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| Tremor Tales page 12 |
| Soft and Fluffy All through my home I've carpet two feet high Made of down feathers. Makes for a soft landing When my dicey balance gives way. One day when a neighbor came to visit, She tripped and fell into it when I wasn't Looking. Her muffled cry from deep within Told me where she'd fallen, but as I rushed To her, my balance went wacky and I Fell in beside her. "Help me!" she cried, "I can't rise in all this carpet fluff!" "Follow me to the door to pull ourselves up." Once up, she raced for home like a discharged missile, And now visits from the front porch only, Wary of my carpet so deep and fluffy. |
| French-fry Makeup Good friend, look not at me while I eat, For it's bound to be a messy feat. My shaking hands may jerk my utensils And send food flying all over the table. I sure hope restaurant patrons here focus On their meals, and not even glance at us, For surely they'd see my embarrassing mess. Uh oh, if the french-fries I ordered aren't stiff My fingers'll whip them like a storm tossed skiff. Oh I'll get most into my mouth to eat, But the rest will end up squashed on my cheeks. Oh look, if you like, others will in this place. Could be french-fry makeup flatters my face. |
| My Son I carefully aimed my last dart at the three Dartboards ten feet away, while my son, my Opponent, waited tensely hoping to not Hear me crow, "Put that in your pipe at smoke it!" If I beat him at the game. Hey, he's the one Who set up three boards to give me a handicap For my hand tremors. The dummy. Poor guy Was to target only the center board. Well, with herky jerky hand, I flung the dart At the boards and thud, it stuck, precariously, In the big five-0 in the center of the Middle board. "Hah!" I bragged. "Beat that!" And The moment the words were out the dart Fell to the floor. "Hah!" shouted my son. "I will!" And he sent his last dart stabbing right where mine Had hung. The game was his. "Put that in YOUR pipe And smoke it!" he crowed. He learns well, my son. |
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| He Ain't Tired With one of us steadied with shots of liquor, We E T'ers went out on Halloween's night hour Covered from head to toe in white sheets. We knocked on my nearest neighbor's door And when he opened it we yelled, "Trick or treat!" He feigned awful fright, as he looked us over. Suddenly, he looked puzzled a moment or two. "One of you isn't shaking like scary ghosts do." "He's tired," I said with a hiss like a snake. At that he chuckled and said, "Trick or treating Is rough on adults. Time to hit your bunks." He then gave us sweets and as we left laughing, I chortled, "He ain't tired, he's drunk as a skunk!" |
| Or Am I He pulled and he pulled, till I quaked with tremors. Then, at last, he removed my decayed molar. The quaking continued after he finished, Sending he and his nurse into fits of panic. Jaw numbed by injections to prevent pain I could only mumble, could not explain Why, like a cork in a puddle of rain, My head bobbed, or why my whole body shook. Using sign language is what it took To ask for paper to write the why of them. And oh what a scrawl my shaky hand did pen. After they read it they gaped at me, For I'd managed only, I shake from E T. They started to shiver, and their eyes widened. "No!" I sputtered. "Not alien overtaken!" They slumped with relief and I said, "Or am I?" With that, they raced to scour my medical files. And I escorted myself out the door Chortling, "Now that's funny, alien tremors!" |
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| Short-Circuit Brains Oops, I 'bout missed what you were saying. Sometimes what I hear is slow to connect to my Brain. You spoke dolefully in reflect About people staring at your tremors. Sadly, some normal folk tend to forget That though we've a difference, E T'ers Hurt when, with dumb audacity, They stare and lament our illness rudely, As though their words are no concern of ours. When I'm stared at I say, Yes, I have tremors. If you wish to discuss them speak to me, Not behind my back, uncivilly. That is what I say, but I will not judge If my way is not yours. When stares and sludge Of hurtful comments batter you, smile And make no retort. That is but one style. Lets not deal with starers whose brains, I suspect, Cannot to what they've heard connect. Come, let us to good times lay claim And forget those people with short-circuit brains. |
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| City Folks I grinned at the city folks at the crosswalk And they began to dance. At this, I gawked And thought, Yikes! They've lost their heads! But, new in town, I asked, "Why the dancin'?" They stopped right then, looking disappointed. I grinned once more, and they started in again. This was just too weird. I bid them farewell And crossed the street on a run. "Great beat!" they yelled. Beat? What beat? Just how nuts are city folks? That's when I realised the beat of which they spoke. My upper and lower teeth clack together When I grin, caused by my essential tremor. I knew then how I'd climb the city ladder; I'd thrill city big wigs with their clatter. |
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