I had an amazing birthday this year, and two very special homemade presents. One was a birthday card hand-painted by my Dad (I had thought Dad was the writer and Mom was the artist!), and the other was this limerick by my sister, Julie.

Meps travels both hinder and yon
Now that beautiful hair’s almost GONE!*
Still, she’s awesome and nifty,
Though half way to fifty
Her new moniker? Captain Ron!

Julie also provided the perfect ending to my birthday. She was doing a radio show on KLCC, in Eugene, Oregon, and I managed to pull it in over the Internet. Then I called the request line and asked for a song from 1964. She asked, “Which song?” “Any song will do!” I sang out, and only then did she recognize her little sister’s voice, all the way from North Carolina.

She played Sam Cooke’s “That’s Where It’s At” for me. Beaufort, North Carolina: That’s where it’s at!

*Explanatory photos to come…

My broken toe limerick got some funny responses. One friend, who will remain nameless, said he once dropped his underwear, tried to kick them to the laundry hamper, hit the wall, and broke a toe. He had a hard time explaining why he was wearing steel-toed boots to his office job.

Here’s another funny response, in verse, from Elinor Narcross:

I was going to lunch
And was driving a bunch.
My foot went kerplunk
Caught myself on the trunk.
Got a break in my foot
Requiring a boot.
In the arm, bicep tear
All in all, worse for wear.

In November it occurred
Pre-holidays; my word!
Healing has taken place
And snow has covered space.
Been inside looking out
Sunshine now makes me shout.
If Spring does really arrive,
I’ll want to drive and drive and drive.

(given the line about the trunk, maybe she should switch to a hatchback?)

This is weird, but it’s happened twice! Out of the blue, someone sends me a limerick about a Julie when I need one for my sister of the same name. This one comes from reader IronMan Mike Curtis, and although it’s not a perfect fit (my sister is NOT middle-aged), it is perfectly timed for my sister’s birthday.

Thanks, Mike! But next time, maybe we could call her “a lovely young woman,” instead? Then, as you can see from the photo, it would fit my Julie, too.

Julie, Schmulie

A middle aged woman named Julie
Feared her next birthday unduly
As the clock struck midnight,
She blanched with sheer fright
As if she’d been possessed by a ghoulie

(Limerick (c) 2009 M. Curtis)

I hadn’t gotten any guest submissions in a while, when this appeared in my in-box and gave me a chuckle. It comes from R. Dennis Green, “a limerick-starved fan from Bethesda, MD who shares a birth year (1951) with the comic strip, Dennis the Menace.”

I looked for a birthday limerick
Your web site proved to be perferick
My friend needed laughter
To fight the disaster…
Of aging. Your verse did the trick!

Here’s a guest submission from my brilliant friend Tara:

To Arkansas went Henry’s daughter,
So she could swim nude in hot water.
But if there is a crowd
Then it won’t be allowed
‘Cause they’ll see things that they shouldn’t oughter!

I’ve never tried to write a poem about myself. The only word that I can think of that rhymes is “adeps,” a synonym for lard.

But I discovered yesterday that when properly lubricated (see my recipe for the Goombay Smash), my friends can produce birthday limericks right off the cuff. Since Tina just had a birthday (4/27) and Will is about to have one (5/16), I’m gonna write some limericks about them, too. Luckily, I have just the reference…my own article, entitled “How to Write a Birthday Limerick.”

From Tina:
There once was a sailor named Meps
Who’d had poor luck with men, excepts
a sailor named Barry
Who asked her to marry
And so they went up the church steps.

From Will:
There once was a sailor named Meps
Who refused to take her twelve steps
With surprising alarm
She drank with both arms
By morning she cried, “Oh my biceps!!!”

For Tina:
Is it time for a concert, Ms. Tina?
Will your rub board’s sound fill this arena?
For the Zydeco Locals,
Which feature your vocals,
Make me dance like a crazed ballerina.

(If you follow the link to the Zydeco Locals’ website, Tina’s the one on the left, with the rub board.)

Will’s limerick will be coming soon…I have two weeks to work on it, and plenty of material.

Here’s a great holiday-themed 3-stanza limerick I got from my Uncle Roy and Aunt Shirley, who live in Naples, Florida. They got hit so hard by Hurricane Wilma that at Thanksgiving, they were still working full-time to find their backyard. Sadly, the boat mentioned in the poem, a small aluminum skiff, didn’t survive.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Our turkey’s baked, our goose is cooked
The terminal is crowded, passage booked
Our Christmas is crisis or so it would seem
We’ve done all our shopping, run out of steam
We’re ready for nothing nothing overlooked

We didn’t put up a tree this year
Wilma took them all down, we fear.
Our toys were under the tree
Boat, pump, fence, at least three
An axe, a saw, took a month to clear

The mess from the yard and out to the street
For pickup, piled wide and up eight feet
Done with that, now sweeping and raking,
Cleaning, cooking, shopping and baking
We’ll send cards next year, this year we’re beat

Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, Hoppy Gnu Year

A very frightening landing inspired this rhyme a couple of weeks ago:

With Orlando’s airport in sight
The passengers all had a fright
The plane lurched and yawed
A man screamed, “Oh Gawd!
“Just please let me survive this flight!”

A few days later, I received this via e-mail from my sister Julie, who wrote of her experience flying home after Thanksgiving:

Atlanta can be such a bore.
When you sit there 5 hours - no, more!
Could have flown to Bombay,
In the time of travel Monday.
From Sun City to Eugene, in hours: Twenty-four.

Is it any wonder we hate to fly???

Quoth the Raven, “enough already”

We had hoped to be, upon the sea,
Not on the rocks but not on blocks.
But there we are and much too far,
From a flush toilet, with our eyes set
on a shower, our eyes red, our bodies sour

In and out, up and down, the further we must go,
The boat won’t sink and we won’t drown, we’re still on blocks, although
We be at sea (or up the creek). Avast, thar she blows, no pirates, no leak,
No transmission, no go, we’re up on blocks, you know.

We’ll sail round the world, but it will take longer.
While we’re on the blocks, and the odor stronger.
But at least, I think, though we may stink, we won’t sink
We’er still on blocks, with rocks in our head, and we’re fed
Up with the sailing, and failing to go but not on rocks still on blocks

And quoth the rabbit, “cut the crap!”

I have a cool sister named Margaret
Who never bought clothes at a Target
To the Thrift store she’d go,
In the rain, sleet or snow.
Now she’s devoid of a house or a closet!