The Never Ending Hug

Dada, I never want this hug to end. No offense to mama, but your wedding anniversary celebrates the birth of our family together to. Sure, I was still in mama’s super snug womb at the time. And mama was barely showing at the wedding. And I wasn’t born for another six months but still.

I never want this hug to end. I can’t imagine such a snuggly, fun filled life without you in it Dada. I know we don’t have a normal family with you being an unemployed stay at home comedian and host of the Do It All Dad Year Podcast. And I know I give you grief about having a sharing banked account with mommy because you don’t make money anymore. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I know your comedy train is bound for Benjamin producing glory Dada. Especially, if you start having me do more on your Do It All Dad Year Podcast than just intros for it. Can I get a hallah for some Challah? Funnier dad, happier, babies. I’m living proof of it.

I never want this hug to end Dada. Don’t mind mama. She’s got baby Samuel, Instagram and Arthur to entertain her. Plus, I know she’s not complaining about that super spicy Zin you got for your eight year wedding anniversary. I can’t wait to try a sip. Old Vine Zins are only made in America like Canadian comic millionaires like Rick Moranis, right Dada?

I never want this hug to end Dada. I know your new friend resolution is to find an editor to become the best friend you never had besides me of course. So he can become your most vocal backer, reign in your super intense, outrageous personality and make sure your humor book about modern fatherhood as an Unemployed Comedian/Father of 3 becomes a best seller Dada. If it sells, it’s art. I remember Dada. Can I sell our family drawings at your books signings at the Barnes and Noble in Union Square? I’ll use plenty of magenta and purple haze in honor of Jimi to make sure our family pic really pop like the left handed genius at Monterey.

I never want this hug to end Dada. You already call me eight foot 2. Insisting I put on undies the sec I get out of the tub. So the Chinese Underworld has less to see. You say I’m going to outgrow wanting to hang out with you every sec before I know it. And no longer give you unexpected pecs on your cheek in your writing office, my future room next year by the way in case you forgot already. A deal is a deal Dada.

So keep on banging out chapters and more jokes for The Stay At Home Comedian, Dada. I know you’re going to make it a comedic masterpiece. I hear your train coming daddy. And pretty soon you’re going to buy this town. And you’re going to buy this town. And you’ll put it all in your funny man clown shoes. That’s what you’re going to do. That’s what’s you’re going do. Happy 8th Wedding Anniversary Dada. But make sure mama doesn’t polish off the Zin so fast and hook up your better half already.

Michael Kornbluth

A Son’s Love

A son’s love is God’s way of saying, I’m on your team.

A son’s love urges you to become a famous children’s author but funnier than Weird Al.

A son’s love is an unexpected hug from behind when you’re on the ground cleaning up after him.

A son’s love spoils you rotten because your tolerance for petty, passive aggressive behavior from lesser Alpha males becomes significantly less.

A son’s love makes you feel like a winner inside because you know he believes in your enormous upside.

A son’s love allows you to relive your childhood through more mature lens and start reteaching yourself the proper way to hold a pen.

A son’s love is a natural transfer of extreme joy. Assuming you’re raising your boys on more than just soy.

A son’s love is a 2nd chance at respectable redemption because abstaining from all hard booze at home for them does wonders for your complexion.

A son’s love never ceases to amaze like endless repeating viewings of Richard Linklater’s Dazed.

A son’s love makes you incredibly proud, especially when they deliver such A plus nicknames in your honor like “Always Loud.”

A son’s love makes you feel luckier than Lou Gehrig on earth. Batting behind Babe Ruth every playoff-birth.

A son’s love means I’ll silence the next guy who tells my son to shut up in a scoff because his head will be knocked right off.

Michael Kornbluth

When The Children Laugh

I should’ve called this poem “When My Children Laugh” because a stay at home comedian doesn’t get out much really.

And I don’t have as much experience making other kids laugh despite my propensity to deliver funny silly.

This Stay At Comedian used to live for adult laughter yet when the children laugh it touches you deeper forever after.

When my kids laugh, it grips my heart and pops it out of my chest like the voodoo doctor from Temple of Doom. Ok not my analogous best.

All 3 kids of mine have beautiful laughs of their own. Each one beaming with expansive, fun filled color like a new age hipster made Snow Cone.

My 4 year son now quotes me. Funnier dad, happier baby. Now that’s supposed to be funny Carol from LinkedIn, not maybe.

When the children laugh at your inspired ad-libbery, the comedy gods smile down the way they do at hysterical resistors who still support Hillary.

When the children laugh, it means they’re not jaded inside or in trouble of developing a rough hide.

I don’t want my kids to develop thick skin so fast. Because no age of innocence lasts.

I still listen to Hair Metal ballads of old because I long to touch the old with laughter. I refuse to fold.

Despite a mother who insists I dump my son off to daycare. So I can become a Garbage Man. Slinging shit for a living is some family plan.

No, shooting for shit isn’t my life motto. My 3 kids look up to me like I’m a comedy giant who hit the lotto.

I refuse to leave my 3 kids behind for a desk job in the city. Never writing my book the Stay At Home Comedian would be a pity.

This Stay At Comedian is bound for literary glory. F the stand up comedy roadshow. I’m here to stay. To do the writing I want, when I want in any which way.

My new friend resolution was to befriend an editor who can change my life for the better. I better get cracking on banging out those query letters.

Fight hard to stay at home writing in your happiness kids bubble. Where specs of grey in your beard are perceived as a comedic sage man stubble.

This White Lion lightens up when the children laugh. I must make a living off laughs because I suck at math.

Michael Kornbluth

In My Kids Lifeless Room

Without brother and sister in it. It feels bare.

Stripped of all imaginary play talk to fill the air.

Matilda not playing honey in there with Arthur feels incomplete.

Like their beds normally made or the room remaining neat.

Cloud chair jumping is put on hold.

Without them, the room is static, empty and old.

No more Arthur saying. Dad, get out of my room.

I’m grown up now, so zoom.

Matilda isn’t around to feel up dad’s beard before she goes to sleep.

Like Kurt Russell’s hair, her emotive, oohing and ahhing to this runs quite deep.

I see Arthur in his bed without a worry wrinkle in sight.

Looking extra angelic as I tuck him in already asleep at night.

Matilda, now known as 10 in 3 years will soon outgrow her bunk.

Or break it from scaling her ladder with such forceful funk.

My lifeless kids room longs to reunite.

With my 2 precious children. Who give it such beautiful light.

Micahel Kornbluth