Domest(ick) Incident

 

They’d been married one week, plus a day,

Sylvester and his good wife, May.

And May thought she should mark the date,

With something special for her mate.

 

A chicken dinner was her plan

She dug out pot and frying pan,

Consulted her mom’s recipes,

For gastronomic ecstasies.

 

All afternoon, she cooked and stirred,

By love for her Sylvester, spurred,

At last she had the table set,

With goodies from her kitchenette.

 

She heard his step upon the stair,

And quickly pulled him to his chair,

He saw the things that she had done

And gently hugged his Honey-bun.

 

They ate enthusiastically,

Of fluffy spuds and buttered peas,

And other dishes by the score,

Each one, another to adore.

 

But when the crowning plate arrived,

So very prettily contrived,

He carved, and laid the pieces down,

And poured out fine, rich gravy; brown.

 

Then the anticipated taste,

And, suddenly, his smile displaced.

“My dear,” he said, with quite a sniff,

“What did you stuff the chicken with?”

 

She smiled upon him brilliantly,

Then sighed and answered blissfully,

“That part, I didn’t have to follow,

For the chicken wasn’t hollow!”

 

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With POETRY, we all besought

To try to make the week begin

With pleasant thoughts.

Perhaps a grin?

So Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, Me

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next week from Mimi, with our love,

Are NEWSPAPERS (or memories of)!

The O'Connor Boy

He’s not a  mean or nasty lout,

In fact, were you to ask about

Our Paddy Craig O’Connor boy,

You’d find that he’s just hoi polloi.

He’ll shoulder in, with work to do

He loves his wife, and kiddies too,

He’s loyal, almost to a fault,

A fisherman--a seasoned salt.

But after a long day at sea

He’ll meet the boys occasionally,

And, of the good stuff, have a dram,

Then get himself into a jam.

‘Cause Paddy, when he’s had a few,

Well, there’s nothing he won’t do,

Though he draws the line at lawless stuff,

It's hard for him to say, "Enough!"

He’s mixed the pigs in with the sheep,

And upset everybody’s sleep,

Howled with the dogs, sang with the cats,

Joined Ladies Aid with a box of bats.

Dropped a pig in the local pub,

Took chickens to the senior’s club.

Yes, Paddy really has a knack.

For strolling down the 'mischief' track.

Until that time e’en Paddy knew

He’d knocked the Universe askew.

He had to make a major change.

Frivolities, he’d rearrange . . .

It’d started harmlessly enough,

With Paddy swimming ‘in the buff’.

Just floating out there in the bay

Till the Archbishop came his way.

I must admit: How could he know

An august visitor would show?

But there he was upon the sand,

With formal robes and raise-ed hands.

Well, Paddy rose out of the waves

Wearing just what God had ‘gave’,

Advanced to ask him “What's the craic?”

And give His Grace’s hand a shake.

And right there on the sea levee,

In frank and simple way, did he

Beseech His Excellence to leave.

A blessing for one who believed.

The blunt request no sooner said,

His Grace’s face turned slightly red,

T’was only then Pad realized

They were the cynosure of eyes.

The village, all, was there to see.

Pad sobered up immediately,

And in the mayhem that ensued,

Vowed he would be more subdued.

So if you’re staying there to sleep,

Hear pigs and chickens and some sheep,

Know, with those feats of fun and brawn,

That Paddy’s clothes are staying on.