Tag: kid

Revenge of the Toothpaste Kid

Revenge of the Toothpaste Kid

 

He was always a very… toothpaste kid:

Bristle spikes held in place

By toothpaste gel

Atop his head.

Minty breath

That hung about him in a cloud,

Like a vaporous afterthought

Of fluoride.

A blinding smile,

Nearly equal in terror and sparkle.

Nearly, I say.

Crisp and fresh.

Immaculate and antibacterial.

 

By the final bell

The other kids

Had squeezed and smeared,

Wrinkled and rolled,

Crunched and crushed the heart out of him.

So, when he grew up,

He extracted his revenge

As a dentist.

 

For one cannot have the last laugh

With latex and local anesthesia

In one’s mouth.

 

-M.M.

 

Picture Credit: pme2013.blogspot.com

The Empathy Amphitheater

I do not usually write nonsense, but when I do, I don’t. -M.M.

 

The Empathy Amphitheater

 

Welcome to the Empathy Amphitheatre.

Really, we know how you feel.

You feel like the door greeter-meeter,

Who’s waiting for cherries to peel.

 

Just Joking. No Nonsense.

I hear from the heart,

And speak from the ear,

And see all and part.

 

If you are cold, I’ll give you a coat.

If you are hot, that’s too bad.

If you’re unsure I’ll share a bad coat,

Of the fuzziest leather I had.

 

Sharing is caring, but staring works too,

But glaring, we deem with disgust,

Is a gesture best left for the taxes collector,

Best to be banished to rust.

 

Hear the heat from the fire that scorches the sky,

The stars that stick to the black,

Up overhead in their upside-down bed.

Do you feel them staring back?

 

If you don’t, well, I quite understand.

If you do, I knew that you would.

My empathy true, and sympathy too,

Feel just the way that you should.

 

Sit down. Have a seat.

Or stay where you stand.

To stand is to understand me.

Emphatically I implore you to explore,

Expressions which you share with me.

 

For I am not you, and you are not me,

And neither of us can agree,

Or then pretend to full comprehend,

Each other to any degree.

 

So Empathy really, cannot exist,

For imperfect people as we,

So let’s sit downs with smiles or frowns,

‘Cross a cup of some sweet sympathy.

 

-M.M.

Like a Box of Crayons

Coloring with crayons is one of the things I miss most about being at little kid. It was so easy, fun, bright, and innocent. Hard to go wrong with wax on paper.

 

 

Life is Like a Box of Crayons

 

Life is like a box of crayons.

Some days are melted, chipped, or broken,

Clean or dented.

Worn or fragile.

Some days are stubs.

But there is one thing you can always know:

Each one is colorful,

And together, they make masterpieces.

 

-M.M.

The Tale of Spaghetti Pizza

As I have mentioned before, I am a huge fan of children’s literature. Last year I had an idea for a short story-poem about Spaghetti Pizza. I finally took the time to write it down. I hope you like it.

 

 

The Tale of Spaghetti Pizza

 

The day that Mr. Noodle died,

The whole of Weville mourned and cried,

And citizens began to fear,

Because the future wasn’t clear.

For Mr. Noodle’s factory,

-The Pizza Pasta Saucery-

Was the heart and life of town,

And all the people therein found.

 

The papers spread the news abroad,

Dead Noodle’s will was rather odd,

And would be read at half-past three,

In the square by Mayor Shmee.

The town assembled in the square.

The folks all hoped to win their share.

The Mayor Shmee, a rotund man,

First cleared his throat and then began:

 

“The will of Mr. William V.

Arthur Noodle:” (read by me)

States, “To the folks of Weville West,

I bequeath my very best,

Dough producing factory.

Please accept this gift from me.

The West folks gave a mighty cheer,

And all the East folks strained to hear.

“And to the folks of Weville East, a gift from me,

To you I give my Saucery.”

The cheer erupted, shoutings rose,

The Town Square meeting reached its close.

 

Each half of Weville went to work,

Except for little Maisy Merk,

She went to the park across from the square,

With all of the children to meet and play there,

While all of the grown-ups slaved away,

Hour by hour and then day by day.

And soon the East was sick of their sauce.

(Would eating some noodles be such a loss?)

And folks of the West each meal thought “Gee,

I do miss tomato sauce, Yes-sir-ee.”

 

But each was too proud to bow down to trade,

The East even put on a Sauce-themed parade.

The West, in response, threw a Dough Festival,

With crust and bland noodles for West-siders all.

 

Yet still the kids met to play in the park,

From Breakfast to lunchtime until it got dark,

Most kids, like their parents, refused to trade,

Except for Miss Merk and Timothy Tade.

And there in the mist that cool summer’s day,

Maisy and Timothy shared anyway.

Together they ate their brand-new lunch food.

Each took a bite. They smiled as they chewed.

Spaghetti Pizza was born in the sun.

And soon other children had joined in the fun.

 

The parents found out, and boy, were they mad!

They hoped this new food-stuff was only a fad.

It wasn’t a fad and it started to grow.

People thought, “I guess I’ll give it a go.”

So Spaghetti Pizza wore down the prides,

Of the people of Weville- East and West sides.

 

And round Mayor Shmee decided to host,

A carnival fair for what he loved most-

For sharing and caring and shouting “Hurrah!”

For the uniting power of Spaghetti Pizza.

For friendship for family and humility,

And Mr. Noodle’s old food factory.

 

-M.M.

The Jabberwocky and the Art of Nonsense Poetry

I love children’s literature. Indeed, most of the poems or stories I write could be classified as such. The part that I love the most about children’s lit. is its cheerfulness. The playful goofy verse of Dr. Seuss, the fairy-tale depth of the Chronicles of Narnia, the magic and complexity of Harry Potter, the innocence of Beverly Cleary, and the adventure of Curious George. Children’s books bring out the best in us. They present complex themes -life, death, happiness, forgiveness, and friendship to name a few- in simple, entertaining ways. There is no room for the snooty grown-up ‘that’s highly illogical’ or “that’s nonsense” or ‘that’s preposterous!” (And no one even cares what preposterous means!) Children’s literature is an escape from the staunch, professional world of adults into the fluid, vivacious world of kids.

For this reason, I love nonsense poetry. Nonsense poetry is pretty self-explanatory; it includes made-up words, fantastic or impossible situations, and seemingly random illusions. Think of Dr. Seuss, Roald Dahl, and Lewis Carroll. My favorite nonsense poem is from Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There. It is called “Jabberwocky”. Be careful as you read “Jabberwocky.” There is some sense to it, though less than most poems. Also watch out for portmanteaus. (Portmanteaus are words created from the combination of two words.)

JABBERWOCKY

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought —
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

“And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Mostly, “Jabberwocky” is fun to read aloud.

I felt that this poem deserved an illustration, so I borrowed one from jabberwocky.com.

Fun fact: The word “chortle” was coined in this poem, formed as a combination of chuckle and snort.

And now for my own attempt at nonsense. I have included a list of portmanteaus I created in writing this piece, but feel free to try to figure them out before scrolling down to the bottom. And now, without any more interruptions. . .

 

The Brusted Wheel at Frempton’s Mill

 

The brusted wheel at Frempton’s Mill,

Bescraped away adown the hill,

Smusmashing gree and daisidill,

The brusted wheel of Frempton’s Mill.

 

It sprolled along the dusten woad,

Where the knortmen nobly rode,

In the dark with sneakret load.

It sprolled along the dusten woad.

 

It flurst out of the floriage,

And floppled o’er the clifflet’s edge,

And loafted out to Brinely’s Wedge,

Postflursting from the floriage.

 

Don’t bejudge the water wheel by finentual restination,

But atherly, mark it by its succete journeration.

 

 

 

Glossary of Secret things in this poem:

“Brusted” is a combo of Brown Broken and Rusted

“Frempton” is derived from Middle English “frempt” meaning “strange”

“Bescraped” is escaped and broke

“adown” means away down

“smusmashing” is smush and smash squished together

“gree” = any number of green trees

“daisidil” = hybrid flower combination of a daisy and a daffodil known for its bright yellow flowers and ordinariness

“sprolled” = sped and rolled

“dusten” is dusty and beaten

“woad” is simply way and road (or road with a speech impediment)

“knortmen” is a combo of horsemen and knight

“sneakret” is sneaky and secret

“flurst” is flew and burst

“floriage” is flora and foliage

“floppled” is fell, flopped, and toppled

“clifflet” is a small cliff

“loafted” is floated and drifted

“Brinely’s” is Lonely and briny (salty)

“Postflurting” means after flursting (see a”flurst” above)

“finentual” is final and eventual

“restination” is rest and destination

“atherly” is a combo of actually and rather

“succete” is success and complete

“journeration” is a weird way to say journey.

You might just say “Well that’s nonsense!”

Yes.

Yes it is.