Like the nether regions
of the solitary woman
biking to work in a tight skirt,
My melancholy has been exposed
To the illiberal masses
And to the crisp winds of halcyon.
The first audience showers my agony
With rotten tomatoes.
The second licks the red juices off
Along with the dead skin.
Today,
as I plucked the dead leaves
from my hanging plant,
during the storm of awakening thunder
and latent passion,
I found a new sprout,
struggling to survive my negligence.
What to get for a mama who has it all? This is what my brother and I recited to our mama today at brunch. She loved it so much that she read and re-read it 7 times today. I recommend giving the personalized poem a shot next year for your respective mamas.
Through the cervix, round the bend
Up a tube fallopian,
Here we find a humble egg,
Round in shape, devoid of leg.
Still, without excessive trouble
It made its way to the uterine bubble.
There it lodged itself in wait
For its hot spermatozoon date.
Lo and behold, 9 months thence,
A babe shot forth from mama’s pants.
A few years thence and once again
One more sprung forth, a youngish man.
Now there were two, plus two made four,
A little family, mama thus bore.
With tender meats and pasta red,
Her little children she thus fed.
Not only did she grow them strong,
She fed their minds with books and song,
Doobie doobie dums and yays
She loved her cuties everyday.
They fell off walls and got malaria
She named those kids Nick and Valeria.
And with those names we live today
Bringing home such monstrous pay.
Not quite so, but even yet,
We, to this day, have no regrets.
She showed us through her own example
That the joys of life can be quite ample.
TV star and thespian grand
The community is at her demand
With gifts of peppers, beans and meat,
The elderly bow at her feet.
Her kindness is beyond compare
And love she has enough to spare
She is a joy of the littlest kind
A better woman you cannot find.
Cute and little, strong and lean,
Often looks like she’s sixteen
Funny, clever, clean and classy
Gorgeous, with a pinch of sassy.
That’s our mama, shout it loud!
Her love is like a mushroom cloud.
She lives with Quaid and Mr. Pat
And claims that “I don’t talk like that!”
And so today, tho’ womb is bare
We thank you for what once was there
For now we’re here and praise is due,
And so we sing this poem to you.
Mama, happy mother’s day
Let’s celebrate with this buffet.
Your offspring.
