[Julie Steiner]

The codfish lays ten thousand eggs,
The homely hen but one.
The codfish never cackles
To tell you what she's done.

And so we scorn the codfish
While the homely hen we prize,
Which only goes to show you
That it pays to advertise.

This anonymous jingle reminds me of one of my former colleagues at an academic library, who trumpeted every virtuous deed she did, no matter how menial. Whenever I came to relieve her at the reference desk, the changing of the guard could not take place without my grateful acknowledgement that, in my absense, she had sharpened all the pencils, or disinfected the telephone receiver, or performed some other incredibly thoughtful task, despite the other pressures of the job.

Sadly, I could never reciprocate, because I tended to spend my time at the reference desk finding information for the long line of frustrated patrons left over from her shift; but it occurs to me that without her diligence in keeping me apprised of her accomplishments, I would never have noticed the dearth of dull pencils.

Since poets are sometimes too modest to announce their publications on the Accomplished Members board--especially when (as in my case) there are no upcoming publications to announce--I thought we could all practice tooting our own horns over here.

Memorialize in verse a small but praiseworthy deed of yours. Be a hen, not a codfish. Extra points if you can make us cackle along with you.

Julie Stoner

[Janet Kenny]

Despite

Despite your lapses of good taste,
your vanity and need for praise,
despite the thickness of your waist,
your gluttonous, material gaze,
despite your kittenish pretence
of “girly talk” at sixty five,
your total lack of common sense,
your drunken binges, know that I’ve
abstained from showing how I feel
and smiled although I want to kill
you for the way you try to steal
my husband, though you make me ill
I’ll never let you know that I
will hold a party when you die.

[Janet Kenny]

Well, that killed the thread. Is it too nasty?

[Terese Coe]

Prodigiousness, unlike a cod,
will hoist upon its own petard,
and thinking of a homely hen
has failed to activate my pen.
What news, what news, what deadly shroud?
The modest cod, the hen too proud.

[Janet Kenny]

Very true and neatly footed Terese. That's why I wrote about my virtuous self-repression.

[Frank Hubeny]

Taking Credit for Little Things

The kids said, "Dad, those ants, again,
Have found the cat food on the floor."
I almost said, "I'm busy," when
The wife insisted I do more
Than "lounge about the house like that!"
And so, I got up from the bed,
And found the poison, shot it at
The ants and watched them die. I said,
"This was a tragedy, I guess,
Quite worthy of fine poetry."
I'll take the credit for the mess
Where death came fast and none could flee.

[This message has been edited by Frank Hubeny (edited July 13, 2007).]

[Eric Hendrixson]

The ring was there for all to tell.
It stained the bowl, the dog's cold well.
But now, clean as a Shinto bell,
Just thanks to me and HCl.