saturday, I became taller
So you could experience being smaller
My drink didn’t spill
My wish was fulfilled
Soon can we be bowling ballers?

You buried my name in the sand
And your coolness is awesomely grand
You might lick a baby
If her dad told you maybe
But I don’t think he’d quite understand.

Oddly, I have a chimp head
You want to do nothing instead
You give it a hit
Then don’t want to exit
“I love MR. GO-RILLA!” you said.

Then this weekend, Allison was writing a Mother’s Day poem for her mom, and said I could help. I felt her poem about “love” was silly. Instead, I decided to help her mom make peace with some low points in her life. Of course, my work was in the most heart-felt poetry form, the haiku.

First, I resolved her negative view of Peter Tork. When she went to a Monkees concert, some girl broke Peter’s beaded necklace, which caused him to curse, which apparently caused deep psychological damage.

Like snowflakes, beads fall
Peter Tork says a bad word
Peter is sorry

Feeling I was on a roll, I then started moving onto other problems. When she was a child, her closet was in her sister’s room, and her sister would not allow her to come in.

Closet off-limits
Forbidden like Eden’s fruit
Christine is sorry

I thought best to apologize for a more current problem.

No child left behind
Except for millions who are
George Bush is sorry

Lastly, there was one more apology in order.

Horrible poems
Pain burns like a thousand suns
I, Bryce, am sorry

After her mom received the poems, she thanked me for the cathartic words, and asked for a verse about the Mother’s Day where Allison made her cry when she and a friend killed her tomato plants, then made a huge mess.

Tomatoes destroyed
Harvested in youthful sin
Krista is sorry.

Dish soap and ashes
Make dresses black like midnight
Al is sorry, too.

I’m on a roll.

This entry was posted on Monday, May 15th, 2006 at 9:10 pm and is filed under Personal Musings. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

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