Poems I Wrote When I Was 12

Warning: Extreme levels of 7th-grader sappiness

2010-11-22T20:10:00.000-08:00

Eep! Almost embarassed to post this one. It's another heartfelt attempt at sincere poetry that I must have written at the very end of 7th grade. And it's baaaaaad.

The Last Day of School

Today is the day we say our goodbyes

Today is the day that some of us cry

The school year is over, it's come to an end

This year was great and we all made new friends

It went by so fast, you hardly could think

The first day came up and went by in a blink

Many are happy, some of us sad

Or some in the middle, but nobody's mad!

Summer awaits us, and now that we're free

We look back and think of the good memories

What lies ahead in the future next year?

Tougher assignments and homework I here

But now that it's over, I've come to realize

This year was special in everyone's eyes

When the bell rings and we start to depart

We know there'll always be a special place in our heart.

Hahaha. My favorite line is "Many are happy, some of us sad/Some in the middle, but nobody's mad!" I mean, this is probably and pretty accurate and poignant reflection on the last day of 7th grade. Most people are indeed happy, some are indeed sad, several fall somewhere on the middle of the emotional spectrum, but nobody is ever mad about school ending for the summer. Ever.

You're invited...(but I don't recommend you come)

2010-11-15T18:33:00.000-08:00

Next time you're throwing a dinner party, consider sending this poem as your invitation:

Yucky Food

Would you like to come over?

I'll make you a meal

Of moldy cornmeal

And okra pie and fish guts on rye

Do you care for a drink?

Moldy and nasty scraps from the sink!

How 'bout dessert?

Moldy sherbet!

Ground up barf and pimple berries

Chocolate goat and squishy cherries

It will be fun! We'll make it a night

We'll have mayo soup, if that is alright

Our poison mushrooms are a tasty treat

We could even have some raw hamburger meat!

Yum, yum yum, we'll eat it up!

Frog legs on toast is what's for sup'

Oh. ... You can't you say?

Well please come back another day!

Your guests will appreciate your creativity, I'm sure. (except for the part where you used the word "moldy" 3 times in a row, they won't appreciate that).

Revival!

2009-10-23T10:23:00.000-07:00

Hello blog, I'm back! I'm down at my parents house, which is where I had the original inspiration to blog my old 7th grade poems, and naturally I spent a good part of last night looking through old boxes of school stuff and notes and whatnot. I found, literally, a treasure trove of poems. As in, apparently in junior high, I participated in a poetry unit in English class in which I created a treasure box and wrote poems on "gold coins" to put in the treasure box. It's good stuff.

I also found some stories I wrote in 3rd grade, many of which are hilarious, so I'll probably do a little sub-feature on this blog soon, "Stories I wrote when I was 8." Stay tuned.

In the meantime, from the Poetry Treasure Box itself:

The Visitor

A visitor from Orbitville came and talked to me
He said, "I saw a funny sight, and I'm not sure what it might be

I parked above a field of green, posts reached into the air
Beings wearing matching shirts, ran from here to there

These beings, they were quite a sight, their heads looked really odd
With cages across their dirty faces, and their shoulders so very broad

They threw a weird shaped object, and they ran and jumped about
And these other beings around them, would start to scream and shout

I don't understand this planet, it makes no sense at all
A bunch of giants running around, throwing a funny shaped ball!"

I laughed and told the visitor, "What you saw's not to be feared!
That event was called the 'Superbowl,'" and with that he disappeared.

I actually am rather fond of this poem...I think it's quite good! My favorite part is how the Orbitville alien was so put off (seemingly) by the Superbowl that he vanished from Earth, perhaps never to return. I guess I was never a huge fan of football.

The inside of the poem treasure box, showing the gold coin surrounded by other treasure-like accouterments:

This is the story of frog named Ed

2009-07-13T21:22:00.000-07:00

Oh, hi blog. Sorry to neglect you, but I had better things to do for a while, like have a social life and watch season one of Mad Men. But I haven't forgotten about you completely, blog. Here is one of the first poems I wrote - it was always one of my favorites:

Ed the Frog

This is the story of a frog named Ed
He had a really ugly head
The other frogs made fun of him
But Ed didn’t care about any of them

Then one day a little bee
Came up to Ed and said you see
The other frogs don’t have a clue
As to what’s inside the real you

Well Ed was dumb, a real big dolt
And so he took off like a bolt
He dove beneath the water blue
Where he discovered something new

The other frogs weren’t really frogs
Who sat upon a bunch of logs
They were fakes and frauds, but really keen!
And obviously, very very mean

The fakes had captured the other frogs
Who sat upon a bunch of logs
They tied them up and gagged them too
And took them in the water blue

Those awful frogs were really mean
As Ed the frog had just now seen
So Ed untied his fellow frogs
Who sat upon a bunch of logs

And so despite his ugly head
This brave young frog that we call Ed
Has now become the forest hero
And the mean old frogs are worth less than zero

I told you things would turn out right
Exclaimed the bee with all his might
So even if your looks could shatter
It’s what’s inside that really matters

2009-03-15T18:56:00.000-07:00

This is my 27th post on this blog! And while I'm nowhere close to out of material yet, I've probably already posted the majority of my best work from my 7th grade poem books. There are a few real gems left, but I can't promise that everything I post henceforth will be quite as brilliant as Billy Fuzz, The BSC, or Follow Your Heart. Some of the remaining poems are just cute little ditties, like this: (sung to the tune of "Oh My Darling, Clementine.")

Dirty Clothes

In my room, by my closet
There's a pile of dirty clothes
It gets bigger every day
And the end nobody knows

Dirty clothes, dirty clothes
Pick them off the dirty floor
Put them down the laundry shoot
Dirty clothes are no more

C'est fin.

Guest Blogger: The Cold Sheet Blues

2009-02-28T13:07:00.000-08:00

Here's another favorite from guest blogger Isaac. If you want, read it as I do, and picture a young Isaac, curled up under his cold, cold sheets until the wee hours of the morning, desperately trying to get warm and penning this song.

Cold Sheet Blues

Stumbled into bed at a quarter to three
I’d come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee
Tired to the bone well here’s the news
I got a bad case of the cold sheet blues

Doing the refrigerator roll from left to right
No sleep in sight for me tonight
Counting sheep by ones and twos
Cause I got a bad case of the cold sheet blues

My covers are quite ample
For such a little runt
But how good can a comforter be
With Garfield on the front?

Teeth are chattering like gossiping geese
Why can’t my blanket be made of fleece?
Banged my knee now I’ll have a bruise
Oh, I got a bad case of the cold sheet blues

Numbers on the wall read a quarter to five
I need at least three hours to survive
What’s a man got to do to get a snooze?
Stop thinking ‘bout his cold sheet blues

Dayquil or Nyquil, which one to choose?
‘Cause I got a bad case of the cold sheet blues
Those low down (yeah low down) downtown (yeah downtown)
Cold feet cold nose cold fingers cold toes
Cold sheet blues… yeah

Isaac promises that there is an actual recording of this song, and as soon as we can get it converted from cassette tape to digital format, I guarantee an audio blog of the "Cold Sheet Blues."

Hank the Heroic

2009-02-26T11:24:00.000-08:00

Have I been negligent in updating this blog in recent weeks? Yes! Do I feel bad about that? No, I was on vacation and had better things to do for once. Will I return with another epic tale that pits greed against heroism? Of course!

Heroic Hank and the Missing Eggroll

Heroic Hank was quite a fellow
Although he was far from mellow

He cracked cases far and wide
He dusted prints and even spied!

But nothing, nothing, beats the case
Of what Hank calls the "eggroll race"

Now Chung's Chinese was quite the spot
Their food was fresh and spicy hot

But theft occurred one dreary night
A thief broke in with all his might

He broke into this place of food
(at least he wasn't in the nude!)

He looked around and then he saw
An eggroll, and he was in awe

He put it in a burlap sack
And then he snuck out through the back

Heroic Hank was called to the job
And he was followed by an angry mob

How someone could commit such a vicious crime
Was unimaginable to the average mind!

But Heroic Hank was used to this
And so he set out to find the eggroll that was so missed

Hank searched high and Hank searched low
In the sewer, Hank did go

But he finally caught on to a clue
A bit of cabbage stuck to his shoe!

Ah-ha! he said, I'm on to you!
For this bit of cabbage stuck to my shoe

Tell's me where this thief could be
He's hiding in a hemlock tree!

Hank was right and so he caught
That mean old thief who hadn't thought

About how important the eggroll was
And how the city had acquired an ugly buzz

I'm sorry, said the thief, in spite
Of the crime he'd committed that dreary night

It's okay, Hank said with glee
Everyone makes mistakes you see!

But do not fret and do not frown
Just apologize to the entire town!

And so he did and the eggroll was okay
And Heroic Hank saved the day

Heroic Hank must have impeccable deductive skills...I don't know how he figured that cabbage on his shoe would led him to finding the thief in a Hemlock Tree! If that's detective work, I'd make one crappy sleuth. I guess that's why he's called Heroic Hank and why I'm not called Heroic Julia.

A poem about a guy named Reuban

2009-02-09T21:16:00.000-08:00

Reuban was a kid in one of my classes in 7th grade. He was pretty non-descript, wasn't particularly cute or interesting, but I was really intrigued by a guy who was named after a sandwich. So I wrote a poem in his honor!

Reuban

Reuban oh Reuban, what did you do?
Your poured guacamole into my shoe!
You kicked a chicken nugget into the tub
You gave a giraffe a belly rub

You pickeled asparagus, carrots, and cheese
You opened your mouth and out came a sneeze
You bought a ferrari, it was maroon
But then you drove it through the wall of my room

Reuban oh Reuban, why, tell me why?
Did you throw some baloney into the sky?
It bounced off a cloud and fell in a pit
I'm beginning to think you are a nit wit

You stepped on an ostrich that fell on the ground
You had a gold fish and named it Sir Zound
Reuban oh Reuban, where did you go?
Was it Berlin or New Mexico?

Reuban oh Reuban, you puzzle me so.

Not actually the subject of this poem.

If I had actually been friends with Reuban, I might have showed him this and he might have liked it. Or he might have been creeped out. It's a moot point, because I don't think I had ever actually talked to the kid. I don't even know what his last name was! And I think he disappeared sometime after middle school, probably to Berlin or New Mexico. But it's a cute tribute, and it's a shame he will never see it!

"Darkness is like a dark shadow"

2009-02-05T19:21:00.000-08:00

In what was obviously a particularly profound moment in my youth, I wrote this poem:

Darkness

What is darkness?
Darkness is no light.
Darkness is like a dark shadow being cast over you.
It is not knowing what to do.
That is darkness.
Darkness is cruelty.
It is a strange creatures taking away your freedom.
That is darkness.

I wonder what was going on in my life to inspire this poem? As I've previously stated, I don't recall my early adolescence being that tortured. But I suppose this is a reminder that we all experience....the darkness!

New Guest Blogger: Too good to wait...

2009-01-30T18:02:00.000-08:00

My new friend Isaac offered to share some of his teenage poetry and it's pretty amazing. Certainly lives up to the standards held on this blog for embarrassing adolescent versification. He has graciously shared many, many fine poems, which will be revealed here over time, but for his first guest post, I have to go with the one that made me laugh the most.

Untitled (by Isaac)

I once met a clown with a button red nose
Who said I'd meet a girl with a face like a rose
I snapped his suspenders and went on my way
All the while chuckling and saying "That'll be the day"

Well old clownypoo had a bit too much seltzer
And chased me down with his giant feet of thunder
"She'll have eyes like diamonds" he said with a start
I replied "Not freakin' likely, you senile old fart"

But the polka-dotted pauper, well he was persistent
And nipping at my heels he was in an instant
"She'll make you smile every time she talks"
I thought he'd had too many whiskeys on the rocks

So onward I went with speed, but so too did he
"She'll lump your throat and weaken your knees"
Trying to act macho, I said no woman could do that
He smirked and said "She will in two seconds flat"

So I asked old clowny how he knew so much
"I guess I was born with a magic touch"
I said "If you're so great, why've you got this job?"
He replied "My girl came and went, and now I'm a slob"

The regret in his eyes told me that it was true
So I bought us some coffee and a table for two
And the man laid it on me, a tale so somber
His empty-hearted words stay with me forever

"I had my chance and was too blind to see
I feared she loved another, and gave up easily
Don't do the same, my reluctant companion
'Cause that girl, I tell you, will be one in a million"

Now this young clown would like to say
He knows just what the old guy meant that day
Be my girl, make my knees weak
And let me smile every time you speak

Man, what I would have done to have access to the intimate inner-workings of the male teenage mind when I was in middle/high school. Thanks Isaac, for finally satisfying my curiosities!

Guest Post: Guacamole Highway

2009-01-29T22:17:00.000-08:00

Ok, this next poem is by Guest Blogger Genevieve. It's also about food. And it's a song! Sung to "Every Day is a Winding Road" by Sheryl Crow. And here it is:

Cruisin' on the Guacamole Highway

I've often driven down that guacamole highway
Those guacamole fishes give me a smile
I got behind their guacamole school bus
And we were driving for quite a while
Eat those corn chips
Look up, and smile at the fish
All the fishies are high
All the fishies are low
I can't say more, 'cause that's all I know
Every road is a guacamole road
Drive a little bit faster.
Every watch says a guacamole time
Drive a little bit faster,
We're feelin' fine.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, I had another weird obsession in 7th grade. It was with guacamole fish. Yes, guacamole fish. I don't even know what that means at this point, but apparently, when I was 12, I thought the idea of a fish made out of guacamole was all the rage. Whatever, I was a weird kid. But at least I wasn't alone in my weirdness; thank god for a friend who would write songs about guacamole fish with me.

Happy O-naugeration Day!

2009-01-20T22:40:00.001-08:00

In honor of this momentous, historic day, I share with you this little piece, a strong statement on foreign affairs:

The Attack

Why is it such a cruel world
That we all can't get along?
Nuclear weapons, missles too
Their effects are just so strong

Innocent people are dying
At the expense of one sick man
In the country of Iraq
Which is neighbors with Iran

What's with all the violence
Why the blood and gore?
First the bombing, then what's next?
Perhaps another war?

Maybe it's the only way
To stop Saddam Hussein
A man who won't cooperate
And is perhaps a bit insane

The attacks are for a reason
This I know is true
I just wish there was something else
Then violence we could do

Maybe I should lend this to President Barack Obama to help him figure out how to smooth other the various foreign wars and kersnuffles we're currently dealing with. I'm sure he'd find it pretty useful.

On a lighter note

2009-01-14T17:33:00.000-08:00

For those who need a respite from the lovesick poems of late, here's a fun little rhyming one, in honor of my friend Olivia, who lives in New York, and of Ryan, who was just in New York.

The Emu That Went to New York

Did you hear the tale of the emu that went to New York?
Or how 'bout the giraffe that ate salted pork?
Or the zebra the sneezed
And ate glowing cheese
Or the warthog that ate with a fork?

But emus don't travel, so this can't be true.
The giraffe part's a lie, just like the emu
Zebras don't sneeze
Or eat glowing cheese
And warthogs just fart a lot. Pew!

Awww, it's two limericks back to back in what makes for a very cute poem. I approve, 12 year-old-Julia!

Guest Blogger: A Treatise on "The Crush"

2009-01-12T21:03:00.000-08:00

Genny is back and better than ever with another guest blog post. For those of you wanting a little more background on just who this guest blogger is, read on:

Genevieve began her poetry career at the wee age of 11 when she was better known as "Baloney." Since then she has obviously escalated to bigger and better things in life, and these days she's pretty classy. She attended Washington State University in Pullman where she learned a few things, among those;
1) how to sled down an icy hill in a rubbermaid bucket
2) how to exploit the disability van for rides around campus
3)Don't EVER drink ANYTHING blue.
In her free time she enjoys finger puppets, Phil Collins, swedish fish, and sledding to the 80's, which is similar to sweating to the 80's, but without the sweat.

So with that in mind, put yourself in the shoes of young Genevieve, who so aptly summarized the wistful pining we all expereinced with our first (or second, or twelth) big middle school crush, and I think you'll be able to relate to where she was coming from.

Crush

Have you ever liked someone and wanted to tell them, but you weren't sure that you could? Have you ever wanted them to know it, but weren't sure if they should?
Have you ever felt like there might be something, but decided otherwise?
Have you ever wondered why it was him, instead of one of the other guys?
Have you ever not really understood what made you feel this way?
You know what you want to tell him, but you're waiting for the right day.
You know it really is what you want, but it's so out of your reach,
Why can't it be someone easier?
But maybe the reason it seems complicated, is because there's a lesson to teach.
One I haven't learned yet, but really should.
And even if it doesn't turn out right,

The lesson I learned was good.
I wish that I knew everything, so it would be this way,
I could make it a lot easier, but I wouldn't know what to say.

Why I am liking him seems complicated in my mind.
Maybe it's because I wish for someone who is one of a kind
Who can understand when I need it a lot
Who doesn't have to be super hot
Who likes me for the person inside
And isn't out to "get a free ride"
Who would always respect me through and through
Someone like that would be really cool.
Also hard to find and imitate, but anyone close would be worth the wait.

And Genny adds that this poem is "dedicated to 'Donovan Mitten' (secret nickname for middle school crush) who I last saw sitting on a random porch with everyone else I used to know in high school, drinking keystone light from a can with a broken car parked in the yard."

Hmm, sounds like he might not have been worth the wait.

Sappy Poems 2: Sappy Meets Angsty

2009-01-08T20:01:00.000-08:00

By request of Kim, another "sappy poem," although this one also crosses into "teenage angst" territory. I'm not going to spend a bunch of time analyzing this one, just make of it what you will.

The New Girl

Ever since day one
The girl did not belong
Her shoes were strange, her hair was weird
Her style of dress was wrong

Her jeans were just a bit too tight
Her shirts were big and kinda bright
Although her appearance was rather rough
She seemed nice, but it wasn't enough

Everything she said or did
Was turned into a joke
Everytime a crack was made
She thought that she would choke

The kids just did not realize
How mean they really were
Until the teacher told them
The shocking news about her

She was found in the basement
A bullet in her head
For due to all the teasing
The new girl now was dead.

Sooo...I have no idea where this came from. Some poems I very vividly remember writing, others I do not and am surprised to stumble upon them. This is one of those. I mean, WTF....I promise I was a pretty happy kid, as far as tortured 7th graders go. Probably this was another Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul-influenced poem. Pretty harrowing!

Introducing: Sappy Poems

2009-01-04T21:35:00.000-08:00

I have withheld posting my really sappy, angsty, and/or morbid poems so far, because, well, they're embarrassing. But after a great poetry slam with friends in Portland two weeks ago, in which I had the courage to finally share some of these poems with other people, I realized that I'm sitting on a gold mine. I kid you not, these poems are hilarious. I was trying so, SO hard to be a serious poet and break away from my hokey-animal-tales style. But mostly I think I had just been reading way, way too much Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul (omg blatant Christian undertones!) and desperately wanted to relate to the stories of romance, heartbreak, and devastating loss that were so dramatically told in the Chicken Soup books. So I wrote poems like this:

Follow Your Heart*

She wasn't the most popular girl in school
She was nice, but to some she was considered "uncool"
Pretty in her own unique way
She was shy and quiet; had not much to say

He was smart and handsome, kind and tall
Good at sports and liked by all
He took special care of the things he loved
Whether it be a friend, or a baseball glove

She watched him from afar one day
She kept to herself and stood away
She noticed his eyes, a sparkling blue
Hers drawn to his like super glue

"I bet he doesn't even know I exist,"
She sighed, but how she longed to kiss
The thought of his lips upon hers
Made her smile, but she didn't have nerve

To tell him how she really felt
She thought it better left undealt
She went to her locker one week later
To drop off her books and grab some paper

She opened it up and to her surprise
A single rose lay inside
"Funny," she thought. "No tag or name.
I bet it's just a stupid game."

When she turned around, to her surprise
There he was, a look in his eyes
They've been together since that day
Their wedding is just weeks away

True love is found, it goes to show
In places that you'd never know
Follow your heart, stick to your dreams
And finding "the one" isn't as hard as it seems

OMFG I cannot believe I wrote those words!! And I can't believe I just admitted to writing those words, and then put them on the internet. But really, it would be selfish of me to keep that to myself, when I could be making people laugh. Or at least I hope you are laughing as much as I do every time I read that sappy poem, because it is not meant to be taken seriously. I mean, I assume that when I wrote it, it WAS meant to be taken seriously, imagining that I desperately longed for this to foreshadow an autobiographical account of some dreamy guy that would leave me roses in my locker. Although as it turns out, I did date this one guy in 10th grade who would always send me roses in class, and it was really awkward and obnoxious having to carry that crap around school all day. But how could I have known that in 7th grade!

So there you have it. 12-year-old Julia at her most vulnerable and exposed. If you think that was good, just wait. It gets better....

*In the actual poem book, the word "heart" is written as <3

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

2008-12-29T20:28:00.000-08:00

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!!

2008-12-29T10:23:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-20T22:22:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-12-16T22:21:00.001-08:00

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

2008-12-14T00:05:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-10T20:54:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-07T18:26:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-12-04T21:00:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-02T22:24:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-30T17:29:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-29T17:06:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-28T12:57:00.001-08:00

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

2008-11-27T15:58:00.000-08:00

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?