ogden nash poems

There is a particular kind of medicine in a poem that refuses to take itself too seriously, the kind that winks at you from the page. During my years in the classroom, when the afternoon heat made the children squirm like trout in a shallow creek, I would pull out those delightfully eccentric verses that played with language just for the joy of it. Much like watching the Saturday morning farmer’s market rush unfold with all its chaotic, colorful energy, reading these playful lines reminds us that life doesn't always have to be lived in the solemn key of D minor.

ogden nash poems

The Middle-Aged Metamorphosis

This little piece is about the quiet, funny ways our bodies and habits change as the years pile up on us. I wanted to capture that gentle shock of looking in the mirror and realizing you have suddenly become the person who worries about drafty windows and correct posture. It is a nod to the cozy, slightly ridiculous comforts of getting older.

I used to leap over the garden wall with ease, But now I negotiate with both of my knees. The stairs have grown steeper, the mornings more cold, And I find myself doing what I’m actually told.

I worry of drafts and the price of the fuel, And I carry a sweater, which once was uncool. The music today sounds like gravel in blenders, And I’m strangely attracted to sturdy suspenders.

My reading lamp shines on my graying old head, As I happily choose a warm tea-cup instead. The wild nights of youth have all gone out of style, But a very good pillow makes everything worthwhile.

Ode to the Lost Reading Glasses

We all have those small, daily mysteries that try our patience but ultimately make us laugh at our own human frailty. I wrote this thinking of the countless times I have searched the entire house for something that was perched right on top of my own head. It is a celebration of the minor, harmless muddles we find ourselves in.

They are not in the pantry behind the peach jam, Nor under the rug where the dust bunnies ham. I’ve checked in the pocket of my winter coat, And inside the pages of a history note.

Perhaps they have migrated south for the spring, Or joined up with birds on a migratory wing. But oh, what a beautiful, foolish surprise, To find them already right over my eyes.

The Common Cold Conspiracy

There is nothing quite like a stubborn winter sniffle to make the strongest person feel like a helpless child again. This is a lighthearted look at the dramatic tragedy of the common cold, written with an affectionate wink at my own husband's occasional bouts of the "man flu." It reminds us that sometimes, the best cure is just a little bit of self-pity and a very large box of tissues.

A sneeze in the morning, a tickle by noon, And I fear I’ll be singing a sorrowful tune. The teapot is whistling, the lemon is squeezed, But my stubborn old sinuses refuse to be pleased.

I wrap up in blankets like some sort of mummy, And swallow a syrup that tastes rather gummy. The world goes on spinning while I sit and sigh, With a mountain of tissues piled up to my thigh.

I declare to the walls that the end must be near, Though it’s only a cold that I suffer each year. For a sniffle can turn a brave soul to a mouse, And bring down the quietest peace in the house.

Writing in this playful, slightly crooked style always brings me back to the simple joy of language for language's sake. It reminds me of the laughter that used to echo through my classroom when we dared to make up our own silly words. If you are looking for more ways to celebrate life's sweeter, lighter milestones, you might enjoy reading these happy birthday to my goddaughter poems to brighten someone's special day. After all, a little bit of nonsense now and then is the very best kind of wisdom.