The Poems I Wrote When I Was 12 (belated) Christmas Special

Well friends, another Christmas season has come and gone, and my intentions to post several of my holiday-themed poems failed to come to fruition while I was home. But by popular demand (sort of...), I am going to treat you all to one of my very favorites: a song about naked mole rats sung to the tune of "Oh Holy Night." So remember, don't read this to yourself, sing it to yourself (or preferably, sing it outloud so everyone around you can hear).

Oh NMR (to the tune of Oh Holy Night)

Oh NMR
Your veins are so apparent
But you're transparent
You squiggle and squirm.

Oh NMR
Your buck-teeth chew on cheese
'Till I appeared and I took it away

The thrill of hope as you try to get it back
You run around, not knowing where you're at

Ohhhhhhhh NMRrrrrr
You're duuuumb
And you're ugggggggly
You're stuuuuupid
And bliiiiind
NMRrrrr
You are so dumb

All hail!
The naaaaaaaaaaaaaked mole rat
Oh N-M-R

The best part is that I did not actually have to consult my poem book, as I have this committed entirely to memory. In fact, when Genny and I met for a poetry slam last weekend (more on that later), we sang this song with pride. If you want to hear how it goes, I will be happy to sing it for you. Seriously.

Guest Blogger!!

I haven't been able to update (or rather, I haven't gotten around to updating) for a while because a) my computer's power cord died and hasn't been replaced, so I haven't been surgeically attached to my laptop quite so much, and b) it's Christmas and I've been busy chilling with the family.

So in my absence, I give you the first post from guest blogger Genny (aka my 7th grade poem writing soul mate):

The Hampsters of Room 16B and the Nerf Ball Massacre
(by Genny)

Living merrily in a cage, hampsters frolicked, or so they did...
I'll tell you the story of old time and age, which happened when I was a kid.

To Oak Hills School I did go, my class was room 16B.
A tank full of hampsters, 3 were named Joe, and those 3 belonged to me.

They became weary of their old cage, sometime in May I think.
They escaped and we look everywhere, even the classroom sink.

We cried and blubbed and sobbed and weeped. Our hampsters, they were gone!
All three Joes' I missed them so (but I changed one of their names to Shawn).

We left for gym class to play dodgeball, despite our scurvy luck.
Boy those Joes (and one named Shawn) they really are a schmuck!

A bag of Nerf's lay on the ground, basking in their own glory-
"now stop it you kid! Don't interrupt now! Just let me finish my story!"

Now this part is tragic, PG-13 I must say, or maybe even R.
This was a bad end for those Joe's (and one named Shawn) even worse than a squish by a car!

Now I picked up those Nerfs and I threw 'em real hard, at a weird girl named Delore.
Out fell old Joe (or maybe Shawn?) laying on the floor!

It swigged and stammered here and there and then fell flat on it's back.
We threw more balls and more hampsters fell out, and this is REALLY wack.

They moved into the balls because it was soft and better than bark dust you see,
I took it on myself to save those hampsters, and so did she and he.

All were present and accounted for except Suzanne and Fred.
3 were missing, 5 were hurt and 4 were plan out dead!

We held a funeral for the 4 under the sycamore tree,
(I think it was the day I kicked Louanna and then got stung by a bee).

A 14 nerf gun salute we gave the missing and then stood proud, solemn and tall.
But that got old really quick, so we went off to play wall ball.

Living merrily in a cage, hampsters frolicked, or so they did...
I'll tell you the story of old time and age, which happened when I was a kid.

And the reviews are already in: "A heartwarming, apolopytic tale of the fragility of mammal life and the frivolty and materialism that is taught in society's modern schools" -The Washington Post, Rhymeworm Weekly

Just a little short of cluck

Sometimes we all just need a little reminder that it's ok to be who we are. Even if you're ugly or you're skanky or you're small, it's ok! If you believe in yourself, you can be whoever you want to be. Right? Well, maybe it's not that easy, but next time you start feeling down about yourself, remember Chuck, the courageous chicken who learned to accept himself, even if he was just a little short of cluck.

Chuck the Courageous Chicken

Chuck was always a little odd
He had a really puny bod

He had been a runt, you see
The other chickens had to be

Really mean to poor old Chuck
Who was just a little short of cluck

They went for a walk to see the barn
They tried to follow a trail of yarn

They saw some paint and it was green
And the other chickens, who were really mean

Dared poor Chuck to jump right in
And so he did, with a big ol' grin

He landed in with a mighty plop
And splashed the paint to the very last drop

He saw himself while walking back
And decided the other chickens were really wack

So Chuck accepted himself the way he was
Even through he had green fuzz

Soo, I guess the morale of the story is, if you're feeling like a loser and the other kids are making fun of you, just find a bucket of paint to jump in, and then you'll probably decide to accept yourself for who you are. Wish someone had told me that in 7th grade!

Buff Boy...I guess?

Turns out that the poem "Buff Boy" isn't so much a poem about a muscular guy as it is a poem about some things that rhyme with "hat." By far the best part is the picture I drew around the title:

So, like, what's up with his arms? Where are his joints? Is he so buff that his elbows became obsolete, leaving nothing but his wrists capable of bending or turning? If only I knew. What I do know is that this poem is pretty sub par. Too bad there aren't more illustrations to go along with it.

Buff Boy

Buff Boy has a really cool hat
He has a cat
His name is Matt
His girlfriend's fat
And her name is Pat
He hit her with a baseball bat
The ball hit a rat
Who didn't know where he was at
So he want to see a therapist named Kat
And so the rat sat
And told Kat
About the bat
Kat said it was the fault of Pat
Cause she was fat
And knew a cat
Whose name was Matt
It was all the fault of Buff Boy's really cool hat.

Ok. So this poem sucks a lot. It's also a little disturbing how emotionally and physically abusive Buff Boy is to his girlfriend, Pat. And the therapist Kat doesn't really offer much to help the situation, blaming it on Pat just because she is fat? Whatever. I guess back in the day I'd do anything for a good rhyme.

Confessions of a former NMR fanatic

Today was a special day. Today I saw, for the first time in many years, live naked mole rats. This might not sound very special, but if you knew me in 7th grade, you would understand. When I was 12, I had a very intense, very strange obsession with naked mole rats (NMRs). I shared this obsession with G, who would spend many hours a week on the phone with me, discussing all aspects of these small, squirmy, eusocial rodents. I guess we just thought they were funny, but honestly, the whole thing got a little out of control. I'm pretty sure our parents thought we were totally insane, but I imagine they were glad that the craziest thing their teenage daughters were doing was talking about naked mole rats.
Naturally, NMRs were often the subject of my poetry. There are many examples of this, all of which will be revealed here in due time. This one here pretty accurately represents my feelings.

NMR Groove

NMRs, they've got the groove
They know every single move
They can squiggle, they can squirm
It's a dance you've got to learn
N is for naked, veiny and pink
M is for mole, blind not a blink
R is for rat, the rodent comes out
Maybe that's what makes their coolness no doubt
NMR you blow my mind
A better animal I could not find
I've said it before, I'll say it again
NMR, you are my friend.

Well, my secret is out. For at least a year of my life, I was obsessed with naked mole rats. And when I saw the pile of writhing, buck-toothed, fleshy things at the Pacific Science Center this morning, I can't deny that I felt a special connection to the little guys. NMR, you will always have a special place in my heart.

The BSC: Staple of my childhood

If this blog was called "Books I Read When I Was 8," most of the entries would be about Babysitters Club (BSC) books. Further, most of those entries would be about how formulaic those books were and how I always skipped Chapter Two (in which some surrogate Ann M. Martin described the origins of the BSC) except for the parts that discussed what the babysitters were all wearing (but there's already a blog about that, so I won't go there).

But while that is a blog for another day, the Books I Read When I Was 8 apparently influenced at least one of the Poems I Wrote When I Was 12 (side note: my mom claims to this day that my poem-writing obsession replaced my BSC-reading obsession, which is a false accusation because everyone knows that just like Seventeen magazine, the only people who read the BSC series were about 4-5 years younger than the characters featured in it). So if you weren't lucky enough to cultivate an obsession with the gals from Stoneybrook, Connecticut like I did, take this opportunity to brush up on the ABCs of the BSC.

The BSC

The Babysitters Club
Are the best friends I ever had
They live in a town called Stoneybrook
Where nothing's ever bad

Stacey's from the city
She's very cool, it's true
And every day she goes out
And must buy something new

Claudia's an artist
Her clothes are very weird
She'll wear some shoes like Hercules
Or even a fake red beard [author's note: this is weird, but I also wouldn't put it past ol' Claud]

Kristy is their leader
She's bossy and she's loud
She coaches a little softball team
When they win it makes her proud!

MaryAnne's the shy one
She's caring and she cries
Once a stupid cat food ad
Made her wet her eyes

Dawn is from the coast
California to be exact
She cares about our planet
Believe me, that's a fact

Abby is Dawn's replacement
She sniffles and she snorts
She tells a lot of dumb jokes
And she's really into sports

Mallory is eleven
She's quiet and she reads
She has a lot of siblings
Seven of them indeed

Jessi is a dancer
She has lessons every week
She's Mallory's best friend
They both are total geeks

Next is Logan Bruno
He's MaryAnne's boyfriend
He's an associate member
(We're almost to the end)

Shannon is the smart one
She goes to private school
She's in a lot of clubs and things
She isn't very cool

This is the BSC
They meet 3 times a week
They are pretty stupid
But that's just what I think

Hmmm. I'm sensing just a teensy bit of animosity at the end of that poem towards my once-beloved babysitters. Maybe because I regretted wasting so many hours of my life caring about them, or maybe because when I wrote this, my own emerging babysitting career was neither as lucrative nor as fun as it seemed to be for those Stoneybrook girls (and token boy, Logan). But I have to say, if memory serves me, I think I summed up their character traits pretty well. If only I'd found a way to incorporate Claudia's fake stack of books for hiding candy (I actually have one of these-- thanks Lauren!)

Oh, limericks

Let me just say it now: I love a good limerick. Always have. In fact, I'm still pretty good at crafting quality limericks, while the same can not be said for my other poetry writing skills, which peaked when I was in 8th grade. My friend L even lets me guest post awesome presidential history limericks on her blog, here.

Anyway, here's one of a few limericks that filled the pages of my two middle school poem books.

The Misfortune of Frank

There once was a hippo named Frank
He tried to hold up a bank

But so large was his rear

That in the door he'd appear

To be stuck until his size shrank.

Ha ha, hippos are fat. And probably shouldn't try to rob banks. Especially banks with narrow doorways.

Why couldn't my poems ever have happy endings?

In a similar vein to Billy Fuzz, this next poem begins as a delightful tale about a lovable protagonist out on a mission to achieve greatness, but suddenly takes a dark, twisted turn at the end. Read on to find out what happened to poor Slappy the Salamander.

Slappy the Salamander and the Stir-Fry Crusade

Slappy was a salamander
Who was very keen indeed
She loved to eat Chinese food
And on stir-fry she would feed

One day she was walking by
In downtown New Orleans
When she came across a newstand
And bought a magazine

She opened up the magazine
to page one-oh-two
And there across the page
A headline read in blue:

"Stir-fry shortage sweeps the nation!"
It read, and with a gasp
Slappy sat down, for she was in shock
And needed something to grasp

"Stir-fry is my favorite food!
What will I do without it?
If I don't get some stir-fry soon,
I think I'll throw a fit!"

Slappy went for days
And soon the days turned into weeks
Not a single bit of stir-fry
Did Slappy have to eat!

Then one glorious day
Slappy went to the store
And what did she see before her eyes
But stir-fry, and stir-fry galore!

Slappy was so excited
She bought the whole display
She took it home in a semi-truck
And ate it by the very next day

Slappy gained 200 pounds
And soon became obese
She had to join a weight-loss program
And filled for bankruptcy the very next week.

Awww, poor Slappy the Salamander! She just loved stir-fry so much. Too much. My favorite part is when she buys a magazine, flips to the 102nd page (that's pretty way in the back, with the advertisments and whatnot) and discovers this huge headline about the shortage of stir-fry crisis.

In which I fail to emulate Shakespeare

In what I can only assume was an exhaustion-induced attempt at emulating the poetic style of Shakespeare, my 12-year old brain produced this bizarre piece. First, the original, then a translation of what I must have been trying to say.

The Wrath of Thy Sleep [original]
Thus forth thy fingers curl
I prosper in my glory
For hath the monsters do I call
In the wrath of thy sleep
For art thou here at all
Or do I whisper words of death
For thy loving self in all thy wisdom
Must proceed in the wrath of thy sleep

The Wrath of Thy Sleep [translation]
And so onward the digits of your hands bend
I succeed in my great splendor
But I have to call on the monsters
In the midst of your angry sleep
For are you even here?
Or do I whisper words of death
To you, self-loving as you are of all your knowledge
I must continue on despite this angry sleep of yours

Well, either way, it’s totally messed up.

Where it all began

Wow, there are just so many great poems I could be posting now, I really mean it. But most of them are going to have to wait for another day, because it wouldn't be appropriate to continue posting without first paying homage to the one that started it all. G and I wrote this poem together the very first time we hung out at my house in 7th grade (we knew we'd be soul mates from the moment we realized we were the only ones left at school wearing patterned leggings.)When we finished, we were so in love with ourselves over it that we had the poem framed. We also took folded up copies of the poem and slipped it into the lockers of all the popular kids at school, hoping to cause some sort of uproar in the locker bay over what we'd done (sadly, this never happened). It was also after this experience that I decided to make poem writing a habit. Anyway, without further ado, I present:

The Duck with Bad Luck

This is the story of a duck with bad luck:

This duck had bad luck. He was under the tire of a big red truck. What a schmuck.

Therefore, the duck who was a schmuck, was under the truck; obviously he had bad luck.

This proves that the schmucky ducky had bad lucky under the tire of a big red trucky.

Thus, the dumb duck, under the big red truck, must be a schmuck, with very bad luck.

This means that the duck with bad luck is a schmuck and is under the truck.

This concludes that the duckaly under the truckaly was a schmuckaly; he had very bad luckaly. Then the motor of the truck started, and smashed the duck with very bad luck. Boy what a schmuck!

Results: This duck had VERY bad luck.

Ok, so that was 10 times more weird and 20 times less cool that I remember it being, but whatever. It would be weird to hold back and pretend like The Duck with Bad Luck never happened, because it did. It's also a bit tragic that the duck had to die in the end. I wonder what those popular kids thought when they found it in their lockers...

The Ballad of Billy Fuzz

This is the first entry in "Volume II, Part II" of my poem books. It's a sobering tale, really. A dark story of greed and its consequences. And it goes a little somethin' like this:

Billy Fuzz

Once upon a time there was
A little boy named Billy Fuzz
Billy was in the 2nd grade,
and every week he would get paid
a dollar for him to get his chores done
And then he could have lots of fun

One day Billy decided to buy
a yummy looking apple pie
It only cost $1.10
But he only had a dollar to spend
Billy needed another dime
But a nickel was all that he could find

He roamed the streets and scavenged stores
For it was a dime that he adored
He roamed the streets with a copper pan
And begged until a nice old man
Walked up to him and gave him a penny
"Gee!" said Billy. "That's not that many!"

The man gave him an ugly scowl
And threw his penny at a spotted owl
The owl dropped dead on the cold city street
And soon there was nothing left to eat
The city had acquired an ugly buzz
All because of Billy Fuzz

Wow, I must have been having a particularly angsty-teenager week. Or maybe I was mad that my parents would not raise my allowance. Either way, the results are disturbing.

Here's a classic one

My favorite genre of poetry writing when I was 12 was the "animal with a kooky name has a crazy experience" poem. You know the kind. Anyway, this old favorite was rather archetypal of my middle school days:

Octopus Egor and his Encounters with Homer
the Psychic Smelt and a Fish Named Sven

This story I'm about to tell you
May not sound like it is true
But yes indeed, I do not lie
About Octopus Egor, who did not try

Octopus Egor wasn't that bright
He did not know wrong from right
He lived down in the water blue
Where he was happy, it is true

Now Egor, he was full of might
Although he wasn't very bright
There was one thing he had to know
That's what his future had to show

He went to see a psychic smelt
Named Homer and the future he telt
He asked him what he saw ahead
Would he wind up beached and dead?

Would he meet a lady oct?
Would they have a lovely talk?
"What's in store for me?" he cried
And this is what the smelt replied:

"Go down to the water blue
There is a fish that once I knew
Tell this fish you are my friend
This little fish, his name is Sven.

He knows all, more than me
He'll tell you what your future will be
Hurry now before it's dawn,"
And with that, the smelt was gone

Egor hurried along his way
To make it before dawn next day
Sven lived in the water blue
Which to Egor, was really nothing new

When Egor arrived at the fish's lair
He noticed an aroma in the air
It reeked of cheese and tuna cans
Of asparagus and pickled spam

"Come in," said Sven. "And take a seat.
I have for you a tasty treat
A complimentary can of spam
But first, tell me who I am."

"You are Sven," Egor said
"Homer sent me here instead
Cause I need your advice to know
What my future has to show."

"Ah," said Sven. "I'll tell you now.
As I see it, you'll buy a cow
You'll grow corn and barley too
A farm is what's in store for you."

"Thanks," said Egor and he was on his way
Tomorrow was another day
This poem is over, now I'll end
This story of Egor, Homer and Sven.

I guess it didn't occur to me that an octopus is going to have quite a hard time starting up a farm. Especially the kind of farm that has a cow.

I found my old poem books from 7th grade and decided to start a blog

Background: When I was in 7th grade, I thought I was a poet. My BFF of the day, G, and I spent much of our time together (whether in person or over the phone) writing poems. We trusted our poetry-writing skills to a delusional degree, believing ourselves to be capable of publishing our work. Well, that never panned out, but maybe it's not too late to share my work with the world!

My first entry is appropros to today, being that it is Thanksgiving. In fact, this gem is titled, simply, "Thanksgiving Day":

Thanksgiving Day

We give our thanks

To those we love

And those who save our lives

We eat the turkey by the pound

And gorge on pumpkin pies

The Pilgrims and the Indians started long ago

This feast we call Thanksgiving

That everybody knows

Cranberry sauce and candied yams

Rosemary bread and roasted hams

Daddy carves the turkey

Mother cleans the plates

I will eat the food

I'll tell ya, it was great!

Wow. That was embarassing to go back and read. I remember trying so hard to sound sincere and reflective. Did I succeed?