Leather Tome

The finely bound book caught my eye --
shiny brown leather with gold script.
It stood out from the other worn tomes on
the shelf. It must be a new addition.

Was it one of the classics? I stared intently
at it as I approached, but the title was
impossible to read until I drew close.

Lifting it from the shelves, I hefted
it in my hands. The leather cover was
slick and smooth; it looked to be about
three hundred pages.

The title seem to jump off the shiny
leather: "Saving Your 16-year-old." This
could be a revelation for all parents
on teens.

The preface went on forever, rambling
for more than twenty pages. Stopping
at three pages in, I turned to the first chapter.

In the middle of the first page was a
single sentence set in large type. It read,
"You're Too Late." The rest of the book
was blank.


Saving The Younger Generation

The younger generation is going to pot --
literally. Rotund has replaced the
scarecrow look. Mesmerized by the
tube, they can consume enough junk
food to feed the starving masses.

A brilliant solution has occurred
to me. I'm applying for a patent.
It's a sure way to get kids off the
couch without coercion.

They won't use the exercise machine --
too much work. You must appeal to
their natural instincts.  lt must be
captivating without much work. I have
invented the perfect thing. My patent
pending is a motorized Frisbee.


SURPRISE

The brat next door is a snot.
He's nine with a surly attitude.
You’d think he was fourteen
The way he talks back to you.

I'd like to hit him with a stick.
When he flaps his smart mouth.
If I ended up in the gray-bar hotel,
I'm thinking it might be worth it.

There are people who irritate you.
With this kid that's an understatement.
He's a burr -- chapped lips and grinding teeth --
All wrapped up in one obnoxious package.

He has a birthday just a month away.
My Pollyanna wife says maybe he'll change
I think the only way to stop his mouth
Would be with a hot potato.

I'll make him a fine birthday present.
It will be a highly decorated pinata.
I'll fill it with miniature Snickers bars.
And I'll let him know what's in it.

I'll give him my old broomstick.
You know he will wait for his party.
I'd like to be the fly on the wall.
When he whacks that stainless steel piñata

HAIKU CHAMP #1
Jesse Johnston
New York, NY
aka: @NewDadHaiku

"Hippos Go Berserk!"
has a less bloody ending
than I expected.

Waking up screaming
would never occur to me
had I his schedule.

His diaper rash blooms
intense as cherry blossoms
and as transient.

That caterpillar
was either very hungry
or totally high.

Elasticity
thy name is baby scrotum
my tugging son proves.

Constantly pooping
my son proves himself worthy
the heir to the throne.

I leave his room like
a band does the stage knowing
they'll play an encore.


HAIKU CHAMP #2
Dan Indante
Beverly Hills, CA
aka: www.maddadzblog.com

"Dad Haiku: A Partial, Er, Manuscript"

A red minivan?
I can't give up my testes
Deal with a Lexus

Remember money?
Then we wanted to have kids
Such fond memories

Broke broke broke broke broke
Fat fat fat fat fat fat fat
Bald bald bald bald bald

Here's some cereal
You want the blue bowl, not red?
Go to school hungry

I'm watching TV
You want to watch iCarly?
I'm walking the dogs


LIMERICK CHAMP
Ted Jean
Milwaukie, OR

We wrote to our daughter we miss her.
We wish we could hug her and kiss her.
What offense so momentous
has made her resent us?
How can two loving parents so piss her?

Oh, give me a frontal lobotomy,
Not another episiotomy.
Cause funny it ain't,
For me or my taint.
This procedure, illegal, it outta be.

Dear Doctor, I beg: pretty please
For a c-section's relative ease,
Instead of a cut --
From my hoo-hah to butt -- What?!?!?
You give me a stress ball to squeeze?!?!

When your child has a 15-inch skull,
Request vodka and Xanax to dull,
Then prepare for a push
That renders your tush
Completely and utterly null.

To illustrate this for a man,
Shove some dynamite up in his can;
Crack a beer while you watch
The demise of his crotch,
Then ask him if he's going to breastfeed.

(That's right motherf*ers, I don't have to rhyme if I don't want to.)

Listen up, assholes and bitches,
After 65 tight-as-hell stitches,
I deserve diamonds!!
A transplanted hymen!!
And some Lanacane damnit! This itches!

So, before getting reamed by a rhino,
Get narcotics galore from your gyno.
Make out your will,
Take a handful of pills,
Smoke a bong, do some shots, be a wino.

But of course, in the end, it's all worth
The pain for the mirth of the birth.
But no one will blame you
Or call you insane if you
Decide to get your tubes tied, become a lesbian, and leave your family.

Whitney Collins has obviously had a couple of episiotomies. She can be reached at: whitneycollins@mac.com.

A moment of prayer
Anesthesiologist
Bring my goddamn drugs

I nurse my ego
He nurses my sagging breasts
We toast our futures

His golden stream arcs
The baby pees in my tea
Shrugging, I chug it

Four loads of laundry
Poised on the brink of mildew
My hamper mocks me

Something is leaking
Could be diaper, could be boob
This new life is moist

As a homeschooling mom of four, Danielle Abramsohn has had many breastfeeding related adventures. She pens moist haikus in the wee hours and writes novels with a much drier sense of humor. She can be reached at: kochanski42@yahoo.com.

Mr. and Mrs. Noah Nova

retire and buy a houseboat,
nouveau riche in ostriches
and other flightless birds.
She secretly trains two circus fleas
with stag beetles for extras.
What an act and what a trapeze!

With hymns to Rachel Carson in heaven,
the evening affords a doggy coupling
with Mr. Noah the night rhinoceros,
the hyenas high and the glowworms low.
Then it's gin for breakfast
with a bowl of elvers, margaritas,
and a juniper dove.

They take to fondling one another
in public. He cups her breast
while an ibis looks on.
They have toe rings, ring tones,
rose tattoos, a white bowler hat.
Mr. Noah affects a polka dot cravat;
Mrs. Noah, a boa constrictor.

They learn high-stakes poker,
qigong, gun running,
not-on-your-nelly belly dancing,
and publish the proof on Facebook.

So, their children sequester a pea-green boat,
taking Magellan as a nom de guerre,
muttering things like, "For crying out loud,"
forsaking the owl and the pussy cat,
wielding a sextant and a swizzle stick,
they set sail for another cloud.

Linda Ann Strang is a single mom who lives in Port Elizabeth, South Africa. She's had "parental poems" published in Literary Mama and MotherVerse, among other magazines. She can be reached at: lindaannstrang@yahoo.ca.

You give birth to a stranger, and it surprises you.

You expect the face of the person
who's been waiting so long
in the elevator shaft of your stomach
to be a friendly one
when they get off at the bottom floor,
but when their unfocused eyes
don't search out yours,
you can only assume
there's been some mistake,
that in between screams,
they're contacting their embassy.

Somehow you imagined
a familiar splinter
working its way out of your skin,
so you could say, oh right,
I remember when that got lodged in there
last Tuesday!
Somehow you imagined
when looking at the ultrasound machine
that you'd been seen, as if
there were a periscope in the stomach
to peer up and out.
Somehow you thought of yourself
as penpals meeting at last after so many
long intimate letters. A hiccup of awkwardness,
then all easy familiarity.

But plopped in your arms
like groceries or a feral cat
is someone you've never met. Oh sure, they'll say,
she's got your eyes, your sister's mouth, grandma's
cleft chin, but they're just playing meteorologist
friendlying up the storm, scuttling its way
up the Eastern seaboard, naming it
George, Rita, Katrina, just before
it leaves us drenched and homeless.

So be braver than that.
Look this stranger in the eye,
and say, I don't know you at all
and that's what's wonderful,
and that's what's terrible --
you could be anyone.

Kate's previous publications include a book of poetry, Reading Darwin, published by Poets Corner Press. Her fiction and poetry have recently appeared in such magazines and journals as Art Times, Barrelhouse, Jabberwock Review, On the Premise, Philadelphia Stories, Sotto Voce, and Spire Press. She teaches in the English department at Rowan University in Glassboro, NJ.

In the summer,
sweating in the air-conditioned Toyota, I ask:

Who turned on my seat warmer?
But it's never on. Just my body
adjusting to 50.

Today, it's cold enough outside to hold the Starbucks cup
without a cardboard sleeve.
Let the burn penetrate hand, and travel
to the legs that push
through unplowed parking lot.
My legs skirt
and zigzag around

the dance of salted cars parked helter skelter

in a lot where snow has erased

the yellow lines.

Memory appears like fruit flies in the kitchen. There
in front of your face. Clap your hands. Look

in the palms.
Gone.

What the hell did I come out here for?
I get in the seat-heated Toyota, start it up, back up,
go. With coffee. Without my list.

Forget my list,
forget my husband's birthdate while filling out a form,
leave my Visa card
on the sticky table at the Hungry Tummy Restaurant.
Yet remember what Mr. Peterson said in eighth grade biology
to us Minnesota girls.
The body, he said, adapts.
In winter, our thighs will collect fat cells
to protect us from the cold.

I drive slow through the snow, note

the same old streets that get plowed.

The ones that don't.

Apparently, in eighth grade,
Nicole Gillete's pom-pom thighs
had a higher threshhold than my own
to the cold. Hers
remained smooth and thin like a plastic Barbie doll's legs.

Winter wakes up the mind.

Snowdrifts that curl like waves

between the garage

and the house next door

bring you back.

Memory shapes memories

the way you want them.

I have no idea

what I left the house for, but here is the Denim Depot.
The uncomfortable way I'm forced to sit up straight
in order to breathe in these jeans
gives me reason to pull in
to this finely plowed lot.
It is time to call my Fat Jeans:
Skinny Jeans.
Cowgirl up. Go up a size.

Teenage girls tip toe cautiously

in suede boots over the neatly
piled snow in front of the Depot entrance.
Butter cream frosting lining the sidewalk.
The perfect edges on a Sweet Sixteen birthday cake.
I plow by in rubber and nylon.
Open the door first.

I drive home, the last inch

of hot coffee gone Frappuccino.
The plastic Denim Depot bag
stiff with negative wind-chilled air.
The garage door clunks open.

Steam from car exhaust hits frigid air and
fills the garage like a biology experiment

in Mr. Peterson's class.
I go to turn the key and see the "E."
Gas. I left the house for gas.

Maggie's poetry has appeared in local magazines in Minnesota and Illinois. This poem is about the things a mother forgets, the odd things remembered. She can be reached at: magstw@comcast.net.

We could handle endless
Thomas and Caillou marathons,
but this morning, Alex requested
Barney, for what, at least to us,
was the first time.
 
If this begins another cycle, I...
I don't know what we'll do.
 
How did this happen?
We've been hiding Barney
from him like a handgun,
locked away,
never to be used,
because we would only
end up hurting each other.
 
But…
 
At least Barney teaches something,
like the alphabet and shapes and things.
What did he get from the other two shows,
other than a love of trains and Canada?

Michael Frissore is the author of a chapbook called Poetry is Dead (Coatlism, 2009). His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Boston Literary Magazine, The Smoking Poet, Turbulence, Puffin Circus, Barrier Islands Review, Eudaimonia Poetry Review, and elsewhere. He writes for slurvemag.com. Mike grew up in Massachusetts and lives in Oro Valley, Arizona with his wife and son.

Shall I compare this to a bed of nails?
It is more painful and more treacherous:
Rough judgment fuels my fear that I shall fail,
My crappy crafts are all too infamous.
A bed of nails tortures all at once;
Pincushions mark a thousand tiny deaths.
And every stitch reminds me I'm a dunce,
Since when I basted backwards in home ec.
While other daughters shall be draped divine,
Mine will be a clothespin goddess tripping;
And where they shall have props homemade and fine,
She will hold a bow of duct tape ripping.
O, how will I fend off her tears of brine?
Screw it. I'll just buy the things online.

Caroline's essays have been seen and heard on babble.com, in the book and show Afterbirth: Stories You Won't Read in a Parenting Magazine (St. Martin's Press), in the New York Times, and on NPR's All Things Considered. She is an English Professor at Boston College, where she teaches Shakespeare and Women's Studies. For fun, she blogs about how the Bard meets suburban mommy life at Everyday Shakespeare. Caroliine also has a regular column on errant parent with Michelle Ephraim. She can be reached at: bicks@bc.edu.