Mary Dee had a mad conviction
That she’d always have a weird affliction.
Six doctors said she would likely beat it,
Encyclopedia worries though promptly heat it.
She kept a perpetual sore throat for her entire life.
Remaining a perpetual mean and unhappy wife.
Mary Dee, determined to be sick and sad.
Sorriest aunt I ever had, mean sister to my dad.
I will write the funniest poem of all time.
Sorry. It has already been done.
I will write the most romantical poem of all time.
Ditto.
I will write the craziest poem of all time.
Have you ever heard of Shel Silverstein?
I will write the rhyme-iest poem of all time.
Dr. Seuss?
I will write what I know.
And it will not have to be an “ist” at all.
It will not have to be the most, the funniest, the sorriest, the saddest, the sweetest.
It can just be what it is.
And it does not have to become famous.
It does not have to be understood.
It does not have to be appreciated.
But it will have to be my own.
Because it has to be the poem
That only I can write.
I sit and stare at the
Paper, overwhelmed.
Excited, expectant,
Waiting for her birth.
Wondering where she will take me.
I pick up the pen and begin. Knowing nothing about what is about to happen.
My grandparents would simply be blown away
If they could see the inventions of today.
My grandmothers did not live to see colored TV
Computers, I-pads, I-phones. Whee!
Stuff today would bamboozle them good.
Boggle their minds as nothing else could.
Their eyes might fall out, trying to follow all these video games.
Frankly some days, I feel exactly the same.
I think the most shocking thing to them would be
That old fashioned etiquette and manners have been stuffed down a tree.
Please and Thank you are certainly not a part of normal conversation flow.
Young children are watching horrible graphic TV shows,
Parents are afraid to make their children mad.
Children without limits are miserable and sad.
But I think the sorriest and saddest thing for them to see,
Is a misogynist bully elevated highly from his place on fake TV.
S Sorriest type of assessment
T Two answers always sound right; one is author’s idea of more right.
A Assumes we have identical life experiences, exposed to same words
N No one likes them- not the students, teachers or parents
D Do not guess, but what to do when you have no idea whatsoever?
A Assumes students have computer skills and typing skills.
R Ridiculously limited as to what they are measuring
D Depressing to students who do not test well or have test anxiety
I I believe portfolios are a better indicator of student accomplishment
Z Zany questions never asked in real life, strange vocabulary also
E Excellent grade for ten students per school, demoralizing to the others
D Depressing to the student who gets a low score.
T Teachers threatened by their students’ test scores, tied to evaluations.
E Every parent needs to say “No, thank you."
S Students are over-tested before the real test.
T Teachers cringe when they see their students’ test results
S Students feel badly when they get a low score
Here comes Buck Toothed Chuck
from Hickville Street,
sorriest feller you
ever did meet.
Walkin' his flea bitten dog
down the street, scratchin’ his head
and flip flopping his feet.
If he asks for money
best say, "No way"!
'cuz it'll slip through his fingers
in less than a day.
He'll be spittin' tobackee
the whole day through,
'cuz he ain't got nothin'
better to do.
There goes Buck Toothed Chuck
from Hickville Street,
hasn’t had a bath in
over a week,
Best steer clear cuz' the
smell ain't sweet,
sorriest feller you
ever did meet.
A picture I'll never forget
In my heart her smile is still a lasting bless
And I can't help but think of those days
When we walked along the calico ways.
The clock, the gong and my dismay
Ticking towards the sorriest days,
And I can't stop the time running away
She will be gone when I'll realize
That am walking alone along the wispy ways.
This is the picture I only have
In my eyes her dreams are still aspiring with tears
And I can't percept but think of those promises
When we held eachother along the floral rays.
The vision, the esthesis and my presages
Reflecting towards the bluest days,
And I can't stop perceiving the reality wraiths
She will be gone when I'll intimate
That am living up to her dreams alone along the mortal rays.
That was the picture I will live with
It will remind me of the time we had
I will see and I'll frame this
So that I can walk to live up to her dreams.
Today was a horn blowing day
Maybe it was the temperature
That made their mind stray.
Their frustrations are rising high
It seems they want traffic to fly.
These are the rage warriors with their road rage
Because of this , many a life will change.
When they run over a pedestrian
Or crash into another car
Because their rage had gone too far.
They all claim to be running late
That they have an important date
Maybe it’s to meet the undertaker
Before they go to meet their maker.
Then all the “ I’m sorriest” come out
Of that there is no doubt.
But will the “I’m sorry” bring back the
Life that was taken, or the damage done
To that person and families.
This is something that I can not see.
Let’s think about it before this rage takes control
For it can not bring back that lost soul.
CONTROL
Twisters unlike Supercala-fragilistic-expealidocious
Imagining dreams he was socialistically-unrealistic
Can you imagine an imaginary menagerie manager
Or try imagining managing an imaginary menagerie
Ev'rything can be satisfactch’ll for Zip-a-Dee-Doodah
Of course some make a hoo-hah over tiddly-boo-yah
Reggie’s chilly cheap chip shop sells Daryl a freak dip
Frightfully silly of her for, he flamboyantly let it rip
Her croaking Frog cost truly a princely sum of snobbery
Forgotten hopes, forlorn, besotted froglips of buffoonery
When the bleak breeze blights the bright blighted blossom
Betty beat a bit of butter to make a batter better awesome
Such a floozy to improperly expect a decent cup of coffee
I made it in a proper copper coffee pot, served with toffee
Later I saw Esau kissing Kate; at least me’ thinks I saw
The sorriest saw I saw was rustic on sawdust in Arkansas
Ride the slow ride of the secret pain,
the fuse she drove into the stony ground,
where I hailed from fell infected with
a deathly malaise that hangs around.
Detected so faintly within my eyes
the dying light that barely ever shines,
as if by a stretch I ever cared
for barstool nights and chat-up lines.
Never is safe to go outside,
where gutters are flooded with frying rain,
and if I were to taste her mouth
her lipstick forever kissed a stain.
And if I took such a liberty
to screw convention and then assume,
my heart I would bestow on her
when far too late she left the room.
Should I stumble and should I fall
whose arms would catch me on the way?
for now I am frail as porcelain,
I smash to eggshell every day.
And with my speech I bring her down
with promises rare I never keep,
I speak in tongues the sorriest truth
of milk that spilled and pointless weep.
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