Category Archives: humorous poem

“Girls” Night Out

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“Girls” Night Out

Mary Tyler Moore, Working Girl and I Love Lucy—
 film nights with the ladies are usually juicy.
Although we’re staying in, all that’s tucked in must be outed.
All those mumbled gripes now brought to light and shouted.
Pulling out the bobby pins to let the chignons flow.
Kicking off the heels to wiggle arch and toe.
Slipping off the panty hose, loosening top buttons.
Gorging on potato chips and dip like teenage gluttons.
Drinking margaritas, martinis and mojitos.
Pepperidge Farm and popcorn, ice cream and Doritos.
When old dames get together, pull out all the stops.
Banish all the dust cloths. Lock up all the mops.
Rip up all the lists and turn them to confetti.
Break out the lasagne. Break out the spaghetti.
Fill the crystal bowls with M&Ms and truffles.
Ban antimacassars, doilies, tucks and ruffles.
Bring out your old 8-tracks and your 45’s.
Forget that you are mothers, grandmothers and wives.
Better shake your booties while they still can shake.
Better come alive while still able to wake.
Time enough for normalcy when you’re ninety-six.
When you’re only seventy, you’ve still got some kicks.
Leave your spouses home staring at their football games—
vicariously living while you’re out being dames.
It’s your secret life, for no one needs to know
everything you do and everywhere you go.
Let the whole world think you’re in there playing bridge
while you are jitterbugging and emptying out the fridge.
It’s more fun when it’s secret, so promise not to tell
when old girls get together and raise a little Hell!!!!

The prompt today was juicy.

Diddly Squat


Diddly Squat

Every language must be fraught
with words most definitely not
the loveliest to human ear.
They are the ones we hate to hear,
like crotch and bunion, scab and clot,
chunk or fetid, honk and rot;
but in my mind, the worst we’ve got—
the very ugliest—is “squat.”
The one who coined this word must be
the one gone down in history
for inventing the least lovely word
since phlegm or curdle, moist or turd.
Yet, how more perfect could one word be
to describe us when we bend each knee
and sit with heels pressed to our rear
close to the ground, perhaps, to peer
at insects crawling through the grass
while lucky others peruse our ass?
And so, despite its ugly sound,
no better word could ever be found
to name that pose wherein we bend
to expose our worst side to the wind.

The prompt word today was squat.

Unfairly Defined

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Unfairly Defined

Not really cold and not too hot—
“lukewarm” describes what it is not.
It isn’t fair it’s named for Luke.
In fact, it’s really just a fluke.
It’s really not Luke’s fault at all.
I’ll give the facts. You make the call.

Though he tried to love that girl right well,
 the truth is, that he never fell
as hard as she did. She was nice,
and yet they only dated twice.
She was in love, but he was not.
It wasn’t that they fussed or fought.

It’s just that he preferred another,
not this girl liked by his mother.
So, though the match had been decided
by their folks, it was one-sided.
He, alas, just could not fashion
anything approaching passion.

She pined as he moved on to marry
a girl who came from Tucumcari
while she remained a single maid,
much-admired, but never laid.
And Luke, who did not choose to tarry,
wound up in the dictionary.

He still defines that boring norm
not cold, not hot, but only warm.
The bit of bad luck that he had?
Though he was neither rogue nor cad,
he chose a woman who was “not” her,
and she was Noah Webster’s daughter!

The prompt was lukewarm

Read the Signs


Read the Signs

Are you possibly aware
from your vantage over there,
so well-shod and so well-clad,
that you are overdressed a tad?
In fact, it would be hard for you
no matter what garment or shoe
you might have chosen to wear instead.
I fear that you have been misled.
You’d still be overdressed, you see—
you’re in a nudist colony!

The prompt today was “aware.”

Relax Redux: Empty Nest

Tonight, one of my favorite blogs, written by Carol and titled “Relax,” published a poem that begins with the lines:

Tonight, I am missing
all half-grown kissing
–oh! I meant kittens—
an orange one, Mittens,

(HERE is a link to her entire poem.)

I, however, loved the original typo (or contrived typo) and challenged her to make a poem starting from it and remaining with that idea.  I promised to do so myself, and have, hoping she won’t mind my stealing my version of her first line.  Here is mine:

Empty Nest

I’ve been missing
that half-grown kissing
that lasts a minute
with chocolate in it.
Runny noses.
Heads of roses
picked off stems
like rarest gems
presented in
a tuna tin.
Priceless treasure
for my pleasure.

My life lacks
these loving smacks––
even a quickie,
albeit sticky
with peanut butter.
A parting stutter,
and then they’re gone
and off upon
adventures new,
away from you,
taking their kisses
to other misses.

I’m awaiting hers.  Are you up to meeting the challenge, Carol?

Neighborhood Pot Luck


Neighborhood Pot Luck

The fellows speak of seasonal sport—
a topic wives cannot abort;
but they have topics of their own—
gossip with facts much overblown.
A bit of this, a bit of that
as the ladies chew the fat.
Any neighbors not invited
have their lives fully recited.

What ghastly illnesses are cured,
what wisps of conversations heard
over the fence or from another–
potential breakups or what new mother
driven too far by nightly crying,
bottle-warming, diaper drying?
Whose children can’t hit the mark?
Whose dog has that awful bark?

Who the widow had for dinner
now that she is so much thinner.
She’s looking great, they must confess.
Did you see the label on her new dress?
That new reverend, single still.
Is his girlfriend on the pill?
Or does she not need to be?
Does he just woo her reverently?

How do I know the tales they tell?
Their themes and topics told so well?
It’s because I never miss
those potlucks where they dish and diss.
It’s not their pot roast that I’m craving,
nor their nitpicking or raving.
It’s because when I missed a few,
I was the fat they chose to chew.



The prompt word today was “heard.”

Too Much Information

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Too Much Information

There is too much of everything—
things constantly developing.
There is no time to fool around.
We’re always off and “somewhere bound.”
The days of lying in the grass
and watching ants? They are long past.
Instead I lie upon my back
with laptop and my battery pack,
plugged into the confusing world,
downloading facts dispensed and whirled
together in my spinning brain.
I want a simple world again
composed of only what’s around me.
All these facts stress and confound me—
glossing over the fact that
I’m really only where I’m at!

Ironic that as I tried to save this, my computer refused to do so or to add the photograph to the post  because the startup disk was full.  No more memory––too much information!!! I’m going to try to post this, remove things from my computer, and then post the photo to go with it. (After one hour of removing files from my computer—success!!! Photo is added.)

Overwhelming is the prompt word today.