I'm a Poet, and I Know It!

Move over, Bard of Avon! It's the Bard of Oreland!

I’ve been reading tons of poetry lately, most of it pretty good. While I wrote a library-load of poems in my youth, with a renaissance during my bipolar crisis, I do not, generally, wax poetic. 

I much prefer other literary forms--personal essay, Op-Ed, grocery list. But having consumed a whole lotta rhymes recently, to say nothing of pages-long free verse epics, I feel inspired, and empowered, to throw my Shakespearean hat in the ring once more, and see what develops! 

 

But how to select from the smorgasbord of poetic choices?

 

I considered penning limericks, or villanelles, or cinquains, before settling on two: the Japanese haiku form, and the sonnet. 

 

The haiku’s plusses include: brevity (17 syllables total) focus (nature, or a specific, vivid moment in time), and an undeniable cool factor. 

 

The sonnet is a bit of a show-off ("I'm cleverer! Read me!" ) but I I feel like it’s more of a legit poem, right? I mean, who goes around bragging that they have a haiku memorized? Whereas sonnetizing is pretty darned impressive! I will rise to the ABAB CDCD EFEF GG challenge!

 

Shall we embark then, my verse-loving friends?

 

HAIKU WHILE-U-WAIT  

 

Forgotten milk in the fridge

Well past its expiration date

Gone from drinkable to edible

 

Manhattan’s soot-covered snow mounds

NY kid me thought

Every snowman was filthy dirty

 

My son forages, 

Then sautés his mushroom finds.  

Enjoy them! I’ll pass

 

Loved Wild Kingdom,

Mutual of Omaha!

But I went with Progressive

 

ROMANTIC SONNET 

 

My love for you is like a first-class flight

With champagne cocktails and no baggage fees

Like Magic Kingdom fireworks at night

Like endless boneless wings at Applebee's

 

My passion is as strong as Crazy Glue

That I spilled (oops!) onto your brand-new rug

The carpet is forever stuck on you,

As I am stuck as well! Let’s have a hug!

 

I cling to you, my object of desire,

Like Cling Wrap on a pack of burger meat

My adoration burns like a grease fire

From frying pork chops at too high a heat

 

I’m out of words and so I close, you see

Now it’s your turn to write your love for me

 

BREAKUP SONNET

 

I waited for your poem. It never came.

So much for rhyming what was in my heart!

That was a waste of time, and quite a shame

I’ll just take my thesaurus and depart.

 

No point in saying sorry--it’s too late!

I’m off to find a man who’s worth the work.

I’m off to find a much more grateful date

Than YOU, you boor! You clod! You dud! You jerk!

 

I’ve learned my lesson. I will never share

My writing talents with another guy.

I’m done with love! I vow, I pinky-swear!

No more the joy, no more the anguished cry!

 

But wait—Is that a sonnet that I see?

All’s forgiven! (if your poem’s for me)!

 

Woo hoo! Going forward, every single blog post will be in iambic pentameter. Promise!

 

Hey! Where are you going?

GOOD HOUSEKEEPING

I always say I love my house’s “lived in look.” I mean, who wants to spend time in a clean and tidy abode? Pretty boring stuff, right? Chez Seyfried, adventure is always just around the corner. It’s a real challenge to step over, not on, the Legos scattered on the floor. There’s sure to be a snack for visitors, and sometimes the pretzels even come pre-chewed by baby Dimitri! 

Seriously, though, I am a halfway decent housekeeper. I comfort myself by remembering my mom Joanie, who was not even a 1% of the way decent housekeeper. My sisters and I spent our formative years in clutter and disarray. To this day, I can’t properly make a bed or hand wash a dish. I can vacuum, though--but that’s only because vacuuming was one of the two chores Mom did with any enthusiasm, singing Gershwin and Cole Porter tunes at the top of her lungs. Her other favored chore? Ironing, believe it or not. Now, she wasn’t any good at it, but ironing in front of the TV was something productive she could do while she watched “As the World Turns.” I never had the slightest desire to operate an iron, and nowadays, with all the permanent press clothing items, I'll never have to!

 

Every few years, I compare myself to a GOOD housekeeper, and those are sad, sad days. After wallowing in self-pity, I wallow on over to my laptop. There, I read about cleaning customs from around the world, some of which are very entertaining.  After an hour or so online, I’m ready to go back to ignoring my messy house for another couple of years.

 

But just the other day, I read about a fabulous practice from Germany. It’s called  lüften, which means “house burping.” No, they don’t throw their three-bedroom dwellings over their shoulders and pat them gently on their exteriors. This kind of burping involves opening all the doors and windows wide every day for about 10 minutes, especially in winter. The idea behind this ritual? The average house is just a big container full of stale air. The occupants have to breathe that air, which makes them more prone to sicknesses. A bracing “burp” exchanges musty dusty inside air for clean and delightful outside air, PLUS a little snow and sleet, maybe!  Excitement abounds!

 

OK, this is genius. My grandkids would adore being the opener-uppers. They would especially love the idea of “burping," as this is already a favorite pastime. Also, they are already pros at leaving doors ajar, so this would be a natural progression. Every morning, I’d station Aiden upstairs and Peter downstairs. I’d count to three (or, to be authentic, to "drei") and then blow a whistle. That would be the signal for the boys to start racing around, yanking open the windows, welcoming Mother Nature into our happy, if frosty, home. 

 

And what seals the deal for me? I can get that healthful “fresh air” without ever having to go for a single walk! Win-win!

 

 

 

my favorite burper

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Personality in Six TV Commercials

  

 

There’s a terrific book of essays by Kathleen Norris and Gareth Higgins. It’s called A Whole Life in Twelve Movies, and a small group of my friends has gathered regularly after watching each suggested film, to discuss the relevance of said film to the stages of our lives. For example, the first movie/essay combo was 2001: A Space Odyssey, and the life stage was “waiting to be born”. Other chosen flicks include The Fisher King (the breaking and remaking of self), Malcolm X, (vocation) and Babette’s Feast. (generosity). Our sharing has been deep and meaningful, and it’s been a great experience.

 

Which means, of course, I am compelled to write a parody of it. I’m calling mine:

 

MY PERSONALITY IN SIX TV COMMERCIALS 

A listing of ads that speak to me (and about me)…

 

Here goes!

 

#1 I HAVE A SHORT ATTENTION SPAN

SKITTLES

Any of the brief, weird “taste the rainbow” ads, especially the one where the guy is milking a giraffe and Skittles pour out. Keeps me focused for the entire 20 seconds.

 

#2 I’M VERY TALKATIVE

HUMIRA ARTHRITIS MEDICATION

The rat-a-tat voiceover of doom at the end:

“HumirahasbeenknowntocauseinfectionsandcancersincludinglymphomakidneyliverthyroidandeyelashcancerdonottakeHumiraifyouhavetestedpositiveforTBscurvyorhaveapositiveattitudeaskyourdoctorifhumiraisrightforyoubutevenifhesaysyesitcankillyousothisisyourwarning.” 

 

I’m not THAT bad. Am I?

 

#3 I’M RATHER BOSSY

PALMOLIVE DISH LIQUID

The oldie featuring overbearing manicurist Madge, who insists on soaking her customers’ fingers in Palmolive Liquid “because it softens hands while you do dishes.” Her patrons probably haven’t washed a dish in their lives, but they are too terrified of Madge to request actual hand lotion instead. I can be quite Madge-like at times (ask my fam).

 

#4 I’M FUNNY-ISH 

It is generally accepted that I do have a sense of humor of some sort. I find the emu and the talking lizard in insurance ads unbearable. If you think those are a riot, we may not see eye to comic eye. Instead, I really enjoy the snarky PROGRESSIVE (also insurance, hmmm?) commercials where the guy is teaching people not to be like their parents. If you also like those, you’ll probably find me funny-ish.

 

 

#5 I’M SMART-ISH

 

My intelligence level is a matter of opinion. My fourth grade teacher Sister Mary Brendan told me I was too smart for my own good. That said, I identify with the classic Partnership for a Drug-Free America’s THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON DRUGS ad, which I credit for both my terror of losing what brain cells I still do possess, and my lingering fear of fried eggs.

 #6 I’M AFFECTIONATE

I will never hold a candle to my warm and fuzzy mom Joanie, but I do sprinkle my convos with plenty of “honeys” and “sweeties,” and if you are in arm’s reach of me you WILL be hugged. Guaranteed.I had to choose between commercials for Huggies diapers and Hershey Hugs chocolates. Unsurprisingly, HERSHEY HUGS won (though Huggies is another fine product, one I purchased quite often for the diaper needs of my five babies).

 

There you have it! 

 

How about you? What songs/plays/books/etc. would sum YOU up?

All Checked Out

Party in a jug!

I am really embarrassed to admit something, so I will do what I always do when this happens. I will admit it to a couple hundred friends, and even perfect strangers, who read my blog and newsletter. The idea is to confess my shame in public--the way medieval penitents wore hairshirts out in the streets—and then, hopefully, never make that particular mistake again.  

So here goes.

 

I’m a little late scheduling my colonoscopy. Like 15+ years late. Oh, I got the first one right on time. All I recall was what most people recall—the disgusting prep. Then I was knocked out cold. I do remember the doctor saying after I came to, "Everything looks fine now, but make sure you keep up with your regular testing schedule.” I immediately defined “regular testing schedule" as “15+ years from now,” and then went on with my unexamined colon, and life.

 

But wait! it gets worse. I have had less than half of the mammograms you are supposed to undergo. I neglected my teeth for years (NOT 15+ years! That would be ridiculous!), and then had to have a tooth extracted. The anesthesia didn’t really take, so I basically reenacted the dental torture scene with Dustin Hoffman and Laurence Olivier in Marathon Man. Never again! I swore.  And I haven’t—even though I have another tooth that is cracked and probably should also be excised from my mouth at some distant point in the future. Regular blood work? Gynecologist visits? Dermatologist to look at some suspicious spots on my legs? Oh, please!

 

I've been feeling that “radical self-care” is a form of egomania. Why should I fuss and fret over myself? Isn’t that rather conceited of me? Why am I so darned important? I’d much rather badger Steve to have his cataracts removed, or advise a church friend to seek medical help when their flu keeps hanging on. “Take care of yourselves!” I tell them, rather sternly. “I want to hear you’ve made that appointment!”  And, bless them, they usually do as I say (not as I do).

 

But age 70 is looming on my horizon, and it’s finally occurring to me that I can probably lengthen my remaining lifespan with more regular tune ups. So I’ve decided to get it all done this year--much like pulling into the Gulf station and telling your mechanic, “Oh, go ahead and replace the tires, fix the oil leak, change the spark plugs and put on new brakes--I’m here getting a tank of gas anyway!”

 

Say, that gives me a genius idea! A chain of medical quick marts called “Insta-Med!” You enter the bay. A skilled physician hoists you up and gets to work on you from head to toe. In less than an hour, you’re back on the road, with an inspection sticker, good as new!

 

So, why don’t one of YOU run with this concept?  I promise I’ll swing on by for body work! 

 

Every 15+ years or so. Definitely. 

Probably.

photo by Engin Akyurt on Unsplash