Category Archives: Humor

The Yellow Dress

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The Yellow Dress

When she wears it, worlds collide.
Men collect on either side.
Women seek her company.
Children seek to grace her knee.

Potentates, senators, kings
bring her necklaces and rings.
Scholars write her name in books.
Jealous women exchange looks.

There is hardly anything
that nature does not seek to bring.
Winds blow harder, streams divert
when she wears that saffron skirt.

The very heavens note where she went.
Tsunamis curl, volcanoes vent.
Soldiers line up to parade.
Mimes begin their mute charade.

Actors emote better to
this goddess in her sunny hue.
Mourning doves just bill and coo.
Old boyfriends seek her out anew.

Yet as she stands before her glass,
surveying both her front and ass,
her mate says, “Are you wearing that?”
and she surmises she looks too fat.

As she changes into basic black,
the lava cools, the seas hold back.
Her suitors cease their clamoring press.
She does not wear the yellow dress.

 

The dVerse Poets prompt was lemon yellow.

Puddle-Jumping for RDP, May 22, 2025

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Puddle-Jumping

Raindrops fall and splat and skitter,
bringing sheen and gloss and glitter.
In my dreams I hear them falling,
try to wake to heed their calling.
When exactly do I know
it’s time to leave my bed and go
outside to splash in rain-filled gutters,
ignoring Grandpa’s warning mutters
that I’ll catch a cold today
if I go outside to play?

He says it’s raining cats and dogs,
but all I find outside are frogs,
proving his idiom a lie
as nothing’s falling from the sky
but rain and blossoms from the tree
that stretches its limbs over me.
I make my way, laborious,
through mud and goo most glorious,
then reach the ditch and wash feet off
in the rushing water trough.

I see Grandpa watching me,
warm and dry and splatter-free.
But then he’s gone, no doubt to see
what’s playing now on the TV.
But, just as it begins to pour,
there’s Grandpa coming out the door!
Barefooted, he jumps in my puddle,
gives my shoulders a warm cuddle,
then repeats the old refrain
that this day is “Right as rain!”

For RDP the prompt is Gloss

“Tell Me A Story” (New Prompt. Please Participate!!)

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Can you furnish a better story for this photo for me? HERE is the pingback to include with your post to make sure we all see it.

Short Short Story

No place for a nap could be crasser or baser.
It’s clear that that beer was simply a chaser.
Overly tired, three sheets to the wind,
I think that this fellow is overly ginned!

What Ever Happened to Bobby Jerry? For Six Word Saturday

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I was going through my computer erasing duplicate files and found about 12 copies of this  letter my four year old sister Patti sent to my mother when she was in the hospital after having me. She dictated the letter to my 11 year old sister. A bit of a puzzle because she says she celebrated her birthday the day before so it must have been July 10 when she wrote it and I was born on July 3. Did they keep new mothers in the hospital for a week after delivery back then? At any rate, I love these lines, especially “I am glad I have a baby brother. I want to name it Bobby Jerry. Not Hazel! I don’t like that! (She had heard my dad say jokingly that if they had a girl, he wanted to name her Hazel.  Patti insisted I was a boy right up to the day they brought me home.

I also like the lines, “Oh, bumble bees is on flower to flower today,” and “a rose is getting purty good today.I am getting purty good today!”

I’m just surprised at the handwriting as Betty Jo, who wrote it for her, had immaculate handwriting by the time she was in high school.  I wonder if she wrote it in the car on the way to the hospital to pick my mom and me up. The nearest hospital was 60 miles from where we lived.

I can’t find a photo of Patti when she was four, but here we are when I was five or six and she was nine or ten. 

And, the plot thickens, for  70 year later, when I flew to St. Louis to visit Forgottenman, he met me at the airport with this sign!

IMG_1708IMG_1709

Last Straw for SOCS, May 17, 2025

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Last Straw

I’d make conversation but my upper plate
seems to be grinding my lower of late.
I fear there’s a fissure that’s preventing their matching
and somehow my back teeth just seem to be catching
and locking which creates a problem in chewing,
so eating’s another thing I won’t be doing.

I’m bungling everything done by my jaws.
At talking and eating I’m taking a pause.
For now I’ll just listen and watch you eat pie.
If you give me a straw, I’ll simply get by
by sipping my tea and nodding my head
in avid agreement with everything said.

I could have stayed home and stared at the wall,
but I couldn’t face not seeing y’all,
so I will just sit here and soak in the news,
forsaking my own chance to thrill and amuse.
Until I’ve seen my dentist, you’ll just have to wait
for the juicy story I was going to relate!

The SOCS prompt this week is “straw.”

For Fibbing Friday, May 16, 2025

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For Fibbing Friday, the task at hand is:

1. What is pilau rice?  One grain of your rice
2. What are eggs benedict? Why ask him? I can tell you that they are items laid by chickens to produce more chickens or omelettes.
3. What is a souffle? A slight altercation
4. What is baked Alaska?  Summer in Juneau
5. What is crème brulee? Coffee served with dairy and a flower necklace.
6. What is a victoria sponge? An English birth control device
7. What is a raspberry roulade? Something that helps one set up regulations for Driscoll’s.
8. What is cannoli ? A small canister
9. What is kamaboko?  A security/surveillance system in a library
10. What are sweetbreads? Humans genetically engineered to have kind dispositions.

 

“Barstool Bombast” May 15, 2025

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Curling her palms around her usual potion, Robin tried to seal her ears to the bombastic recitations of the exploits of the geriatric uni-cyclist seated on a barstool to her right. Friday afternoon club was less fun in one’s seventies.

The words for “Can You Tell A Story In––” are: Curl, Potion, Robin, Uni–cycle and Bombast, and the word limit is 40 words:

No Sympathy, for MVB, May 10, 2025

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No Sympathy

I fear I’m barely lucid, for digestion dominates.
I’ve just had a sumptuous banquet of pork shank, rice and dates.
I know it’s fairly common to gorge and then complain,
yet I’m sure that the world’s hungry would gladly share our pain.

 

For MVB the prompt is Banquet.

For Fibbing Friday, May 9, 2025

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Iggy Pop

For Fibbing Friday, the words to redefine are:

1.   Poggers: Female members of Edgar Alan’s fan club.
2.   Simp: Bart’s father. (Bart is Simp son) 
3.   Bussin: What you be doing if you run out of money to buy gas for your car.
4.   Delulu: DeTubby’s little friend
5.   Gucci: The vital life force or flowing energy that makes one a successful mud-wrestler.
6.   Vibing: What Canadian geese are doing when they fly in formation.
7.   Rizz: What they eat with red beanzz in New Orleans.
8.   Cheugy: Nickname for a wrestler known for biting his opponents.
9.   Booed up: What they label a ghost who is all stoked up for Halloween.
10. Beige Flag: What be Mr. Pop’s banner. 

 

 

“Sing” for SOCS If Only I Could Play Guitar, May 3, 2025

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The bromeliads looked perfect in the Oriental lacquer cup in front of the guitar,

If Only I Could Play Guitar

At times when now I only hum,
I’d pull out my guitar and strum;
and by the time that I’d be done,
completing my last pluck and run,
perhaps whoever sees and hears
would be reduced to sobs and tears
by every perfect tone and note,
the sentiments that I emote,
and tender lyrics that they knew
because of course I wrote them, too.

But I would be so humble still,
(my hubris would be less than nil)
that when they laud me at the Grammys,
I’ll be home curled up in my jammies—
still unaffected by my fame,
astonished at my new acclaim!

And when Bob Dylan asks me if
I’d like to come and share a riff,
of course I will not turn him down.
In spite of all my new renown,
I’ll take the time to show him some
new ways I’ve found to pick and strum.

Mick Jagger would hang out with me
(and Leo Kottke, probably.)
We’d get together to sing and jam.
The whole world would know who I am!
My fame would spread to presidents
and queens and Knob Hill residents.
I’d be so busy that I fear
my writing would fall in arrears.
I might forget to feed my dog,
forsake my friends, neglect my blog.

So all things taken to account,
as negatives begin to mount,
and though I know that I’d go far
should I decide to play guitar,
I’ve penned a note unto myself,
“Put that guitar back on the shelf!!!”

For SOCS the prompt is “sing.”