Fess up! Poems about what you do really BADLY
 

(We can't be good at everything, after all... :rolleyes:)

“The World’s Worst Gardener”. Yes, it’s justified.
That’s me alright. My Busy Lizzies died,
and they’re the easiest thing to grow, I’m told.
I killed them; they weren’t even ten days old.
I pay a man to cut the lawn. It’s fine;
responsibility for plants is mine.
Poor plants! Yes, I can almost hear you groan.
“The World’s Worst Gardener” is how I’m known
among the neighbours, relatives and friends.
The list of my disasters never ends.
I used some ‘fertiliser’, from the shed,
except it was weed-killer. That rose bed,
like everything I touch, is now stone dead.

My husband is “The World’s Worst… ” (Number Two.)
Lay concrete everywhere – that’s what he’d do!
But I, at least, attempt to grow some flowers,
and some of them have lived for several hours.
I do forget to water things in pots,
and in this kind of weather they need lots,
of course. I find that pansies are forgiving…
I’ve got ten tubs of them; they’re all still living!
They let me know they’re thirsty, ’cos they droop,
but then they bounce back up again. I whoop
with joy at this, so they’re a nice safe bet.
I’m optimistic that there’s some hope YET
that I could lose that “World’s Worst” epithet.

What do I do badly?
I rather suck at small talk.
Even worse is, sadly,
That, to me, that's all talk.

Jayne, go with cacti! They're very forgiving.

Technology
Baffles me;
Smartphones and such
All speak in Dutch
Where I'm concerned.
I haven't learned
To add an app;
To Google Map.
I'm no spring chicken,
But what the dicken-
S! Could I be first
To do this worst?

Me, I find the New Age stuff hard to get to grips with...

Doing Without Dolphins

Persuaded here against my better judgement,
feeling the oil-and-crystal ambience,
lying alert and still.

“I swim with dolphins” says the massage lady,
“it is a mystical experience”.

Prone on the table, through a face-shaped hole
watching my own fists clenching into knots,
thinking – what if my hands could see my face?
All jowls and eyebags, slowly dripping down
to form a nightmare physiognomy –
a winner in a gurning competition …

I try to share this with the massage lady:
“Do you know gurning?” “No”, she says and then
returns deftly to the subject of dolphins.
“They are so good, such spiritual beings;
“one knows they know the secrets of the soul
“and how to heal it…”

Her little stroking hands; my tired flesh
shuddering under their ministrations,
my head fighting to bring disparate worlds
to an accommodation.

Spirituality is not my thing
but stretched out at the mercy of a stranger
I did experience a small epiphany.

Some put their faith in dolphins; some cannot.
Somebody who fine-tunes her view of life
by mugging at it through a toilet seat
does not escape responsibility.

I’ll seek alternative alternatives,
working on ways of mending what is broken
which do not call for the participation
of dolphins.

Arithmetic
Is one more trick
That I can't get my head around.
The more I add,
The more I'm bad.
I can't keep my feet on the ground.

My dad taught math.
Though in the bath
He didn't shout eureka,
He did it well.
For me, it's Hell,
And I keep getting weaker.

For Aaron...
 

(I don't do small talk, either - I do big talk instead :D)

As a kid I was painfully shy;
being spoken to just made me cry,
but who knows what occurred...?!
Now you can't get a word
in, with me. But, you can at least try.

I wrote a mildly clever drill
That did a fellow poster ill,
Then chickened out, because I'm bad
At handling others when they're mad.

Screw Spot!
 

My Debt to Dick and Jane

I couldn’t read the Dick and Jane
that nearly drove this kid insane.
After school I would be cowed
trying to read their names aloud.
And more: See the cookies galore
from under the kitch- kitch- en door!
Do I recall that simple rhyme
because the brutal sweep of time
made me learn to read and write,
despite my Dicky/Janie spite?
It was a truly precious bane,
although their names still rhyme with pain.

Oi, Ralph, so does mine! :p

But can we hear what you're really bad at now, please? :)

Jayne

Jayne,

Ha! Considering some recent reactions to my reading, writing (and yes, 'rithmetic), I still have Dick and Jane days. Now? Those Dick and Jane days!

"Once upon a time", I start,
but then that's all I've got,
for sad to say, I lack the art
of narrative or plot,

and so I stick to lyric rhymes
to bring me fame and glory
and leave the once upon a times
to those who tell a story.

Thanks for asking!
 

It took me seven years of analysis until I learned to laugh. I still need to work at it.

Laughter Yoga

“Laughter is the best medicine.” Reader's Digest

ha Ha ha Ha ha Ha
ha Ha ha Ha ha Ha

tee-Hee tee-Hee tee-Hee
tee-Hee tee-Hee tee-Hee

ho Ho ho Ho ho Ho
ho Ho ho Ho ho Ho

tee-Hee tee-Hee tee-Hee
tee-Hee tee-Hee tee-Hee

ha Ha ha Ha ha Ha
ho Ho ho Ho ho Ho

tee-Hee tee-Hee tee-Hee
tee-Hee tee-Hee tee-Hee

ho Ho ho Ho ho Ho
ha Ha ha Ha ha Ha

tee-Hee tee-Hee tee-Hee
tee-Hee tee-Hee tee-Hee!

Believe it or not, this was recently published in an anthology celebrating National Laughter Day!

Ralph, you are delightful, and absolutely priceless!!!!!!

Thank you for making me go Ha ha ha, Te hee hee, Ho ho ho.

:D :D :D :D :D

Jayne

Thanks Jayne! And it’s ITrim. To bear the existential burden, I make up phrases, usually nonsense, to call out as soon as I awaken. Maybe, “I’m baaaaak! Hee HAW! Hee HAW! While splashing cold water on my head and face. Gets me chortling. A TV ad for “America’s Favorite Restaurant,” Taco Bell, recently featured Chulapas! So I wondered to myself, mind you laughing hysterically at myself, “Is there Chihuahua in my Chalupa?” Kept endorphins barking for about a week. I laugh ergo I live.

For you, Ralph:

https://youtu.be/pOMqqI-kzHY
x

I can't sing.
In the shower, in a crowd too.
And here's the thing--
I'm not allowed to.

I'm like you, Ed. Do you ever start singing "La Donna E Mobile" only to be told by your friends that you're actually singing "It's Howdy Doody Time"?

From the first through ninth grave I was officially designated a "listener" by the New York City Board of Education. I could open and close my mouth when the class sung - had to, as a matter of fact - but no sound could emerge. I loved to sing, but whenever I sneakily tried, one teacher or another would blow on her pitch pipe and signal the class to silence. "Michael Cantor - was that you?"

Nothing really happened in the tenth grade, except that they just stopped caring. And I was always the best in the class at inventing dirty lyrics to the classic favorites, so the kids respected me even if the teachers didn't.

Ah, dirty lyrics in high school. (Well, that's what high school was all about)

When the bride rushes in
Plants her t**t on your chin

or

Don't know why
There is lipstick on my fly
Sloppy blowjob

Stormy Weather. Is she one of the ones who slept with Donald Trump? I'm an old man - although not as old as you, Edmund - and it's tough to keep track.

Ralph - another one you may like: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hI1nPd7hezM

Allen Ginsberg performs William Blake's "Laughing Song" from Songs of Innocence.

So bad, it's almost good.


BTW, there's a difference between tone-deafness (inability to distinguish between the notes you hear) and tone-dumbness (inability to stay on pitch when you're singing).

When my nieces were studying at the Curtis Institute, they said that everyone in the program was required to take a choir class at some point in their studies, but there were three such classes: one for the students with absolute ("perfect") pitch, one for the students with good relative pitch, and one for the students who had trouble reproducing pitches vocally. This segregation was necessary to keep the class enjoyable for all of the groups.

I was astonished that that third group of people could even make it into a conservatory as competitive as Curtis, but my nieces said that there were lots of off-pitch singers at Curtis, and that a lot of them were strings players. This astonished me even more, because a violin isn't like a piano, where you just hit the note and, if it's been tuned correctly, that's the note that's produced. With string instruments you have to be able to make minor corrections to the pitch on the fly, based on your finger's position on the string. But hearing the pitches of sounds that are generated from outside our skulls is different from hearing the pitches of sound that's making the whole front of our skulls vibrate from the inside.

Apparently, producing sound with one's own voice is so different from producing it with an instrument that some world-class musicians can't carry a tune in a proverbial paper bag, without their instruments' help.

I decided not to share this, after all. As you were.
.

You rang?

I’m inspired, not yet expired, by Sam’s take on the blank, and found my fingers listing this, admission that I cannot escape the blankety blank.

A Twist of Emily

Blank has an element of pain;
It cannot forget
When it began, or that there was
A time when it was not.

Its being is to be the Ralph,
Its finite realm a blank
Its future, blinded to perceive
Old periods of blank.

Well, since I didn't see your original post, Annie, I am as I was. But I wouldn't have minded knowing how I might have been.

You didn't miss much, and I quite like you as you are.

Quarterback?
(no, keep the change)

I could never throw a spiral.
I hope this doesn't go viral.