Barbara Rhymes

                                    Barbara Rhymes

I like to write rhymes – for birthdays, anniversaries, just about any occasion, and sometimes just because the rhyme enters my mind and won’t leave until I finish it.  These are not poems; that, I think, is too pretentious, overrating something that’s more frivolous than serious.  There will be lots of them on this blog because I’ve written a lot of rhymes and because I’ll probably write some more before I’m all blogged out.

            Let’s start with rhymes I’ve written for my wife, Barbara.  And we’ll start with her birthday rhymes because there’s a recurring theme here.  Barbara’s birthday is August 20^th, right in the middle of what Italians call Ferragosto, the late summer holiday period when they close their shops and stores and restaurants, putting up signs that read Chiuso per Ferie (Closed for the Holidays); so going out to celebrate – dinner at a nice restaurant, for instance – is impossible.

            That situation sparked the following:

Her birthday comes at a time                                                                                    

 When Italy’s not ready to shine                                              

‘Cause the whole goddamn area                                                    

Is Chiuso per Ferie                                                                       

And there’s nowhere to take her to dine.

           

And the Ferragosto theme also started off this rhyme:

And now, our best wishes to “B”                                                      

Whose birthday arrives just when we                                 

Aren’t doing diddley ‘Cause they’ve closed all of Italy           

And have gone to relax by the sea.

Barbara knows we have no place to take her,                          

So she figures we’ll probably make her                                        

Be hale and hearty                                                                                        

And throw her own party                                                               

For which she’s the cook and the baker.

Well, you’re right about that, Barbara Dear.                            

Here’s the way we give you birthday cheer:                                       

You get our best wishes                                                           

While you wash the dishes                                                                   

At the end of another long year.

                                                                                   

As promised, there’s more:

It must be Barbara’s birthday;                                                                              

I think I hear birthday birds singing.                                                                     

It must be Barbara’s birthday                                                                      

‘Cause the telephone never stops ringing.

It must be Barbara’s birthday,                                                                 

When everything in  Italy’s closed.                                                                          

Can’t take her to a nice birthday dinner.                                          

We’ll get her some flowers, I suppose.

         

It must be Barbara’s birthday.                                                                  

All day she’s done nothing but bake                                     

‘Cause her friends celebrate Barbara’s birthday                       

By coming over here to eat cake.

Yes, it must be Barbara’s birthday,                                           

When we all get that birthday cake hunger,                            

And Barbara does her best to amaze us                                              

By looking another year younger.

            Next, a birthday rhyme for Barbara that harks back to our visit to Qatar, where our son, Patrick, lived and worked for three years.  Our visit was to see Patrick and his wife, Gillian, of course, but the highlight was seeing our first grandson, Joey, for the first time; he was born the previous Christmas Eve.  That was such a wonderful time that, when we returned to Italy, we sort of sank into a period of depression because we missed all of them so much.  I tried to help Barbara (and myself) out of that depression by giving her a frame in which she could put her favorite photos of Joey.  And I wrote:

On her birthday, we hope Joey’s Oma                                                                                

 Will awake from her lonesome coma,                                               

Still remembering well                                                                        

The delightful smell                                                                        

Of that special Joey aroma.                      

                                               

            And to help her preserve Joey’s fame                                         

We give Oma this special frame                                                     

For the photos we took                                                                    

Of his “serious” look                                                                                                       

As everyone called out his name.

So, Oma, here’s what you do –                                                    

For Joey and for his Grampa, too –                                          

Take a rest for a while                                                                       

And remember to smile

As we say happy birthday to you.

                                                                           

            You’ve probably noticed by now that many of my rhymes (No, most of them) are written as limericks.  I guess that’s because I’m mostly Irish.  Or it could be because the first rhymes I learned to know and love were limericks (A Hermit Named Dave, etc.).  Anyway, I maintained that pattern with this one for Barbara’s seventieth birthday:

We know you want us all to know                                                                       

That this is Birthday Seven-Oh.                                                           

But, Barbara Dear,                                                                          

It’s very clear                                                                           

You’ve still got lots of years to go.

       

When you reach the age of One-Oh-Oh                                                   

Then, maybe yes, it’s time to go.                                                            

But for this year,                                                                        

We’re sorry, Dear,                                                                          

It’s only birthday Seven-Oh.

           

Okay, here’s a non-limerick birthday rhyme I wrote for Barbara’s seventy-fourth:

Her eyes are colored hazel,                                                                                          

 Just like a hazelnut.                                                                     

She’s lissome and she’s shapely,                                                             

With that cute Bavarian butt.                                                        

                                   

They say she’s reaching seventy-four,                                              

But she looks like forty-seven.                                                    

And her personality’s something                                                        

Like an angel down from heaven.                                           

That’s why we all love Barbara                                                             

And sincerely hope and pray                                                      

That she savors every minute                                                                     

Of a happy, happy birthday.

           

And, finally, an anniversary rhyme (there must be others, but I don’t remember where I put them).  This one refers back to our wedding ceremony in the U.S. Army Chapel in Nuernberg, Germany, where Barbara – nervous as hell and having a hard time understanding the Army Chaplain – actually said, “…’til death us depart.”  She also referred to me as her “awfully wet husband” (and, since my nerves had me sweating a good bit, she had that part right).

Forty-nine years past on this very day                                         

We got married and said that we’d stay that way.                         

We swore to each other as we made our start                              

That we’d be together ‘til death us do part.

So now, as we start our fiftieth year,                                             

It looks like the death thing is drawing near.                                          

But let’s just pretend it’s again ’64                                                 

And we’ll keep it going for forty-nine more.

Once again I've had problems with off-set lines in some of these rhymes (this is the second time I've posted "Barbara Rhymes" on the blog).  Forgive me.  I'll figure it out one of these days.