From The Archives: Allergies to Chores

Dear Mom, I have some information that is rather grave.
I got it in a very urgent call.
The hospital laboratory said I must be brave,
In order to avoid demise and pall.

The doctor on the line said, “I have never seen a list
Of symptoms and of woes as bad as yours.”
I’ll save you all the details Mom, I’ll tell you just the gist:
He said that I’ve got allergies. To chores.

“No dishes,” he commanded. “And no laundry,” he prescribed.
I’m sure you’ll see that this affliction stinks.
“No vacuuming,” I promised. “And no mops,” I sadly sighed.
“No cleaning up of toilets or of sinks.”

I know the outlook’s dreadful, now whatever shall we do?
I’ll miss the mowing; polishing; the broom.
I ‘spose that’s it for me, Mom. Since I’m feeling extra blue,
You’ll find me watching TV in my room.

WCM0162.jpg

Original Illustration © Robbie Yates 2018

instagram-icon-square.png   Goodreads Icon_Purple   Amazon Icon   Facebook Icon   Twitter Icon  
For exclusive updates and a free book of poems, join the mailing list!

 

From The Archives: Rain boots

Rain boots.jpg

It’s rare to see unbridled glee but there’s a special time
That children’s faces sparkle, full of joy
It’s all the rage for every age, it doesn’t cost a dime,
Absurdly fun for every girl and boy.

It happens when it rains and then on pavers, paths and tiles
Sit puddles, cold and wet, their beckon wry.
With rainboots on they yell, “Come On!” and jump with cheers and smiles
The splashes barely missing passersby.

Now humans all, both big and small, will find it quite a treat
To jump and splash and play a little more.
Don’t fear the crud, the cold and mud, or getting soggy feet
Because that, my friend, is what rainboots are for!


instagram-icon-square.png   Goodreads Icon_Purple   Amazon Icon   Facebook Icon   Twitter Icon  
For exclusive updates and a free book of poems, join the mailing list!

 

Don’t Play With Your Food

My Momma always told me
“Robbie, don’t play with your food.
It’s silly and it’s childish
And it comes across as rude.”
But Momma’s famous sayings
Though quite lovely, were not right—
Like “Crusts make hair grow curly
And “You can’t eat eggs at night.”

So when I’d finished college
And I rented my own house,
I cooked up some spaghetti
Stirring quiet as a mouse.
I got some crunchy breadsticks
And some beans that had been stewed,
And then, with glee and glory
Made a sculpture out of food!

noodles-560657_1920 - Copy

Image from Pixabay © CC0 Creative Commons 2014

instagram-icon-square.png   Goodreads Icon_Purple   Amazon Icon   Facebook Icon   Twitter Icon  
For exclusive updates and a free book of poems, join the mailing list!

Spreading… Joy

I’ve come up with a contest
A game that’s bright and new.
It’s something fairly simple
That anyone can do.
It must take place in winter
(It can’t be all year round)
Because it’s based on spreading
The common cold around!

Now when the idea struck me
At first, I thought I’d win.
But suddenly remembered
The trains and those within.
The passengers on buses
And elevators too.
The sneezers in your office,
And hallway coughers—Ew.

You see, the art of spreading
The flu both far and wide
Is something in which many
Have skills they just can’t hide.
I’m sure it will be lively
So join the contest please.
For now, though, please excuse me.
I need to go and sneeze.

boy sneeze.jpg

Image from Deposit Photos © ainsel 2016

instagram-icon-square.png   Goodreads Icon_Purple   Amazon Icon   Facebook Icon   Twitter Icon  
For exclusive updates and a free book of poems, join the mailing list!

The Cheeky Sock Society

Depositphotos_22014695_original - Small.jpg

Welcome to this meeting.
Thanks for coming.
Take a seat.
The Cheeky Sock Society has gathered here to meet.
We’re here to share our strategies and our achievements, too—
The ways we’ve found to slither down and hide inside your shoe.

You see, we’ve got one purpose—one lone aim that we all share.
We love to foster misery, to bring about despair.
And when your sock slides down into your boot and disappears—
That joy’s enough to bring this group of Cheeky Socks to tears.

Image from Deposit Photos © MarcoGovel 2013

instagram-icon-square.png   Goodreads Icon_Purple   Amazon Icon   Facebook Icon   Twitter Icon
For exclusive updates and a free book of poems, join the mailing list!

The Dishes

I’ve got to do the dishes
It’s shocking but it’s true.
I’ve figured out a way to make them easier to do.
I’ve rigged up a whole system
With pulleys and with rope.
I’ll never have to do the dishes anymore, I hope.

I’ve got to do the dishes
At least five times a week.
It interferes with my whole TV-series-watching streak.
My brand new dish contraption
Can wash them all itself—
So all I’ll need to do is put the cups back on the shelf.

depositphotos_68817935_original-small.jpg
I tried out my contraption
The one I built alone.
It turns out it is not a mechanism I’d condone.
It broke our china teacups
And all our platters too.
Mom got so blasted furious her face turned purple-blue.

She’s made me do the dishes
At least three times a day.
I tried to protest but she said there was no other way.
She said I needed penance
A way to make things up.
But you know what? It turns out
It’s not hard to wash a cup!

dishes-2419967_1920.jpg

Pulleys Image from Deposit Photos © tuja66 2015. Cups Image from Pixabay © Melissa-Anna 2017. 

instagram-icon-square.png   Goodreads Icon_Purple   Amazon Icon   Facebook Icon   Twitter Icon
For exclusive updates and a free book of poems, join the mailing list!