One summer’s day in November


Gusting breezes,  wind-swept sand, dark clouds rolling onto land,

Summer’s sun gives little heat, with winter’s sand beneath one’s feet.

Waves roll in as sunset looms, as winter lowers its darkening boom.

Waves crash in for day’s last light, as summer bids its last goodnight.

© Huffygirl 2012

(Summer returned to Michigan for one day only, when temperatures reached 70 degrees in the aftermath of Super Storm Sandy, November 11, 2012.)

One summer’s day in November, original poem by Huffygirl, © 2012)

Carbon Footprint


The leaves of spring now lost and faded,

Colors waning, green gone jaded.

Now give way to colors new, yellow, red and autumn hues.

Once fresh and living, now gone dry, tumbling from our autumn sky.

Now the leaves have turned to fall, carbon footprints, one and all.

© Huffygirl 2012

(Carbon Footprint, original poem by Huffygirl, © 2012)

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Mother doesn’t want a dog: National Poetry Month


April is National Poetry Month. It’s time to get your poetry on, if you have any that is. Time to write poems, read  poems, discuss poems.

I must confess I’ve never been that good at poetry. I occasionally write poems, usually from a fleeting spurt of inspiration. If I don’t get the words down when the inspiration hits, poof, it’s gone. If I do write poetry, it’s almost always of the rhyming type, and often inspired by an event such as a holiday, someone’s birthday, or by some cause I’m all worked up about. When my local newspaper cut back from being a nice daily newspaper to a three-day a week paper, with a crummy, hard to access online version, I was inspired to pen this verse to the local editor:

“I’ve tried to be open-minded, I’ve given it a good try,

But reading your e-replica on Android just makes me want to cry.

 What were you thinking when you came up with such a clunky set up?

You should have tried harder so your subscriptions would not let up!

 Gazette on Kindle equals “D minus”, on Android equals fail.

No Doonesbury, no NY Times Crossword – it all makes me want to wail!

 You took away my favorite parts,

and gave me boring self-help columnists whose words hit me like darts

 Your new Gazette just makes me want to holler,

and long for the old days when newspapers were worth every dollar.”

(Original poem by Huffygirl, © 2012)

The editor, though impressed with my verse, did nothing to improve the paper, It’s still crummy, still doesn’t work on Android, and still lacks the NYT crossword and Doonesbury. But, I digress.

The Poetry Whisperer, age seven.

My happiest poetry moment occurred when my youngest son was in second grade. He had a teacher, Sister Salmonella, who turned out to be an awful teacher, but had one good quality, which was having the students memorize and recite poetry. What could be cuter than a group of sweet-faced seven-year-olds  standing together and reciting funny rhyming poems to their doe-eyed parents? Listening to their recitation would just make your heart melt.

The highlight of the poetry recitation came around Mother’s Day. Sister Salmonella had the students memorize the poem “Mother doesn’t want a dog” by Judith Viorst, and coached them to recite it at home for their moms on Mother’s Day. My son, being the darling little boy that he was, took it to the next level. After reciting the poem for me, he sat his seven-year old self down at my new state of the art word processor (okay, that’s a fancy typewriter) that I had gotten from my husband for Mother’s Day, and hunted and pecked until he had typed out the entire poem for me. Ah, heart melting all over again. I framed it and still have it today.(Insert contented motherly sigh here.)

May your poetry month be rhyming and cheery, and I hope all those poems don’t make you grow weary!

© Huffygirl 2012

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More on the ignoble skunk


Striped Skunks (Mephitis mephitis)

Image via Wikipedia

Who knew that the offensive, lazy skunk would generate such creative comments? My recent post on  Do we really need skunks? drew a lot of agreement that we don’t need skunks. It also brought out the creativity of readers.

Fellow blogger Badmagazine  shared this original ode to the skunk, that was just too good to stay hidden in comments:

SKUNK

A skunk’s a slinky fellow
You wouldn’t want to meet
As when he’s saying hello
His odor can’t be beat

A whiff upon the breeze
And stomachs start to wrench
No number of perfumeries
Can cover up his stench

Predictably unpopular
He’s shunned by one and all
His scent’s so very singular
He’s banned from every ball

Universally spurned
The poor skunk withdraws
Social bridges burned
By matches in its paws

We all have our weapons
To defend and ward us well
From harm when we’re threatened
The skunk just has its smell

Though claws and fangs may scare us
They cannot quite compare
With the skunk’s only genius:
Its chemical warfare!

(reprinted with permission) 

Even children got in the spirit. Niece Judy shared a song, spontaneously sung  by her son, Benjamin, age 5, when he was introduced to the workings of a skunk on vacation:

Skunks are great
Skunks are good
Skunks behave like they all should!

Someday when Benjamin has had more experience with skunks, he might have a different opinion. But if stinking to high heaven is behaving like one should, then skunks certainly have it down, so I’ll agree with little Ben on that part.

Thanks readers for sharing your creative rhymes and making it unofficial “poetry week” at Huffygirl’s Blog! 

To Labor Day: An ode


Oh labor, oh labor, how valiant you are.

To those hard at work, your day is a star!

You help us birth babies, you build fine tall bridges;

You help us cure scabies, you bulldoze big ridges.

You wipe runny noses, you help us build houses;

You polish our toeses, you catch naughty mouses.

You work day and night, keeping our country safe.

From the helpless, the homeless, to the innocent waif.

You toil in clinics, factories and stations,

You  work day and night across most of our nation.

But many of your people are in a fine pickle,

They want to find labor but prospects are fickle.

Fine, upright people with spunk and ambition,

Are moping around, ’cause their jobs have gone missin’.

Oh labor, oh labor, we need you in a hurry,

Unemployment’s run out and your people are worried.

Oh labor, oh labor, please help us get crackin’,

Help our unemployed folks find a way to get back in.

(Dear Mr. Obama and Congress: Please stop rearranging your meetings and chairs at the table, and instead find some jobs for our strong and our able!)

Labor Day Bridge Walk, or unemployment line?

© Huffygirl 2011

(Original poem by Huffygirl: May be used with link to this blog and attribution; contact Huffygirl via comments or email for permission to reprint.)