Picture this
Meeting with forty-three women
Two men
Six at each table
An extra squeezed in to one.
Picture this
I always sit by the loudest and proudest
The most egotistical
The one who always gladly shouts out every answer
Sometimes wrong
Sometimes right
Does not count the wrong ones.
Even if we laugh
Picture this
Loud and proud at another table
Selects herself to be spokesperson
Suddenly realizes she has done the task incorrectly
Turns on a co-worker and yells
“YOU SAT THERE AND WATCHED ME DO THIS ALL WRONG!”
Not once, but twice. Screamer's face turns tomato.
Nervous laughter.
Except me.
I was laughing flat out
Loud and proud
Great for any meeting
I love my own chili,
I know it sounds silly,
heat in pot
nice and hot
it is truly a dilly.
I love my own meatloaf.
I throw on a sugar top.
Other people would
not do it,
or know how to stop.
I do, you big oaf.
After all, this sugary
brown sugar ketchup combination
is what makes it my meatloaf.
I love my own cooking.
Restaurants are rarely okay.
My most favorite me-cooked-meal
Navy beans and ham, in a gravy
over cornbread,
Good thing my husband likes
it too, or things would be coming
to a head.
I am magical, I said. I can control her.
You cannot!
Yes, I can, and I do.
You do not!
My eight-year-old twin is angry now, with a mean face.
I do not back down. Want to see?
How?
What do you want me to make her do?
Make her come down those stairs.
During Jeopardy?
I am backing up now.
Our mother loves Jeopardy, it is the only TV show she believes in.
I cannot control her during Jeopardy.
I wrack my brain
and it quickly comes up with a plan.
I smack her favorite blue glass vase off the top of the TV set.
There is a loud cracking sound.
My sister’s face turns into a horror movie.
She runs off, screaming “MAWWWWWWMMMMMMMM!”
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
See? I think stupidly.
I am magical!
Impulsivity is my middle name.
I dream every night, she brags. I am wearing an aquamarine chiffon dress, and I am doing the tango.
I hate her a bit, for I do not recall even a petite part of my dreams.
Last night I was dancing with a handsome stranger, he was wearing a tuxedo, she said.
Good. I have never been fond of tuxedos. Now I despise them, and men who wear them.
We lived in a gorgeous house, and we looked down on the little people, she said.
Her true self is coming into the conversation now.
Another teacher in the lunchroom catches my eye.
We throw back our heads and laugh.
We cannot stop.
We are cry-laughing now.
What? She asks, having no idea.
There is no way to explain.
A braggart for sure
The top best at everything
Amazing stories
A hit at a few parties
Until we could not stand him.
In my mind somber sorties unfold
When morbid movements scar a hundredfold.
Normalcy dead, transparency scared
Empathy bearded, intransigence endeared.
In my mind sordid scenes grow cold
When vulnerable voices no longer hold.
Brash brands undead, harsh hustles prepared
Phantom forces deployed, evil enamels ensnared.
In my mind torrents of tears no longer dry
Victory vessels victimize, vile victuals bereft of shame fly.
Flies on excrement multiply, sties of scorn sniggle
Spies of blame bloom, pies of putrefaction giggle.
In my mind orifices and offices of ordure spy
Voices of Hades hustle, choices of straitjackets sigh.
Worms of wilderness sparkle, whiffs of death dodge
Squids of insanity soar, weeds of vanity splurge.
There once was a driver named Dave,
Of his driving he often would rave.
Then one day on his own, drove and talked on his phone,
Now he's bragging about his new grave.
Everyone knows
That parents who brag about their children
Are bores.
But grandmas with granddaughters
And grandsons like mine
Are free of all restraints and do not obey
Silly mores.
Yesterday
It was my turn to entertain my
Garden Club,
And so I proudly set their pictures out
And bragged a bit.
My visitors made kindly comments
I freely will admit.
Of course everyone was in a hurry
To show their own and brag aloud
I looked at theirs and smiled and praised.
Knowing full well that mine were the ones
Who really made a grandma proud.
I studied the loving faces of my friends
And saw that each felt the same,
Each of us was playing that smug
Grandparent game.
.
Braggart Butterfly, he soars swift and high
believing he's really lord of the sky.
One sunny day, he thinks he is able
to bully a timid, small-sized eagle.
To him the bird was a nervous dummy
with neither fire nor guts in its tummy.
To him it was simply vulnerable
to assaults and pretty much unable
to block his kicks and jabs, his straight and cross.
And so he bravely flips and flaps across
the quiet bird's unperturbed countenance.
He attacks it with haughty confidence.
And so it is, the sky is brightly blue.
The truly pissed off eagle must make do,
flying long, flying tired without a snack,
with the Butterfly in his...burpp...stomach!
.
Soaring swift and high is brave Butterfly,
believing really he's lord of the sky;
one sunny day, he thinks he is able
to bully an actual full-sized eagle
who looks to him as a nervous dummy
with neither fire nor guts in his tummy,
a push over wimpy, vulnerable
to assaults and pretty much unable
to duck his jab or kick, his straight or cross;
and so he boldly flips and flaps across
the quiet bird's unperturbed countenance
with butterly's daring self-confidence.
And when the sky is brightly azure blue,
a truly pissed off eagle must make do,
flying long and real tired without a snack,
with a butterfly in his..burp..stomach!
He was a young English soldier in India,
A soldier's funds are rarely ample,
But he went into a mideast Bodega,
He sought a gift for his Indian girl,
Gungahontis...
Her favorite cologne, Eau de Camille,
sat on a shelf...he had not enough
money to buy it himself
So he pulled out his Dinar Card,
and saved the day, at least till about
when he stopped to bray about his clout,
an hour later when he was killed
by runaway horses.
Seems he was not the only one running
at the mouth.
soaring swift and high is brave Butterfly,
believing really he's lord of the sky;
one sunny day, he thinks he is able
to bully an actual full-sized eagle
who looks to him as a nervous dummy
with neither fire nor guts in his tummy,
a pushover eagle, vulnerable
to assaults, and pretty much unable
to duck his kicks and jabs, his straight and cross;
and so he bravely flips and flaps across
the scared eagle's unperturbed countenance
with haughty wings of daring confidence;
and when the sky is brightly azure blue,
a truly pissed off eagle must make do,
flying long and real tired without a snack,
with bold Butterfly in his..brrrp..stomach !