An Ode to Easter Past

Sunday Dinner

Holidays bring forth so many memories, like it or not.

For some they are painful and better if left forgot,

About what makes a person sad and melancholy.

Try to remember only what makes you jolly, by golly!

It’s not easy to suppress the many thoughts from yesteryear,

Especially of those who are no longer here.

Of all the happy times having spent together,

Each new occasion seemed always better and forever.

But nothing in life is ever eternal,

Be it mate, friend, sibling, child, or paternal.

Emotions are fleeting,

So why take a beating?

When my mind fills with gloom,

I sweep it away as if I had a broom,

And think of things that make me laugh,

About those who are missing from the past.

For this week’s entry in my journal,

I’ll express some cheer that’s mainly maternal,

About the chicken I received one Easter long ago,

Given to me by my mother whom I did love so.

I named it Peeper, such a cute little chick.

What made her give it to me, I haven’t a lick,

Of an idea other than she may have received it as a gift from a friend,

And she couldn’t be the mother hen.

She was separated from my pop,

Living in a rooming house, next town over on a hilltop.

There was no way Mum could keep the bird at her place,

She was basically living out of her suitcase.

I kept it in the basement of our duplex house.

We had no back yard and I couldn’t leave it out.

The bird was so happy to see me each day,

When I went down to feed it and we’d play.

She’d follow me around like a puppy dog,

Peeping, pecking, cackling as we jogged,

Around in her concrete playpen, for what else could we do?

But that got old very fast from my having to clean up all her poo.

My darling little chick had grown into a full-fledged chicken.

My dad’s patience waned and he started to raise the dickens,

From habitually stepping in droppings, and having the basement smell like a barn.

After all, he did say, we weren’t living on a farm.

I told my mom about having to get rid of the bird.

Pop was really fed up, especially from all the turds.

Sorry for being so gross, but when stuck to make a lyric rhyme,

I stoop so low all the time.

Mum said her friend had a chicken coop,

He didn’t mind all the poop.

She took the unusual pet off my hands,

And brought the feathered creature up to his land.

Next time we were together, I asked her about my chick,

Mom’s friend said a fox snuck into the henhouse and had eaten her really quick.

Methinks her buddy was quite a fibber,

And Peeper had become his Sunday dinner.

My 500-word post has just about been made,

And this week’s debt to the blogosphere has been paid.

So much for writing about poultry,

And so much for my attempt at poetry.

Thanks for stopping in and for your continued support. By the way, my other tribute to Easter Weekend lies in my latest cover by Bob Dylan. Allow me to share it with you.

Happy Holiday!

About Mike Slickster

As an early retiree with an honorary doctorate degree from the proverbial "School of Hard Knocks," this upcoming author with a lot of free time on his hands utilizes his expansive repertoire for humorous yet tragic, wildly creative writing that contains years of imaginative fantasy, pure nonsense, classic slapstick, extreme happiness and searing heartbreak; gathered by a wealth of personal experiences throughout his thrilling—sometimes mundane or unusually horrid—free-spirited, rock-'n'-roller-coaster ride around our beloved Planet Earth. Mike Slickster's illustrious quest continues, living now in Act Three of his present incarnation, quite a bit on the cutting edge of profundity and philosophical merriment as seen through his colorful characters, most notably evident in the amusing Thirty Days Across the Big Pond series, all of which can be found at
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2 Responses to An Ode to Easter Past

  1. Jack Maher says:

    Have a great weekend Mike

  2. Thanks, Jack. Same to you and Shelley.

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