Poems by Cynthia C. Naspinski

My husband plays golf, or at least he does try.
After many a round he will wonder just why.
It's not just a sport, it's a full-blown obsession
That can be euphoric or lead to depression.

He walks through the door, and I ask how it went,
Just being polite, but my ear will get bent.
He spouts meaningless numbers and hole-by-hole plays.
He won't even notice my eyes start to glaze.

The gear you can buy is expensive and endless.
I must admit that I wish he would spend less.
If you think that some clubs, a bag, balls and shoes
Would be all that he'd need, then you haven't a clue!

He needs GPS watches and ball picker-uppers,
Umbrellas and gloves and club cleaning brushes,
Remote controlled buggy and replacement grips.
Don't forget lessons and those golfing trips.

The pricing of golf wear just couldn't be crasser -
Fabric technology developed by NASA!
And before you know it he wants to trade up;
His clubs are old models and not up to snuff.

He watches the tournaments and every golf show
(To me it's as thrilling as watching grass grow).
He browses the internet and reads magazines;
The golf tips on YouTube, the knowledge he gleans!

This theory won't always translate into practice.
He'll mess with his game till it's totally cactus.
The stance and the takeaway, the swing plane and height
Have all been dissected till nothing works right.

And then one fine day he's as pleased as can be,
A hole-in-one certificate he presents to me.
It's not quite a car, but I'm still very proud;
A feat only dreamed of...I truly am wowed!

A trophy now takes pride of place on the shelf,
A reminder to not be too hard on himself.
He mustn't give up when his handicap suffers,
'Cause then I would lose those sweet five hour buffers!

My friends are all astonished
At the things my pets can do.
They say my pets are gifted
But I hardly think that's true.

My hamster performs somersaults
When leaping from his wheel.
He never sticks the landing
So I don't see the big deal.

My cat plays the piano
Only when she's in the mood,
But her singing is atrocious
And she usually gets booed.

The dog likes playing Scrabble
But he's not much of a threat.
The words he plays are basic
And he hasn't beat me yet.

My parrot recites poetry
That he likes to compose,
But nothing ever rhymes
And I am not a fan of prose.

The goldfish in his fish tank
Enjoys playing water polo,
But his goals aren't that impressive
'Cause he's only playing solo

So you see, my pets are really
Just a pretty average bunch.
Now I have to go wash up
Because the dog has made my lunch.

I know that stink! I have no doubts
That Mom has cooked up Brussels sprouts.
Of all the things that I despise,
The Brussels sprout would take first prize.

I've blocked my nose and tried to swallow,
Guzzled lots of milk to follow,
But I can tell you nothing works
'Cause in my mouth the taste still lurks.

Once I slipped one in my pocket,
But after dinner I forgot it.
Next day I shoved my hand in there
And gave myself a nasty scare.

In Mom's pot plant I used to hide
A sprout or two, but then IT DIED!
And now my sister's learned to count,
I can't add to her sprout amount.

My dog won't even help me out.
He will not eat a Brussels sprout.
He'll lick his butt, eat possum poop,
But to eat sprouts he will not stoop.

Maybe it is just as well
Because his farts already smell.
He does not need a Brussels sprout
To turbocharge what's coming out!

Please Mom, can we work out a deal
That gets me out of this here meal?
I'd clear the table, do the dishes,
Be your genie, grant you wishes.

I'd clean my room a little later
And feed the dog (that little traitor!).
I'd pull weeds till my hands blister.
I'd even play nice with my sister.

But Mom, it would be best all around
If other veggies could be found,
So we could all just go without
The gross, revolting Brussels sprout!

Restful sleep has proved elusive.
Lack of it is not conducive
To my overall wellbeing,
As I stare up at the ceiling.

Niggling aches and pains compound
To stop my sleep from being sound.
I toss and turn from side to side,
But all positions have been tried.

I am by all accounts quite round,
But when it comes to sleep, I've found
I wish I were more octagon -
A full eight sides to rotate on.

To lie flat on my back does tempt,
Though soon I find I must pre-empt
The snores I'm told will wake the dead
By rolling on my side instead.

And finally, I find my groove,
Then curse because I have to move.
The electric blanket's getting hot
And on this side the switch is not.

If comfyness arrives too late,
I'll feel the urge to urinate.
And once that tickle is perceived,
It soon demands to be relieved.

I do my utmost to ignore,
But know I'll have to go before
This little twinge of urgency
Becomes full blown emergency.

I hit the loo and park it there
With just a nanosec to spare.
Sit a while and contemplate
How so much could accumulate!

Back in bed, it starts again,
The quest to find my inner zen.
Must stop my thoughts from swirling round,
The ideal pozzy must be found.

At last my eyelids start to droop.
Don't need to pee, don't need to poop.
But then with dread I feel the heat
Rising upwards from my feet.

A damned hot flush is taking hold
And now I'm longing for the cold!
Sheet and quilt are tossed aside,
Must suffer through till it subsides.

Once again, I know I've failed.
Won't wake bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
I'll have no pep, I'll have no zing.
Rise and shine is not my thing.

I can't believe it's come to this.
I've tried my hardest to resist.
In order to not feel like crap,
I must embrace the nanna nap!