Category Archives: humorous poem

This Prompt is Irrelevant!

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This Prompt is Irrelevant

Each morning I rise early and make a cup of tea.
I feed the cats, then feed the dogs and sometimes I feed me.
Then I check out the The Daily Post to see what I can see,
propped up in bed, my laptop perched upon my knee.
Today I’m waging protest, in all sincerity,
because the prompt word given us is such an oddity.
Just how much more irrelevant could a prompt word be?
I’m sure it is unanimous, and you must agree.
Yet how can we complain of it? They give it to us free!!!

 

The prompt today is irrelevant, but I’ll write about it anyway. Ha!

 

“Diet”ribe

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“Diet”ribe

I have given up on oatmeal, overdosed on kale.
All these faddish food taboos have gone beyond the pale.
I do not count my calories, my glutens or my carbs.
The benefits for doing so are outweighed by the barbs.
I’m not turned on by Atkins. I can’t abide a fast.
I tried microbiotic, but the microbes didn’t last.

It’s become an epic battle when the girls go out to brunch.
It’s easier brokering world peace that where to go for lunch.
Before we take a mouthful, we must peruse all the ads
and compare what’s on the menu to the latest diet fads.
Then, once we find the perfect place and make the reservation,
Serafina calls me up to share her trepidation.

She’s started a new diet––something fabulously new––
and much as she hates to stir the pot, this restaurant won’t do.
We can’t go out for hamburgers. Laura’s a vegetarian.
She can’t abide the scent of flesh. She finds it most barbarian.
Of course, she will eat foodstuffs that are certified agrarian,
but salad’sout because my other friend is a fruitarian.

I asked them all to my house, bought exotic fruits and plums,
thinking a fruity salad would offend the fewest gums;
but a new friend cannot eat raw fruit. She finds it unhygienic,
and my artist friend will not eat foods she finds unphotogenic.
She balked at the rambutan and when she tried to swallow it,
choked and had to chug down a carafe of wine to follow it.

Molly is insisting on a diet ketogenic,
while Lucy won’t eat any vegetation that is scenic.
We’re reduced to no more dining out. Potlucks will have to do
with every guest providing whatever they can chew.
Me? I’ll bring a pizza. Pepperoni. Extra cheese.
And everyone can envy me as they eat what they please!

 

For dVerse Poets Open Link Night#204

How the Mighty Will One Day Fall

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I would pay a pretty tuppence
to see his highness get his comeuppance.
His smug assurance, his galling preening.
He’s like a babe in need of weaning,
sucking at the teat of fame.
What other mortal needs his name
written on towers around the world?
He’s Ozymandius, stone lip curled
in cruel splendor, sure in his power
reasserted on every tower.
But remember, as he counts each coup,
how all the mighty have fallen, too.
False knights wear armor prone to tarnish.
His Midas touch will lose its varnish.
We’ll laud the day when he’ll be dumped—
That day when he’ll be over-trumped!

 

The prompt today was mighty.

Donald, Donald

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Donald, Donald

You’ve shown us through your policies as well as how you feed
that the only real emotion you experience is greed.
Everything you come upon you brand with the name “Trump,”
Yet lack of compassion still labels you a chump.
In all your machinations, you attempt to spin the pulley.
Like other gleeful little boys, you have to play the bully.
What you have written on the world is not, Sir, what will last.
The image history makes of you you have no power to cast
unless it’s by your actions, and it’s clear what they have been.
How many evil actions have you endorsed with your pen?
Those fed their pablum with golden spoons may not develop empathy,
but that’s no reason why they couldn’t exercise some sympathy.

Things Donald Trump has named after himself: (Thanks, Wiki.)

Cancelled/never completed

Trump International Hotels

Trump sign on his Chicago Hotel and Tower

Completed/in use

Planned but never built

Former properties

Trump Plaza

In use

Trump Entertainment Resorts

Other buildings

Trump International Hotel – Las Vegas, Nevada

In use

Abandoned/never completed

Golf courses

U.S.

The 18th hole at Trump National Doral

International

  • Trump International Golf Club (Dubai)
  • Trump World Golf Club (Dubai)
  • Trump International Golf Links, Scotland
  • Trump International Golf Links and Hotel Ireland
  • Trump Turnberry (Scotland)

Former

  • Trump International Golf Club Puerto Rico[7]

Food and drink

Former

The prompt word today is sympathy. (Donald Trump during Launch of Trump Steaks at The Sharper Image at The Sharper Image in New York City, New York, United States. (Photo by Stephen Lovekin/WireImage for Hill & Knowlton)

Peculiar Little Habits

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Peculiar Little Habits

Peculiar little habits and peculiar little ways
help us pass away the hours and wile away the days.
When you enter in the door, close it exactly twice
to be sure the catch secures as solid as a vice.
Always check the doorknobs before you go to bed
to be sure the deadbolt  is completely dead.
Security is something that can’t be left to chance.
You must man the battlements and take a vigilant stance.
Do not invite strangers to wander through your home.
Give foreign folks and foreign thoughts no further place to roam. 

Seal your borders. Block people who
may be a different color from you.
Be sure that you have set a ban
on each thing unAmerican.
Burn our silks. Wipe out baklava.
While you’re at it, ban our Java.
Set up a refreshment jury
to vote on food like Indian curry.
Wienerschnitzel’s got to go.
Ban sushi. Nix gado gado.

Chocolate should be exorcised.
Ban music that’s unauthorized.
Raga, salsa and jungle beat
are rhythms we should not repeat.
America for Americans
is how we have arranged our plans.
Blood tests mandatory for sure
to make sure our blood is pure.
Send all the dark skins we have banned
to places not so tightly planned:

Prince Edward Island or Mexico
are places they’ll be forced to go—
places less pristine and picky
content to take folks slightly icky,
not perfect folks like you and me,
immaculate in our ancestry.
With endearing little habits, peculiar little ways,
we’ll wile away our hours and wile away our days
waiting for those foreign folks on whom we need to pounce,
doling out our safety by the pound, not by the ounce.

Picking fights with neighbors, casting insults at Korea,
twittering and ranting in a verbal diarrhea.
As it is above, so has it become below—
Trying to regress from what was once the status quo.
Truth becoming what we make it, in spite of evidence—
reinventing science by divine providence
Though we cannot lock out hurricanes or fires caused  by our blindness,
we have power to lock out sanity, ecology and kindness.
We’ll check our country’s doorknobs before we go to bed
and insure that all the deadbolts are completely dead.

 

The prompt word today is peculiar.

After the Honeymoon

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After the Honeymoon

The bride’s exhausted. The groom is numb.
I think that they have overcome.

The prompt today is overcome.

Odd Little Saturday Morning Poem

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Odd Little Saturday Morning Poem

I lie in bed, flat on my back, head raised by pillows,
computer raised to eye level
by a wadded comforter over bent knees.
I listen to raised voices in the village down below,
the staccato of an inadequately mufflered car revving up,
a hammer falling on wood, birds in the coco  palms.
A pianissimo chorus of dogs spread
over the surrounding hills swells to a frenzied crescendo,
then falls silent but will swell again.

I have dropped obligations
like clothes shed for a lover.
My Saturday morning pool aerobics and Zumba,
I slipped out of years ago.
Group luncheons hang from doorknobs and chair backs.
Committee meetings lie sloppily abandoned in the hall.

I have retired from the running of the world
to run my own small universe on paper.
Saturday morning is my brainstorm session
with “Me,” “Myself” and “I.”
“I” suggested feeding the dogs,
but they are quiet now, so
“Me” suggested we let them lie.
“Myself” laid out some words to dry
in the heat of the fire of our communal
inspiration, laying them smoothly on the page,
rumpling up others in her fist to send them sailing
to join the crumpled singles event invitations in the corner.

This slow Saturday morning dressing of pages
and stripping them bare
is a sort of ceremony celebrating seizing time
and making it my own.
Pages  fill up with passion, angst, anger,
irritation, joy, laughter, camaraderie.
There is more than one word for each.

Imagine such control over your world–
not having to live the world of any other.
If you could have any life you wish?
Imagine a Saturday morning  building it.

The prompt today was crescendo. This is a reprint of a poem written a few years ago.