Lazy, lazy, lack-a-daisy,
I should cook some food,
Lazy, lazy, lack-a-daisy
I'm really not in the mood.

I could probably eat just a can of corn,
Or maybe make some soup,
The thought of cooking fills me with scorn
Even though hunger is making me droop.

Lazy, lazy, lack-a-daisy,
Why can't I make something to eat?
I"m just lazy, lazy, lack-a-daisy
So for now I'll admit defeat.

I guess there's always take-out...

She always taps the railings when she walks along the street
No matter the weather, her mood, if she’s early or late
It goes tap, tap step tap, step tap tap, and repeat.

It’s a simple and quiet lived life to the beat
Of her fears, her obsessively organized fate
She always taps the railings when she walks down the street.

It helps her feel calm; to tap makes the walk neat,
Step twice near the fountain and jump over the grate
It goes tap, tap step tap, step tap tap and repeat.

Do her neighbors peek, do they point, do they bleat
About the girl who’s got rhythm tied into her fate?
She always taps the railings when she walks down the street.

And her parents, do they not fear for her feet
And her tapping obsession, psychiatrist’s bait
It goes tap, tap step tap, step tap tap and repeat.

But it’s hers, her own comforting lullaby sweet
It protects her from bombs, famine and food past it’s due-date
So she always taps the railings when she walks down the street.
She goes tap. Tap step tap. Step tap tap. And repeat.

I feel like Godzilla in a frilly party dress
Wearing ribbons and flounces while causing distress
Or a jalapeno pepper in a pumpkin pie,
Dangerously spicy and living a lie
spiky and snarly like a cat in a cage,
yet trussed up in garlands that tighten with age
I'm sweet on the outside, I'm feeling quite witchy,
If you've read my poem, you'll say I'm just ******.

Happy Birthday!

Is there something I can make
or get
or buy for you to own?

A parakeet
or a bicycle seat
or a pair of skis on loan?

What is it you might like to have
to show I think you're nice?

Perhaps an Oilers jersey
or a special cooking spice?

I should go by your int'rests and hobbies
if I'm very sure I know 'em

But perhaps...
Would you be satisfied
with a silly little poem?

Buzz like a hive of angry bees,
Gossip for wives at strawberry teas.
A secretive scandal that's oh so hush-hush,
Discussed in a whisper while lending a brush.

Several tries
Blurple skies
Fluffy wings
Someone sings
Apple pies
Second tries
Silver rings
Slimy things
Salty fries
Funky dyes
Wonderings
Doorbell dings
Your demise
Poor disguise
Ancient mings
Infant clings.

The cat is on the wall
He yawns and stretches far,
He holds his head up tall
And keeps me in a jar.

I'm trapped within my prison
My breath fogs up the glass,
Hope it's a dream or vision
As people slowly pass.

I hope the cat is sleepy
Or has recently been fed,
'Cause I find his gaze quite creepy
And I think he wants me dead.

I finally get a feeling this won't take me very far,
In a poem with a cat, on a wall, in a jar.

I live alone on the mountaintop,
in a hut made of branches and dirt.
I never brush my hair anymore,
and I never wash my shirt.

There's nothing to keep me company here
but birds and trees and sky;
I've gotta say, though, I think it's grand
to let city life pass me by.

How did I end up on the mountaintop?
Well, my story's a little bit weird:
I, when I was young, had a phobia,
it was homework and tests that I feared.

To wake up to a school day would give me the sweats,
the mere thought of it filled me with dread;
when they expect me to prove that I'm learning
I would much rather stay in my bed.

So I never, ever did homework,
my blank tests made my teachers so mad
but nobody could coax me or force me,
not even my mom or my dad!

I seem to remember a book report
which for me was the very last straw;
read, write, memorize and perform in a week?
it should be against the law!

So I planned an escape from my schoolwork,
had to leave friends and family behind;
but I had to stop off at the library first
to see what books on survival I'd find.

Well, I found books on camping and wildlife
and I got me a suitable tome,
but I knew that book-stealing was risky
in the end I would leave it at home.

So I secretly worked every night of that week
writing notes about mushrooms and shrubs,
and I wrote up a way to remember my tricks
on shelters, potatoes and grubs.

All too soon the day came, and I ran away
I left cards that said "Don't look for me"
I clutched at my notes and recited my words,
this was it, I was finally free!

Of course, all of that was just ages ago
I've been happy, a hermit for years
though it's not what I should, I've become very good
at running away from my fears!

Silver slivers of solid liver and jam
Whiskers kiss past Turks or ham
Flavored paper for popular people
Begin please! Climb our church steeple

Forget it, I mean you no harm
If you can't be cute, then try for smarm
Tell me a secret you know about boys
Though you might not know any, you still have soft toys

Never, ever, always - tall days (in platform shoes!)

Hate, love, lust, rust and remembering
Silly games with guns and dismembering
Bombs that explode into strawberry stars
Sparkle and twinkle, and try to melt cars

Jelly beans, tangerines, chocolate and fries
Buttered toast fireworks in ovaltine skies

Capable people do commonplace things
while I write myself a pair of pink wings
to fly overhead of their sensible plans
and pelt them with pillows and empty food cans.

Sometimes I forget that snow is beautiful.
I ignore the soft, fluffy flakes,
forget the way it sparkles in the light
and piles up on things to make the world soft.
Sometimes, when a neighbor tells me how awful things are,
or I have to shovel again,
or when I slip and fall and miss my bus,
I can't see past what *****.
Sometimes I need reminding.
I need to stop, to just look and just listen,
to that gentle fall turning the world into white,
And remember that even though the world is big and cold
it's also soft,
waiting to catch my fall.
Sometimes I need to remember to sit back and look at the snow.