A friend said “Thank you for being so kind about my silly poem.” I responded:
The only silly poems
are the ones we are ashamed of,
so we hold them
inside
and they grow
and fester
and give us ulcers.

And that’s silly.

Another in a series of Improv veggie poetry I made up for my kids when they were much younger. By the way, gurken, gherkin, gherken, etc., is German and sometimes Yiddish for pickle.

There’s a gurken lurkin’
on my plate!
A gurken lurkin’;
it looks great!
A gurken lurkin’;
I can’t wait
to eat my
lurkin’ gurken!

A long, LONG time ago, when my children were very small, I wrote this for them (part of a vegetable series)

Peas,
please!
I like peas!
I like peas please me!

If you’d stop being so inspiring,
then I’d probably stop writing!
But every word that you write or speak
falls like water on a barren and bleak
desert, and has the creative power
to make the desert bloom
and my mind’s prairie flower.

So think not that I’m conspiring
to better you, when you’re inspiring!

Yes, I sent you
a hidden haiku
late last night.
I hope it was alright.

You don’t have to wonder,
as I drifted off to slumber,
what it was about, or who.
The subject and object? Yeah, it’s you.

Not that you’re objectified
when I gaze at the inside
of my eyelids.
I felt inspired to write, so I did.

Why do I never send these to you directly?
Keeping them hidden leads to romantic subtlety.

If I text her as/
I go to bed, sometimes it’s /
as if she were near.

I’m sorry for keeping you up so late.
Thanks for all the verse your muse helped me create.
Some feelings were deep
and some thoughts were sweet,
but you listen, and that I appreciate.

With that parting thought,
and wishing I could talk
with you,
I bid you
a bon nuit,
and a sweet adieu.

Yet another woman
thinks I’m a one
-and-done
gee that was fun
now be gone.

Kinda like the get on
get in
get done
get gone
of 20 years
and hundreds of tears.

Every ev’ning/
I go back through old texts. I/
always find you there.