Retired Dr. Michael Abramson delivers
lines on the Internet and used to deliver babies
in the real world, and surely kept his patients as happy as his readers.
Below are some poems he thought appropriate for your
MUM; your MUM laughed and shed a tear!
You name your price when
you commission him to write poems for you at
All poems copyright 1998, 1999 and 2001 Michael Abramson
The poet mentions (July 2001) that the first several volumes of his
poetry will appear soon.
It seems the human genome,
Has finally been mapped,
And all those things we've feared,
Have now been safely trapped.
I'm sure that soon for most of them,
That the scientists will find a cure,
I only hope they'll do it,
Before I must be leaving here.
I always thought to live or die,
Was something left to fate,
But I see now that my future lies,
In some hereditary trait.
I guess that in the future,
We can all be more creative,
Especially now that we are knowing,
The stuff that we are made of.
And I'm sure before it is too late,
They can separate and then annihilate,
All those bad genes in a mate,
Before it's time to procreate.
I know that for geneticists,
It's been a grandiose endeavor,
There's just one thing I wonder,
Do we really want to live forever?
A very classy and smartly dressed society woman,
Looking just a bit too smug,
Entered an expensive Persian carpet store,
While looking for a rug.
She spotted then the perfect one before her,
Resting there upon the floor,
And bent over to inspect it carefully,
Not knowing what was next in store.
While bending over to inspect it,
She accidentally broke wind,
And being quite embarrassed,
She stood up quickly, looking 'round,
And feeling quite chagrined.
Standing there behind her was a salesman,
Who looked her in the eye,
She thought right then that she would die,
And wished she'd turn to ice,
But instead she swiftly turned to him,
Thinking to be nice,
And asked of him the price.
She said it was the perfect fit,
The salesman looked at her and said:
"Lady, if you only farted when you touched it,
When you hear the price you'll shit."
A cat is but a ball of fur,
A hiss, a rub, a quiet purr.
She jumps into your arms,
She jumps into your bed.
Each time, does she not land inside your heart?
OLD WIVES' TALES
A gynecologist could probably tell you many funny stories,
About his many patients and their different slants on mores.
But the Hippocratic oath says to keep them in his mind,
For if he should release them he'd be in a terrible bind.
But there is a real conflict here, for each time he sets his sails,
He just sits around all day,
And spreads more old wives' tales.
Men get on and women go forth,
Women are there when men go north,
Men are fast,
But do not last.
Men are gone and women play,
Men are gone while women stay,
And though not true just yesterday,
Thank God that women have found the way,
There are only three more words to say:
Hooray, hooray, hooray.
SILK OF A DIFFERENT ILK
A woman leaves me much in awe,
Like natures spring, and winters thaw.
She's persistent like the driven snow,
Yet still can backtrack with the flow.
When she smiles she lights the world,
And leaves it with its flags unfurled.
She is really of a different ilk,
She,s soft and smooth like untouched silk.
Her eyes are bright and always trusting,
She does not see when we are lusting.
She does not think about us much,
Until we get to close, and touch.
It,s then her body warms like fire,
Inside a seething deep desire.
With each touch this fire grows,
Until her body overflows.
It,s not too hard for me to see,
That she's much more than ecstasy.
She is beauty to the nth degree,
My every waking fantasy.
A plastic surgeon told an older woman once,
Who thought she was a wreck,
That he could take away the wrinkles in her brow and face and neck.
Excited by the prospect, she asked about the fee,
And when he told her "nothing," her face lit up with glee.
He said that all she had to do was take away her bra, no more,
And by the time he said Jack Robinson, her breasts had hit the floor.
When she saw the wrinkles in her face and neck, all but disappear,
She could do nothing more but shed a happy tear.
She didn't know however that what she thought she wanted,
All had gone for naught.
In fact, she couldn't even show her friends, because she couldn't walk.
The moral of the story is, what you get is what you see,
And don't be disappointed if you didn't pay a fee.
I THINK I'M IN THE WRONG BERTH
I celebrate my birthday, because that's the day that I was born.
It's the day they cut my cord, and from my mum that I was torn.
It's the day they tried to squeeze my head through that tiny little
The day I almost lost my arm, and almost lost my soul.
It's the day the doctor pulled me out, and held me upside down,
Then spanked my bottom, till I cried, and he began to frown.
He pushed that sucker down my throat, and attached it to the wall,
As I screamed and fought, the people thought, that they had heard it
They placed me, covered up with all this blood, into a little bed,
And they took this silly little cap, and put it on my head.
They took me to another room, where I thought that things would pass,
But what I found were twenty mums staring through some glass.
Well, I guess I've told you pretty well, the story of my birth,
And expressed to you some thoughts about its real worth.
So when my birthday comes around, I'll anticipate,
I'll get my presents later, and let others celebrate.
A bard of verse I'm not.
A bard of rhymes I'm not.
Indeed, a bard of poetry I'm not.
The bards are gone,
But the mums and all the words are not.
It never ceases to amaze me, that from such a tiny cell,
Just a minute bit of protoplasm,
Springs a vibrant, living, moving being,
From deep within some mummy's chasm.
A virgin mind and body, reaching out into the cold,
Reaching out for warmth and knowledge, and a mummy to behold.
Sometimes I think, so many little souls, so few of us to really share,
So many blowing in the wind, so few of us who care.
Again the story ends perhaps where it began,
A story often torn with strife,
The story which we all go through,
The miracle of (my mum's) life.
The following is a bloody tribute to you, Harry, and to mums everywhere.
To you, the mother of menstruation, as no such father could exist.
Yes, to you, Harry, - the purveyor of a miraculous, magnificent,
measureless, modulatory and overflowing mind of majestic and yet often misty
mysterious menstrual miseries. A man dedicated to the flow, thoughts, sensitivities,
and wellbeing of women everywhere.
Harry, I salute you.
I will not stand up again and shout loudly to receive my fame and fortune,
It will come,
And I shall remain forever silent until it does - forever mum.
To write an anthem is a joy,
That no poet should let pass,
And just as women bleed for us,
Men too, will need the freedom,
Although it might at times seem crass,
Their long retained yet unknown thoughts,
To leave their bodies as a gas.
These passages will humble each,
And make them empathize as one,
That which symbolizes unity,
And allows them each to be mum.
So forward into battle, sing the mummy's song,
What separates the masses from the mums?
From the remaining throng?
It's much more than just a bit of cloth,
That catches all those eyes and more,
The one that lies between our thighs,
The one I call a thong.
Its bloody truths; its tenderness, and patience,
Its empathy, and wisdom and just congeniality,
It's what a mum is all about,
It's all enclosed in that alone,
Which we know of as reality.
Hopefully as the bard of mummy-dumb,
You would throw this poet but another crumb,
Such that his wisdom will be easier to find, to ingest, to bite,
In a healthier position, more foremost if there's such a thing,
Upon that heavenly body wherein lies your menstrual site.
We all thank you, Harry, for putting menstruation on a higher plane,
And navigating it from places that will always be mundane.
You should be proud and happy, you will never be humdrum,
For you alone have converted one more pathetic, yet Poetic
To be reborn a MUM.
Some might call it: HARRY THOUGHTS,
Some might call it: MUM'S THE WORD,
Some might call it: MUMS ARE BUT A THING OF BEAUTY, - even in a hat.
But for now I'll just call it:
HEY, MUMMY, LET'S RAP!
Mum means many things to many people,
It may hold a very spiritual meaning for those in a cathedral,
Looking up into that tower, that never-ending steeple.
They stand and listen to God calling them with her ethereal bells,
Unaware of earth's distractions, or its unearthly bloody smells.
Then again to some a mum is but a flower, a chrysanthemum,
One that could be found in any hothouse, or perhaps an arboretum.
And there, of course, with the overwhelming scent of flowers,
One would never tell that the woman standing next to them,
Emanated yet a different smell.
Have you ever as a child played at mumbly pegs?
And tried to toss those many knives so accurately between your legs?
A woman's done the same, in fact for many years,
Twixt the holes in her vanity, it's filled her life with bloody tears.
My mum has always told me,
There would be that certain time each month, that certain day,
And my dad would say that mum's the word,
And mummy can't come out today.
I know it sounds like I'm just mumbling,
A lot of mumbo jumbo,
And it smells a little fishy,
Like I've stepped into a bowl of gumbo.
But I know my mum meant well,
When she told me this about the smell,
She talked like it had come from far off places,
Carried to us on some ocean swell.
There's one more thing my mum would want from you to know,
And I will simply ask it,
Are not there different colored mums in each and every basket?
The fact that we have chosen red,
From our menstrual flower bed,
Is not a problem as she said,
'Cause mummies know that sheets can change,
And soaps can wash away the red.
I too have heard, that Mum's a German beer that one drinks very fast,
And I was told that like a mum once cut,
It would never last.
Because of this I almost took to drinking,
Because I thought I'd miss that beery afterglow that followed the arpeggio,
That took up all my thinking.
So much like a woman, and knowing this was so,
I stopped my foolish drinking,
And went right with the flow.
Now you can choose and use these Harry verses,
The ones you like the best,
From deep within your Harry or your hairless chest.
Again once more as mummies always said,
Mum's not the word, especially when it comes to red.
There'll always be a time and place,
These words not used will still be eaten,
By another mummy with a different colored face.
I've tried to tell you about some mums,
With but eight fingers and two thumbs.
The keys I've used I must confess,
Lead one to dream of fame- success.
Within my bleeding heart I know,
That poems like this can only grow,
As do my thoughts of women,
And their menstrual flow.
Yes, I've been wrapped up in thoughts of mummies,
Things that flow including babies,
From deep within or near,
Those growing women's tummies.
No woman should be disqualified from any race,
If they were chosen by their God to run,
And the humor and the life therein offer to a poet,
The chance to have a little fun.
Regardless, she has chosen now to run this race,
To reach out and take from life a stronger and a hotter pace.
Whether she be in the hills of life or resting in the dips,
Or in a border country which has its flaws and never ending chips.
Yes let her run and let her flow,
For a stronger woman need those little faults,
And fiery disposition,
That makes us love her so.
If you think my poetry is poorly done, just leave me,
Bleeding here upon the floor,
Have someone else this time o-pun up the door.
Walk right out and run away, like a bird would soar,
So you will not have to listen, to a bloody pun once more.
I'm happy now, the words are out and bouncing about,
This poet's purged his rampant soul,
And feels now that he's reached the peak,
Of a most important goal.
Perhaps the words at last will be deemed eternal,
And go yet to another place as dark as blood internal.
Mums will come from far and wide,
Hopefully to see and feel them,
Standing tall upon the wall,
In Harry's fine museum.
So lead me please no more to that o-pun door,
To present you with another clauseua,
Or I'll use poetic license to talk forever,
Of menstruation and of mums,
To the point of sheer ad nausea.
Non curo. Si metrum non habet, non est poema
(Latin translation: I don't care. If it doesn't rhyme, it isn't a
I am so tired now, my hands are weak,
My mind has lost its flowering scent.
The mums have gotten to my brain,
They have drained me of all blood,
And as some women too,
I am nearly spent.
I had once considered,
A position on your humor board,
But I'd fear my head you'd sever,
If ever you were bored.
And with my head upon the floor,
Or in some nearby bin,
I could never ever think of women,
Or their menstrual woes again.
All my poems are not amusing,
Some are simply but for musing,
They might in fact just keep you snoozing,
They too might drive you back to boozing.
Others are for just perusing,
Certainly not worth transfusing,
Some I wouldn't think of using.
Some I should have thought of losing.
It's times like these I think I'm cruising,
That I should really be excusing,
Because I know that all this crap,
Is really mostly just abusing.
An ovum is an egg,
A cellular phenomena,
That brings to every meeting,
An amazing bit of stamina.
The direction that it grows,
And which turn that it will take,
Depends upon the sperm,
With which it has to mate.
It may turn out to be a woman or a tiger,
No one really knows,
Until one see some claws,
Or perhaps some tiny toes.
But watch out for such a little cell,
For whichever it might grow to be,
Either one can take your head,
Before you have a chance to see.
A labial lovers lips if chapped,
Would cause him to be handicapped.
To hang around with swollen lips,
Is something that could give him fits.
To hang around would be a shame,
To labialize would be a game,
To be labial, just not the same,
It might just set his lips aflame.
He'd surely need to wait awhile,
To be perhaps a bit labile?
Erectile? Even penile?
Yes, he must use his every guile,
So she knows not that it cramps his style.
A STROKE OF LUCK
In my early years of swimming training,
I thought the backstroke was the nicest stroke to do.
The breaststroke took up too much energy,
By the time that I was through.
On the other hand, the backstroke was much easier in fact,
Cause all I needed doing was to wave my arms, while lying on my back.
As I grew into my teens, however, I quickly changed my mind,
And must admit I liked the breaststroke over any other kind.
And growing even older, as an adult I will attest,
That over any other stroke, I still prefer the breast.
Mother's milk is far superior to any other kind,
It's always right in front of you, and never far behind.
It's healthier, more nutritious,
And inexpensive I've been told,
And you don't have to own an icebox,
In which to keep it cold.
You do not need a goat or cow to dirty up your yard,
And you'll end up being better off,
Without the cream, without the lard.
You'll have no bottles to return,
No money, no retainers,
But what you will have when it's gone,
Are two wonderful containers.
With age I would expect my wedding bed,
To double as my wetting bed.
It will stay there like a big Depends,
Just beneath my body and my head.
I need not move, I just need lie there,
And pee right in my bed,
And wait while someone feeds and changes me instead.
I doubt if you will visit me,
Or even join me for a drink,
Cause I know Depends that are so big,
Will surely raise a stink.
But if you will wait just long enough,
'Til you're as old as I,
You'll forget about the problem,
And will stay with me nearby.
We will sit there both together,
As a friend stays by a friend,
On that great white cloud in heaven,
On the one we can depend.
We will eat and drink together,
Have a lot of fun,
Share a little milk,
And perhaps a jellied bun.
And I will bet that those around us,
I have a little hunch,
Will say, twas just our brains and bladders,
They were out to lunch.
A woman is a work of art,
She has been from the very start,
She cares for all that hover round her,
She is indeed a bleeding heart.
Her breasts, her nipples and her navel,
Her hair, her smile, her lips, her eyes,
All that men desire,
And that which lies between her thighs.
There's a certain sensitivity that she does possess,
I will tell you of it soon,
But for now I'll let you guess.
Those certain times, those periods of her life,
When she suffers anxiousness,
When she suffers strife.
It's those times one cannot reason with her,
It's those times that man must stay away,
It's those times he must have patience,
And come another day to play.
I think by now you know,
When she's suffering from frustration,
Yes, you guessed it,
It happens every month,
While she's waiting for menstruation.
Women tend to blame us men for all the problems they can see.
They will do it without thinking quite objectively.
Mental distress, ménage à trois, menarche and menstrual
premenstrual tension, menorrhagia, and anything that seems to go.
Hypermenorrhea, menopause, Mendel's law and amenorrhea,
Women's wear, bad women's hair, and everything but diarrhea.
I'm sorry now I mentioned it, I know it's all mendacious,
It's a shame, and I'll regret it, just for being so loquacious.
All poems copyright 1998, 1999 qnd 2001 Michael Abramson
You name your price when you
commission him to write poems for you at www.poeticalways.com