Category Archives: funny poetry

Mac and Cheese

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I dedicate this poem to my ultimate chef friends Dolly
and Gordon, hard as it may be for them to bear.

Mac and Cheese

“Melt butter in a saucepan over medium heat; stir in flour, salt, and pepper until smooth, about 5 minutes. Slowly pour milk into butter-flour mixture while continuously stirring until mixture is smooth and bubbling, about 5 minutes. Add Cheddar cheese to milk mixture and stir until cheese is melted, 2 to 4 minutes.”

I found the recipe on my Mac
for noodles swathed in creamy Jack.
I bought the cheese. Grated it up,
dreaming of when I would sup.
I was tenacious with the grater.
Nobody holds a cheese block straighter!
And I was forthright in each thrust,
for tiny cheese curls are a must.

I mixed the flour in melted butter,
watched the whole mess spit and sputter.
Added pepper, salt and flour.
Stirred for what seemed like an hour.
Added the milk in rapid whirls,
and then poured in the cheesy curls.
Round and and round and round it went.
Turned down the stove, turned on the vent.

Boiled the noodles until tender.
Then, when it was time to render
cheese to noodles, asked my crony
just to drain the macaroni.
But, as he was headed back,
his arm collided with my Mac,
flipping it into the cheese
with such artistry and ease

that for a moment it looked to me
as part of the whole recipe.
But cheese on Mac of Apple kind
is not quite what I had in mind.
My Mac expired in smoke and sparking.
Dogs ran in with joyful barking
to lap up congealing cheese
from counter, stove front, floor and knees.

Cheese, computer, pan and noodle—
I tossed the whole kit and kaboodle
out the window into the grass
where dogs and cats and ants en masse
ate their fill until they popped,
while I wiped and scoured and mopped.
(I doubt that you could find my match
at scrubbing up a cheesy patch.)

But if you need a recipe
for Mac and Cheese, don’t count on me.
Though boiling noodles I learned by heart,
I fear I flunked the whole “Mac” part.


Prompt words were match, forthright, tenacious and noodle. Here are links:
https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/05/07/rdp-tuesday-match/
https://fivedotoh.com/2019/05/07/fowc-with-fandango-forthright/
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/05/07/your-daily-word-prompt-tenacious-may-7-2019/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/05/07/noodle/

Chocolate!

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My talented singer/songwriter friend Christine Anfossie has just sent me the musical version of a poem I published earlier on my blog.  Here, again, is that poem and below is her musical rendition!  Love it.

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Chocolate

You’re being good and I am not.
I broke my diet and got caught.
I’d have resisted if I could,
but chocolate cake just looked so good.

I bought a piece, not a whole cake.
I thought a meal of it I’d make.
But now you feel you must rebut
my obvious need for chocolate.

Will you soon go? It’s getting late,
and there’s this chocolate on my plate.
And though I know it’s impolite,
the chances that I’ll share are slight.

Of your smug lecture I’ve had enough
and now it’s my turn to be tough.
If you must fall from your high throne
and dine on cake, go buy your own!

Click on the URL below to hear the musical version of my poem.  Thanks, Christine!

International Date Lines

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International Date Lines

Italian guys are sexy,  but pasta makes me fat.
When a Scots boy served me haggis, had to hide it in my hat.
I had a Japanese boyfriend, but I gagged while eating sushi.
French crepes don’t suit my fancy. I find them bland and squooshy.
Foreign dates? I’ve had enough to man a whole battalion,
and so long as I take care that I’m not dating an Italian,
I’ve found that when I’m traveling and have a need to guy it,
it’s a perfect opportunity for sticking to my diet!

The Ragtag Prompt today is Italian.

“Set to Music” Naughty Little Pleasures

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My talented friend Christine Anfossie just surprised me with a musical rendition of my poem “Naughty Little Pleasures,” a poem I wrote for day 1 of NaPoWriMo 2018. If  you’d like to hear it, click on the arrow below:

https://grieflessons.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/naughty-pleasures-new-2.wav

If you like to read along, here is the poem again:

Naughty LIttle Pleasures

Naughty little pleasures, secret little games—
they are our private treasures, these solitary shames.
We never can admit them to family or friends,
for fear that doing so would  bring about their ends.
Childhood is when our private pleasure starts—
not stifling our sneezes or holding back our farts.
Eating the last cupcake or hiding Grandpa’s teeth.
Watching skirts on windy days to see what’s underneath.
Torturing sister’s Barbie Dolls and kidnapping her bears.
Reading Daddy’s magazines underneath the stairs.
Guzzling ice cream from the carton and milk right from the spout.
Opening sister’s love letters to see what they’re about.
Telling mom you’ll help her because she’s running late,
then licking all the cookies you’re putting on the plate.
If being perfect were more fun, then probably we would,
but there’s little pleasure in always being good.

NaPoWriMo

Dianne Hicks Morrow/ Day 3, NaPoWriMo

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My friend Dianne Hicks Morrow is doing the NaPoWriMo challenge this year but doesn’t have a blog, so I asked if I could post her List poem here and she agreed.  Fun.  We were asked to make a list of imaginary “somethings” and then to make a poem of them.

Harlequin Detective Novels—Day 3 NaPoWriMo

Tit for Tat
Smell a Rat
Ballarat
Vallarta
Your Hearta
Must Go On
Swan Song
An Inch, A Mile
A Crooked Smile
A Stricken Heart
A Sickened Tart
She’s Too Smart
For Her Own Good
Life in the ‘Hood
The Purple Snood
The Cost of Rude
No Golden Rule
The Champagne Pool
Make Me Drool
Make Me Droll
Make Me, Doll
Make Me
Then Again Maybe Not

Hard to Teach
Beyond Her Reach
Bongo Beach
The Peach
The Screech
Snorkel Empire
Crossed Whale Lovers
What Angelfish Know
Beware the Stingray

Capsized by Desire
Stoking the Funeral Pyre
Wisdom of the Dolphin
Beyond the Lace Veil
Beneath the Bed
Dust Bunnies on the Easter Rabbit
Single Men Swim Free
Beyond Wrinkles
The Death of Spider Veins
Listless in Seattle

—Dianne Hicks Morrow’s wild mind for 10 minutes this morning
For NaPoWriMo list poem prompt.

A Veterinarian’s Decree

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Bentley, Bearcat and Patti. bouncers extraordinnaire

A Veterinarian’s Decree

Gram for gram, ounce for ounce,
a kitten has the greatest bounce.
Every ruffle, every flounce
is an excuse to leap and pounce.
That’s why I’m driven to denounce
their misbehavior and announce,
no longer will I handle kittens
unless garbed in protective mittens!

For dVerse Poets, the quadrille prompt word is “bounce.”

Rhyming Violation

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The prompt word today is rhyme.

 

Rhyming Violation

There is a reason and a rhyme
to the word they chose this time.
For though I am not in my prime
and don’t play tennis, do not climb
or stoop too low to conquer grime,
In any terrain, any clime,
my mind spins like a twirling dime.
If over-rhyming were a crime,
I’d probably be doing time.

 

(If you are a glutton for punishment, yes, you can click on these to enlarge them.)

 

Prattle Practice

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DSC09337Whenever my older sister’s friend Karen came over to spend the night with her, she’d bring her Bonnie Braids doll to sleep with me.  It kept me out of their hair and gave me someone to talk to.  Perhaps it established a precedent? When I went to visit her in Minneapolis 60 years later, she still had Bonnie.  Here, we reminisce. She still lets me do all the talking.

Prattle Practice

I don’t have any roommates since I lost my spouse,
so I chew the fat with animals and objects in my house.
“How did you get way over there?” I mumble to a spoon.
I converse with my potted plants, complete with off-key tune.
Sometimes I jolt myself awake, talking in my dreams.
What I have to say at least I want to hear, it seems.
I’ve had a conversation with the sidewalk, face-to-face.
I’ll have another talk with it once they remove this brace.

I hold my kittens in a trance by talking in their ears,
and though they do not answer in the manner of my peers,
they have their personal language of meows and purrs and squeaks.
While I speak back in high-pitched tones like baby talk for freaks!
I hope the neighbors have not heard as I advise the trees
 to only shed their debris on their own lawns, if they please. 
I sometimes gripe to flowers that they are too soon dying
and to potatoes in the pan that are too slowly frying.

I grumble to my router and cold water from the tap.
Soundly, I upbraid them in my own domestic rap.
I talk to nestlings from below as they cheep from their nest,
but, dive-bombed by the mother bird, I give our chat a rest.
When I prattle to the furniture, the cook pots and the cactus
in lieu of human company, in fact it is just practice.
All my other blatherings just keep me there on track
for when I meet with human folks who no doubt will talk back!

 

Don’t know where else this photo of the Bonnie/Judy reunion would ever fit in so here it goes into fun photos, along with the poem I wrote to go with it.

Five Days after the Accident

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This little fella has graced the dash of every car I’ve had in Mexico for the past 16 years. Soon he’ll have a new home.

Five Days after the Accident

I am infused with happiness—the most I’ve felt for days—
and hereby I announce that I have shed my dormant phase.
Since my poor car was murdered, I’ve been in isolation,
but now it seems I’m free again and feeling great elation.

I went five days without a car, just stayed at home to heal
while friends did all my shopping. One even brought a meal!
But now I can get groceries, take Morrie for his grooming,
rested from five days at home. Relaxed from all this wombing.
Now that I’ve got wheels again, I have no need to fret.
Simply alive and mobile is as good as you can get!!!

The prompt today was “infuse.”

dVerse Writers: The Ballad of Henry and Ruth

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The prompt was to write a poem in a certain musical style.  This tale is heart-rending in a typical late-50’s, early-60’s style. If you were alive and paying attention during that era, you should be able to put a tune to it:

The Ballad of Henry and Ruth

Before she met him at the candy store,
her days were empty and her life was a bore;
but when he offered her his Jujyfruits,
in just a moment they were in cahoots.
He was the drummer in a R&R band.
Down all 5th Avenue, he held her hand.
She felt his pulse beat pump a sweet love tune
and knew he’d be her Sugar Daddy soon.

Chorus:
Yes she met him at the candy store,
between the sucker rack and front screen door.
He nearly tripped over her Mary Janes
and crashed into a rack of Candy Canes.
The Double Bubble and the Tootsie Roll Pops
collided with the mints and lemon drops.
Their love was written in the moon and stars,
but realized beneath the Hershey Bars!

Oh Henry, she was crooning, and much more.
He loved this Bit O’ Honey down to the core.
Shifted his Firestick and they went for a ride
his Baby Ruth snuggled right up to his side.
She cried, “Oh, Henry!” as they hit the Mounds,
poppin’ wheelies as they did the rounds.
He was no Slo-Poke, tell you here and now,
so as he swerved to miss a big Black Cow,

The car rolled over on its Rollo Bars
crashing into six  more hot rod cars.
“Atomic Fireball” said the words on his car.
Now how appropriate those two words are.
100 Grand it costs him on Payday
so he’ll be working every night and day—
his Red Hot mama working by his side,
for now his Sweet Tart is his blushing bride.

Repeat Chorus:

Just in case you weren’t around way back then, I’ve italicized the names of the candy bars and hard candies of the era. Sorry for ruining the fun of those of you familiar with the times. I know.  It’s pretty bad, but that, too, was typical of the songs of the era.

This poem suits today’s dVerse prompt so well, that I have to submit it again, two years after its first appearance!

This poem is written to a prompt at dVerse Writers.