For Moms Everywhere

A mother is a person

Whom few on Earth can match

The best out there- who can compare?

She’s of a special batch

She gets her introduction

To her precious child

With hours of pain; tremendous strain

That makes all else seem mild

At last the child’s delivered

But there’s no time for rest

‘Fore Mom can dream, the child will scream-

Mom has an instant test

The babe is cute but challenging

The mom can plainly see

Won’t sleep, won’t eat, won’t poop; Mom’s beat

But says “it’s up to me!”

So Mom must teach them everything

From dressing to their diet

She helps them walk, and then to talk

(Then yells, “sit down- be quiet!”)

As the child gets older

The difficulties stay

Fights, bad friends- it never ends

It’s hard in many ways

She gets them through the school years

Though they fight her tooth and nail

Their every need is met with speed

She will not let them fail

Though they may resist her,

She strives to raise them right

Shows them the way to live each day

And prays with them each night

And when they finally move out

Get a job and go away

Mom says “no good- I miss my brood”

“I’d really wish they’d stay!”

Yet to hinder their development

She knows she cannot do

So as they fly, she starts to cry

And whispers “I’ll miss you”

So why become a mother?

Why go through such a chore?

The constant fights; the sleepless nights

Ingratitude and more

Mom knows with every baby

It’s hardship from the start

Yet through the stress, she says “I’m blessed”

And loves to play her part

Yes, mom is happy with her lot

Though kids may cause her woe

If you ask why, she’ll just reply

“Because I love them so”

My Take on the Raven

image from here

The Super Bowl is soon upon us, and I wanted to take the opportunity to celebrate the Ravens' inclusion in the contest with a poem.  Most people know that the Ravens were named after the poem by Edgar Allan Poe; I took Poe's cadence and rhyming scheme, and modified the words to make what you see below.

There are a few inside jokes that only work folk would understand, and the occasional reference to things that may not be familiar to you; if you have questions, ask away.  Enjoy!

- JMM

John Mark McLean's The Ravens

One dark day in Yorkshire dreary, while I pondered Mike McQueary,

and his witness of Sandusky’s deeds which all good men abhor;        

while I thought on Penn State’s season- perservering through the treason-

suddenly, for no good reason, someone yelled outside my door.

“Tis some communist,” I muttered, “lurking at my office door.-

Likely this, and nothing more.”

Still this Bolshevik persisted, so my work I soon desisted

And a base instinct resisted, to shout curses through the door

“What want thou, fiend!” I soon was screaming, interrupting colleagues’ dreaming

And disrupting valued teaming between the workers on the floor

“Yield immediately your purpose; should you not forthwith outpour

You’ll get demerits here for sure.”

Zephir answered with a bellow, lacking courage- therefore yellow,

And this rather seedy fellow then burst through the op’ning door

“what a game!” he was exclaiming, cheering Flacco and proclaiming

“We’re the best!” and thus was claiming Ravens victory for sure

“Friend,” said I, bemused and smiling, “please tone down the raucous roar”

I then stated: “still one more.”

“Eagles suck!” he then retorted, while new Ravens gear he sported

And to more insults resorted, feigning decency no more

“My team rocks and your team’s sucky- every win they get is lucky”

He continued, throwing mucky claims and sayings as he swore

Yes, this man was cruel and tactless, but he had ignited war

Such treatment I could not ignore.

“How quickly you are forgetting, as you throw this verbal netting

Gloating while the rest are getting tired of this loathsome bore:

“I well know, and can assure you, getting there is quite the virtue

But losing still can rather hurt you- sting like nothing stung before

Yes, a bitter loss at finish can bring sorrow to the fore”

I repeated: “still one more.”

“Plus, I said, “you must consider, gloating now increases bitter

Feelings which are bound to litter ‘round you, covering the floor;”

Should in fact the Ravens blow it, and they might- what man can know it?

if they do, your friends will show it, happily bringing up the score

Yes, friends will return the favor, picking on your team for sure

I said finally, “still one more.”

Matt became exasperated as my words he contemplated

But soon he felt exonerated, and tried to pass this mental chore

“Help me, Steve!” He soon was asking, as I moved on to other tasking

(though I secretly was basking in my words so wise and pure)

Yes, I think Matt fell down smarting, terrified of me for sure

Confident he was no more.

With other Ravens fans he pleaded- help was what he sorely needed

Perspiration plentifully beaded on his head, and fear he wore

On his face, it showed quite plainly; then he coughed and smiled wanely

And spoke out somewhat inanely “I can’t take this anymore!”

He turned again to Steven Turner, pleading as he’d done before

“Help me please!” he did implore.

“Sorry Matt, I can’t be working, while my next assignment’s lurking”

(Though it should be noted that a year remained on Turner’s tour)

Matt then asked Mo, but he was frisky, drinking down some hidden whisky

(keeping that at work is risky, but it beats sobriety’s bore)

Yes, it seemed he had no helpers; facing me he must endure

Alone, forgotten, and unsure.

Rather than accept my saying, he retorted “least they’re playing”

and threw in some insults, spraying vitriol all around the floor

Then, at last, he started sobbing, and his head, it started bobbing

As he accused me then of robbing, taking joy from him once more

Yes, he seemed the most downtrodden as he started toward the door

“Wait!” I stated- “let’s talk more.”

“Look,” I said, “here is the issue,” while I handed him a tissue

“Should this screaming fit continue, you’ll find a foe in me for sure.

It’s okay to root for Flacco, while you chew that vile tobacco,

And cheer for him like a whacko, till you can’t speak anymore

But these things are best done nicely, so respect you will ensure

And your friendships will endure”

“If the Ravens end up winning, it was them from the beginning

Your devoted underpinning altered not the final score

So sir, please forego this bragging, and stop this incessant nagging

And on others’ teams stop ragging- it’s childish and immature

No matter how devoted, fans do not for their own team procure

Wins that only players secure”

“I hope the Ravens get the victory, so your words aren’t contradictory

And your pronouncement valedictory, listen to my point once more

It’s best to enjoy a victory quietly, humbly in state of sobriety

Or you’ll find a notoriety at your reputation’s door

Yes, you’ll see that closest allies drift on to a distant shore

If you are a winner sore”

I felt my point at last was graven; Matt acknowledged me a maven

I, in turn, forgave this craven- all was right at work once more

We agreed to stop the roasting, and soon parted with a toasting

Promising to end our boasting, and lay our differences at the door

Yes, I know we’ll both be watching, hoping that the Ravens soar.

Let’s all hope a win’s in store.

The Ingoldsby Legends

The Ingoldsby Legends is a classic of old
Wherein humorous and macabre tales are told
Often in rhyme, though not all the time
And this volume brims with literary gold

"Comic verse" is often the way it's described;
Though humor's the goal, wisdom's often imbibed
by reading each story, no matter how gory
you may find it's just what the doctor prescribed

Some poems are goofy; some tales are sad
Most rhymes are witty (though some are quite bad)
Penned in a hurry, by a man without worry
And no less than a minister, I'm inclined to add

Extremely popular, it was in its time
but sadly no longer, as if it's a crime
to soak in the pages- though wisdom of ages
is contained within the marvelous rhyme

So why the fall from so lofty a perch?
Why has this gold mine been left in the lurch?
For several a reason- I'll discuss in due season
After conducting a thorough vocabulary search

Some humor refers to events now unknown
And sadly, some hints of bigotry are shown
(though in the age victorian, says the average historian
this is all too common, and makes modern man groan)

So while decent value is found in this book
And though it could do with a close second look
I well understand, why it's not in demand-
shifting values have diminished the original hook

If you enjoyed this oddball review
The Ingoldsby Legends might appeal to you
Go check it out; if you give me a shout
I'll lend it out for a week or two

If instead you think I'm not right in the head
Turn away- there exist other books to be read
(or, for a better review, you'll find this will do)
Enough! It's late, and I'm off to bed

Rating: A

Rime of the Ancient Mariner (Samuel Coleridge)

Realizing that I had little poetry on my British reading list, I decided to add Rime of the Ancient Mariner to my ever-expanding "to read" pile.  It's short- easily readable in a sitting- and good.  It ably fulfills what, to me, is the most important rule of poetry- it rhymes- and it's also a good story.

Rime concerns a sailor who sets out to explore the seas.  After a run of good fortune and bad, said sailor shoots a trailing albatross.  His crew doesn't know whether to thank him or hate him- they don't know if the albatross was a source of their good luck, or their bad.  Apparently, though, it's the latter, because the entire crew, save the main sailor, is later killed when they come upon a ghost ship or something, where Death, some woman, and Al Gore are playing cards, gambling for the fate of the explorers.  Death wins, obviously, though the sailor is force to remain alive as punishment for his crime.  He's adrift at sea for some time, prompting him to make the famous "water water everywhere, and not a drop to drink" statement.  Thankfully, the crew is reanimated as zombies for some reason, and the sailor is able to return home.  A hermit on shore sees the returning ship, rows out to meet it, the ship sinks, the sailor's adrift, the hermit picks him up, and the sailor spends the rest of his days telling all he encounters his tale.

I was admittedly lost at times- but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

Rating: A-

A thought for the troubled

This is a poem that I wrote for my daughter shortly after her birth.  I've modified it a bit and present it here specifically for a dear family member, to whom significant health problems cling with continued determination.  Hang in there- we love you.  More importantly, God does, too.

 

“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you” – Jeremiah 1:5a

As you get older, you’ll find in this life

No end to the things that cause heartache or strife

The future’s uncertain, and can inspire fear

If we’re faced with the loss of things we hold dear

But try to remember that we’re in God’s hands

An integral part of His wonderful plans

He knows us and loves us, even in the womb

He’ll be with us always- from birth to the tomb

So trust and cling to Him, each one of your days

And focus on Him- He’ll direct all your ways

Even when you’re hurting, engulfed by the night

He’ll put you at ease, and surround you with light

Then when you look back on your life you will say

“He’s been faithful thus far, and He’ll be so today!”

Remember- should blessings or troubles befall,

Before the Lord formed you, He planned it all