Category Archives: Comedy

Unstarched

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Unstarched

My ladies writing group is classy—never crass or gaudy.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I found they can be bawdy!
Just one impromptu potluck and a few bottles of wine
turned their metaphoric minds to matters far less fine.
For Jenny had just mentioned that a friend had lately lent her
a rather naughty film that nonetheless had really sent her
off into the paroxysms of unbridled laughter—
the kind that take you wave-on-wave and leave you aching after.
I’d been needing that for months—my life had been sedate
since my old gang had moved away and left me to my fate
of no last-minute games of train and late-night jubilation,
for though I still have good friends here, I lack that combination
of friends that I enjoy who all enjoy each other, too,
enough to create silliness to make my nights less blue.

“Bad Grandpa” was the film we watched, and though I must admit
I watched behind spread fingers for at least a fifth of it,
still the antics had us all just rolling on the floor
—starting with a snicker and then ending with a roar.
Scatology is not my thing, nor are pratfalls or shtick,
yet still I must admit to you, I got a real big kick
from this film filled with all of them, and so did all the others;
so as we watched, it felt like we were all sisters and brothers.
And as they left, I think we knew we’d shared a priceless treasure,
for there’s nothing that unites us like a mutual guilty pleasure!

The Prompt: When was the last time you watched something so scary, cringe-worthy, or unbelievably tacky — in a movie, on TV, or in real life — you had to cover your eyes?

Ocean Rental

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Ocean Rental

Her towel is spread out on the beach, the cat is on the stoop.
The housewife sips her coffee while her husband sips his soup.
There are advantages to houses built upon the sand.
You do not have to leave your porch to get expertly tanned.
You dine on tuna every day that never has been canned.
When fishermen jerk in their fish and they happen to land
upon your porch, you eat them either cooked or sushi-raw.
The fisherman cannot complain, you see it is the law.
And that is how you know what hubby shoves into his face
is probably not vichyssoise, but rather bouillabaisse

The Prompt: An Odd Trio—Today, you can write about whatever you what — but your post must include, in whatever role you see fit, a cat, a bowl of soup, and a beach towel.

Daily Post: The Avid Student

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Today’s Prompt:  You can choose any person from history to teach you any topic you want. Who’s your teacher, and what do they teach you?

The Avid Student

Mrs. O’Leary, teach me how
please oh please, to milk a cow.
I won’t leave here till you do.
I’m bored today, and feeling blue.
Yesterday I baked a cake
with that new baker, name of Jake.
It didn’t rise.  It tasted awful.
Couldn’t eat but one small jaw full.
Day before I went to see
Joe the tailor.  Him and me
made a dress of chambray lace
but when I held it near my face
I found it itched me terrible.
To wear it was unbearable.
So I went on to see the preacher.
Wanted him to be my teacher.
But when it came the time to pray,
he found he hadn’t much to say.
I fear that I destroyed his faith.
I left him white as any wraith,
but found the cobbler in a pew
and asked him how to make a shoe.
He’d witnessed what the preacher did
and so he ran away and hid.
So Mrs. O’Leary, it’s up to you
to show me something I can do.
I know it’s dark, but I need right now
to know just how you milk your cow.
I brought a lantern.  I’ll hold it high.
It’s not real light, but we’ll get by.
I’ll just sit on this straw bale.
You fetch the cow and fetch the pail.
I love the way the hot milk steam
swirls around the rising cream.
I love the rhythm and the pomp
of my light squeeze and Bessie’s stomp
whenever I let loose her tit.
I cannot get enough of it!
But now we’re done and I can see
that bucket’s much too much for thee
to lift,  I’ll put the lantern down and
come with thee to give a hand.
I’ll come right back and close the barn.
Tomorrow, I’ll have quite a yarn
for everyone I want to tell
I finally did something well!!!!

For those of you unacquainted with Mrs. O’Leary, I include this description of The Great Chicago Fire of 1871:

“The summer of 1871 was very dry, leaving the ground parched and the wooden city vulnerable. On Sunday evening, October 8, 1871, just after nine o’clock, a fire broke out in the barn behind the home of Patrick and Catherine O’Leary at 13 DeKoven Street. How the fire started is still unknown today, but an O’Leary cow often gets the credit.

The firefighters, exhausted from fighting a large fire the day before, were first sent to the wrong neighborhood. When they finally arrived at the O’Leary’s, they found the fire raging out of control. The blaze quickly spread east and north. Wooden houses, commercial and industrial buildings, and private mansions were all consumed in the blaze.

After two days, rain began to fall. On the morning of October 10, 1871, the fire died out, leaving complete devastation in the heart of the city. At least 300 people were dead, 100,000 people were homeless, and $200 million worth of property was destroyed. The entire central business district of Chicago was leveled. The fire was one of the most spectacular events of the nineteenth century, and it is recognized as a major milestone in the city’s history.”

Poems by Prescription

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Yesterday I promised to write a poem about the best topic presented to me by “readers.” Four were proposed, but I can’t remember the fourth, so if you proposed one and I’ve neglected you, please submit it again. I can’t promise to always write about all topics submitted, but this time I did—well, with the exception of one.

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“Sisterly Squabbles”

A little weep, a little sigh,
a little teardrop in each eye.

Grandma Jane and her sister Sue,
one wanted one hole, the other, two

punched into their can of milk.
(All their squabbles were of this ilk.)

The rest, of course, is family fable.
They sat, chins trembling, at the table.

When my dad entered, we’ve all been told,
their milk-less coffee had grown cold.

*(Prompt by Patti Arnieri)

“Take a Walk and Tell about It”

Straight out my bedroom door would be a doozie.
I’d end up right in my Jacuzzi  !!!

* (Prompt by Tamara Mitchell)

“Friends”

If not my friend
to the end,
you might a’ been a me
lifelong enemy.

*(Prompt by Patty Martin)

 

 

 

NaPoWriMo Day 30: Ciao, Adios, Auf Wiedersehen, Adieu

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Ciao, Adios, Auf Wiedersehen, Adieu

To NaPoWriMo we must say
a fond “Goodbye” on this last day.
I‘m able to, for I have found
the strength to say it the whole world round.

When I was young, I traveled far
from Germany to Zanzibar.
Australia, Bali, France and Spain,
to Africa and back again.

And though I mostly loved them all,
from Venice to the Taj Mahal,
as my departure time grew nigh
I had to voice a sad goodbye.

To Ethiopia I strayed.
For eighteen months I stayed and stayed;
and when I had to leave too soon,
I had to say “dehena hun.”

In college days, when I was young,
German was my foreign tongue;
but when to Frankfurt wir mussten gehen
I just remembered, “Auf Wiedersehen.”

The French were rude and cold and snotty.
They mocked my accent and were haughty,
so while I had to bid “adieu,”
I’d have preferred to say, “pee-ew.”

Florence thrilled me from the start.
Their lasagna is a work of art.
When I left, they all said, “Ciao.”
Their kitties, though, all said, “Miao.”

I never went to Israel
but nonetheless, I’m proud to tell,
the rabbi books? Read every tome.
So I know how to say “Shalom.”

Though “Arigato” is bound to do
when you want to say thank you,
“Sayonara” is the way to go
to bid farewell in Tokyo.

Bali’s full of dance and art
that treat your eyes and fill your heart.
I must admit, I had a ball
before I said “Selamat tinggal.”

Mexico was saved for last
And now I fear my lot is cast
Since “Adios” I cannot say,
I’ve decided I will stay!

(for the sake of pronunciation, I have taken the liberty of adding an extra “e” to “dehna hun.”)

You might have already guessed that on this last day of the NaPoWriMo challenge, the prompt was to write a farewell poem.

NaPoWriMo Day 26: Pied Beauty II

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Pied Beauty II

Thanks be to Sara Lee for appled things—
For pies, for apple fritters and for thin-rolled strudel crust;
For pastries of the fruit of Eve and sauce it swims within;
Fresh-cooked in ovens, how their sweet juice sings;
The sugar clotted and pierced— place it on plate we must;
And all taste, for how can tackling it be such a sin?

All things made of flour and Crisco and of apples sweet;
(How can they by nutritionists be so sorely cussed
With words professing they won’t make us thin?)
With their tart flavor are sure our lips to meet;
And meet again.

—Judy Dykstra-Brown

Our prompt today was to write a curtal sonnet in the style of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ famous poem “Pied Beauty”. This form consists of a first stanza of six lines followed by a second stanza of five, closing with a half-line. The rhyme scheme is abcabc defdf. I chose to make it a parody of Pied Beauty as well.

And now, the original:

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things –
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

–Gerard Manley Hopkins

 

NaPoWriMo Day 22: I Really Want A Puppy!

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Our prompt today was to write a children’s poem.

I Really Want A Puppy!

All my friends have puppies.
I told my parents that.
(Except for Susie Kramer
who makes do with a cat.)

Our station wagon’s roomy.
A puppy would fit in.
He’d sit at our back window
to see where we have been.

I’d share my whole life with him–
even things I’d do alone.
My pup could smell my pants cuffs
and know everything I’d done.

He’d walk beside me calmly
when we would go for walks
or run ahead and check the road
for rattlesnakes and hawks.

A puppy could be company.
A puppy would be fun.
I know he could protect us
from a burglar with gun.

He’d watch my baby sister
while I go off to school,
but he’d still be my puppy.
That would be the rule!

He’d run with me, play tug rope
and fetch a ball—such fun.
Then sleep upon my pillow
when the day is done.

I really want a puppy.
I need one and can’t wait.
He’ll bark when I get home from school
and meet me at the gate.

When I miss my school bus
and walk home in the rain,
my pup would lick my face dry,
then lick it wet again.

Dad took me to a pet store
to see what puppies cost.
There were so many cages
that he and I got lost.

We saw big dogs and small ones
and hairy dogs and bare.
He asked which one I liked the best.
I said I didn’t care.

“Any dog will do, Dad,
I love them all,” I said,
“Can we just get one? Please, Dad?”
but he just shook his head.

We came home empty-handed
with no dog cuddled there.
Without my mom’s permission,
I knew Dad didn’t dare.

I’ve saved up my allowance
in a Snapple jar,
but Mom says eighty-seven cents
won’t go very far.

Dad promised me a puppy.
Mom said we’d wait and see.
But I know where to find one
that we can get for free!

My dad and I go to the store
to buy me some new sox.
It’s right there on the curbside—
three puppies in a box!

I pick up the curly one
and dad picks up his brother.
The one that’s left begins to cry,
so I pick up another.

Those puppies lick my face wet.
Then lick it dry again.
The other’s licking Dad, whose face
is side-to-side big grin.

He never had a puppy
when he was growing up.
I feel so sorry for him.
It’s my dad who needs a pup!!!

When we get home, Mom asks about
the hours we’ve been away,
but she is only teasing ‘cause
she knows that we won’t say.

It’s Mother’s Day tomorrow
and she knows that we were looking
for flowers or for perfume
or some gadget for her cooking.

Next morning when we all wake up,
she sees the package there;
and she rips right into it
in her robe, with messy hair.

She gives a moan of pleasure
when she sees what is inside.
A soft new robe of fuzzy stuff
with pockets on each side.

She rips her sad old robe off,
modeling her new robe for us.
“It’s just the robe I wanted!
You guys get an A plus–

in gift shopping,” she tells us
and does a little dance;
and when she does, her eyes
look down and give a little glance

at what is still within the box,
in paper nestled there
beneath where her new robe had been—
three little balls of hair.

“Three puppies?” she throws up her hands
and glares at dad and me.
“Three puppies to devour our sox,
chew furniture and pee

upon the rugs? To take for walks
and buy shots for, and food?
For Mother’s Day my mom was surely
in a bad bad mood.

One puppy, then, jumped over
the side of that big box,
and ran right over to me
and tugged at my new sox.

Another one jumped out as well
and grabbed my Dad’s jean cuff.
He picked it up and burrowed into
that dog’s furry ruff.

The third just whined, for it was left
lonely once again.
My mom leaned down, the pup reached up
and licked her on the chin.

My mom’s not mean, just careful,
so she murmured, “What the heck!”
and put its little furry head
right up against her neck.

That puppy burrowed into
Mom’s messy morning hair
and quickly fell asleep again
while it was nestled there.

And that is a true story
of how we came to share
our house with three new puppies
who are still living there.

My curly one is Rosco.
My dad calls his dog Coors.
The third one’s still without a name.
My mom just calls it hers!!

NaPoWriMo Day 21: A New York Sorta Poem

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Today’s prompt was to write a “New York School” poem using the recipe found here. The New York School is the name by which a group of poets that all lived in New York in the 1950s and 1960s. The most well-known members are Frank O’Hara, John Ashbery, and Kenneth Koch. Their poems are actually very different from one another, but many “New York School” poems display a sort of conversational tone, references to friends and to places in and around New York, humor, inclusion of pop culture, and a sense of the importance of art (visual, poetic, and otherwise). Here’s a fairly representative example.

In following the recipe, you can include as many (or as few) of the listed elements as you wish.

(I suggest you click on the hyperlinks above to better understand the poem below—unless you are such a scholar of poetry that you already know what a New York poem is.)

A New York Sorta Poem

Okay, Dear Readers.
Linda Crosfield and Ogginblog and InfiniteZip
and all you poets and internet marketers
out in Cyberspace who deign to visit
my humble blog,
I am lying abed in San Juan Cosala,
Mexico. It is a fresh day and
thermal water spurts and sputters
into my pool.
This is not fucking New York
but neither is it fucking small town South Dakota,
population 700 and more people than trees.
(Pardon me, okcforgottenman, RepoComedy and Brian Marggraf,
since I have grown dependent on these daily prompts,
I am a prisoner to profanity this day, as it
is a vital ingredient of the recipe.)

It is Monday, April 21, 2014—my thirteenth year
in this same house on a mountain
over a dying lake.
Now, I want to ask you, Ann Garcia
and Patti A. and Shawn L. Bird,
have I ever told you about the day
my neighbors streamed down from the hill
to dance on the dome of my house?
Neighbors had complained about children
who had climbed over the wall and walked
up the outside steps to the upstairs patio and then
run up the dome to jump and stomp.
When they ran home to complain to parents,
the parents came, and older brothers and sisters
and an uncle, and in solidarity, they all climbed over the wall
to ascend the dome and dance and stomp and jump up and down,
but the bricks held and the dome did not suffer
as they faced off the neighbor and danced.
This was before I bought the house, when it was
sitting idle, but it was part of my house’s history
that it lived before it began to live my life.

Those children now grown and departed,
only my dog, Frida the Akita, rests or stands barking on that dome
so that she has grown in fame among passersby and
I have become the owner of the “dome dog”
more famous than me, like having a notorious
older brother or sister, I am more a part of her
identity than she mine.
But I digress (with a fine excuse for doing so—part of the
recipe) and would get back to the point
if there were a point other than using
profanity and giving numerous references
to this place as far from New York City as one could get.
(Actually, that in itself is not precisely true. Antarctica
is further away, and probably Katmandu.)
Which is a big coincidence, since the message
that just popped up on my screen is from my friend
Patty, who worked in Antarctica, and so is an authority
on the subject of being far from New York City, but being
born in Wyoming, was an expert on this subject anyway,
from birth. (And coincidentally, again, today is her birthday,
so I wish I could send her a giant macaroon like the ones
we bought at the beach in La Manzanilla just a few weeks ago.)

So dear reader, Brian Moore or Kavalcade Krew,
had you ever heard of New York Poetry and if not,
have you made any sense of what I’ve written so far?
One hour ago, I was sleeping and I, too, had never heard
of this curious genre. Two days ago I awakened
to an earthquake’s vibrations and then today,
I find this weird recipe for poetry awaiting me as a prompt
and I do not know which has been more the more discombobulating of the two.
And dear readers, Lena or eyewillnot cry,
Are you old enough to have heard of Glen Yarbrough
and if you have, would you be surprised to hear
he rearranged my sound system and offered to record
the musical versions of my poetry to include with my book
and would have done so if they hadn’t messed up his
vocal cords in surgery? This is the only famous person
I’ve met in Mexico, except for Barbara Kingsolver
who wrote me a letter in green ink.
Or perhaps I am imagining the color of the ink. I have
that letter somewhere, buried in a file or a pile.

Pop culture I may have to leave out of my poem,
unless you will accept my mention of my poetry group,
The Not Yet Dead Poets. We have three Pops and two
Moms in the group which makes us sound more like
a singing group from the seventies. And in not being
dead, we sing of life. Or I could mention the poetry wall
near the malecón in the pueblo down below. With poetry
all in espanol (which isn’t capitalized in Spanish),
I think I should add a short poem or two in English
(which isn’t capitalized in Spanish, either, so pardon me for inconsistency)
to declare solidarity with Mario Puglisi or Isidro or Eduardo
or any of the other fine artists and poets of San Juan Cosala
who have welcomed me and included me in their shows
for which I am grateful as it makes me just a tad less gringa
and a bit more cabrona, which they assure me is not a
derisive label when spoken in the correct context and tone of voice.

So, robert okaji, fine poet, and Andrea Giang of Cooking with a Wallflower,
are you following this prompt
and, if so, is your poem getting to be as long as mine? I have
this feeling that the real New York poets didn’t have a recipe
to follow and that their poetry was more like discovering
leftovers in the fridge and making whatever they could,
spontaneously.

I feel this poem coming to an end
before all ingredients are added to the brew,
but since there is a tad more room left in my poetry bowl,
I would like to dedicate this puzzling poem
to Robert Creeley, Ron Padgett and Dorothea Lasky;
and to Thom Donovan I say,
“Like most renowned chefs, I imagine you have left one vital ingredient
out of your recipe that you may shine above your imitators
and be the only one able to create a perfect dish.
And so I lay the oddness of this poem and it’s probable failure to congeal,
at your feet, and in doing so, say it’s not my fault.
I followed what instructions you gave.
Perhaps the fault was in the mixing of my metaphors
or my obvious lack of sexual innuendo.
My failure to mention genitals or body parts
or to make drug references, legal or illegal.
Believe me, all of these elements are present in Mexico,
sometimes to an extreme degree, but that being true,
I would state the obvious in mentioning them,
and so I think I’ll pour this conglomeration
into a pan and put it on WordPress and Facebook and Twitter
to bake and then wait to see if it will rise.”

If you have made it this far, please tell me how it
tastes and take a chunk extra to wrap in a napkin
and put under your pillow tonight and perhaps
if I’ve done the recipe right, it will attract a real poem
which you will dream and remember afterwards
and bring into the world.

NaPoWriMo Day 19: Shell Game

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Our prompt today was to take a look at a list of actual sea shell names and to use one or more of them to write a poem inspired by one or more of the names. This is the list of shell names:

 Snout Otter Clam, Strawberry Top, Sparse Dove, False Cup-and-Saucer, Leather Donax, Shuttlecock Volva,  Tricolor Niso, Triangular Nutmeg, Shoulderblade Sea Cat, Striped Engina, Woody Canoebubble, Ghastly Miter, Heavy Bonnet,Tuberculate Emarginula, Lazarus Jewel Box, Unequal Bittersweet, Atlantic Turkey Wig,Peruvian Hat, Incised Moon.

And of course, I had to do more than one.

Shell Game

The Snout Otter Clam
is considered quite glam
with its nose like a stoat
and it’s soggy fur coat.

A Strawberry Top
has a very fine mop,
but when you want to eat it
you need to delete it.

What’s that in your paw sir?
A False Cup-and-Saucer?
I grant it’s amusing
but not made for using.

The Sparse Dove’s so small
you can’t see it at all,
but its bill and its coo
will reveal it to you.

This Shoulderblade Sea Cat
could catch us that mouse
if his shoulders would fit
through the door of our house.

Triangular Nutmeg? A most handy spice
with remarkable flavor and shape that is nice
for additional reasons
than savory seasons.
It won’t roll from the table,
for it is not able.

The Shuttlecock Volva’s
reputation is shot
for a stay-at-home lover
it surely is not.
It goes back and forth
from love three to love four
‘Tis Country Club gossip
amounting to lore.

and now, for the grand finale:

“The” Ride

Dad bought me a Tricolor Niso
though I wanted a Porsche that’s black.
I didn’t know he could be so
gauche and just one of the pack.

The car’s top was green houndstooth vinyl.
It’s body was fuchsia and yellow.
My first ride in it was my final,
for I was a fashionable fellow.

I couldn’t be seen in this auto
lest my reputation be shot
I must explain that my motto
was always that “cool” could be bought.

The dashboard was made of puce plastic
the seats were all tufted and piped.
but what turned me finally spastic
was that the Engina was Striped!!!!

I crashed down the hood and I shouted,
“I cannot be seen in this car!”
Each rule of “sexy” it flouted.
This auto was waaaaay under par.

I sold it and purchased another
that’s top of its line, so they say
and though drive a Porche I’d druther,
I had to go another way.

From now on I’ll avoid all the highways
and go by the water instead.
Take all the rivers and byways
and follow my heart, not my head.

For I traded that abomination
for a top-of-the line that can float.
And the name of this lovely creation—
is the Woody Canoebubble boat!!!