Category Archives: humorous poem

Meat Market Surprise

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Version 2

Meat Market Surprise

Her low-cut dress clearly bespoke
her dire need to meet a bloke.
When she removed her swathing cloak,
a dozen men at once awoke
from barroom reveries to choke
on swallows of their Rum and Coke
or beer or whisky. “Okeedoke!”
their eyes said, as they shared the joke.
Which one would have the night’s best poke?
One chugged his drink, as if to stoke
his courage. One more took a toke.
They circled round, craving the yoke
of one night’s spree–perhaps a soak
in penthouse hot tub most Baroque?
Then, as though wishes could invoke
more luck, a mini-skirt and toque-
clad example of fine womanfolk
appeared , more passions to provoke—
another goddess made to evoke
a duel, heart attack or stroke!
But then, alas, their bubbles broke
as she sauntered up and pulled an oak
stool to the bar and spoke.
Her voice was sultry—fire and smoke—
as she killed their dreams in one fell stroke.
“Darling,” she said to the other miss,
enfolding her in an ardent kiss.

The prompt word today is “bespoke.”

Transcendental Bad Boy

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img_0410Transcendental Bad Boy

Nowhere to go, nowhere to flee.
I cannot run away from me.
I’m stuck inside with no way out.
Just me, with no one else about.
All the others are there outside
this place where I alone abide.

If I could climb out of my skin
and leave this body that I’m in,
escape myself from head-to-toe,
I wonder where I’d choose to go?
Perhaps a river, perhaps a sea––
anyplace that wasn’t me.

For one day, I’d be a cloud
if changing stages of matter’s allowed.
Floating high up in the blue,
I’d think of new things I could do.
I’d find parades for me to view,
then just for fun, rain on a few.

If I were water and you drank me,
I’d view you internally.
Tickle your uvula and then
slide down the chute inside your skin.
Inside you, I would rage and thunder,
from your throat to way down under.

If I were wind, I’d lift the skirts
of dour old ladies and teenage flirts.
I’d muss the hair of social mavens,
pluck nestlings from the beaks of ravens.
No telling what a menace I’d be
if I’d not been limited to me!

The prompt word today was flee.

Swimming in the City Reservoir

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Swimming in the City Reservoir

You can’t swim waters meant for drinking.
I should have known. What was I thinking?
Yet nonetheless, I found it rude
that my skinny-dipping interlude
was ended on that summer’s day
by a cop who wouldn’t look away.
Instead, he watched as I stepped, dripping,
from water one day he’d be sipping.
Picking up and then unfolding
my clothes, I listened to his scolding.
“Lady,” he was muttering,
all worked up and sputtering,
“You cannot put yourself into
The water meant to put in you!”

I woke up with two of the lines in this poem going through my head.  I had to go find the other lines to go with them.  I was hoping they’d match up with the daily prompt, but it was too far a stretch, so here it is, all alone on its own.

 

The Lady Doth Protest Just Right, Methinks.

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Does this look like a sixty year old leg to you? She posed for it!!!

The Lady Doth Protest Just Right, Methinks

“The Lady Doth Protest too much. . . .”
he says as he expands his clutch.
As she then attempts to guard her
honor from his excess ardor,
if he won’t take her “No!” verbatim,
there is one way to educate him.

For when a lady’s had enough,
it may behoove her to get rough.
That she may return home intact
may require much less tact
and more physicality
to apprise him of reality.

A well-placed knee aimed at his tool
may seem unfairly base and cruel,
yet if mere words will not connect,
this simple action might correct.
If entreaties will not stir him,
extreme sign language might deter him.

The prompt word today was protest.

Wan Yvonne

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Version 2Wan Yvonne

Although in summer she is tannish,
in winter color seems to vanish.
So from November up to March,
her skin is colored white as starch.
In fact, I think it would be valid
to say that she is rather pallid.
But all-in-all, she still looks fine
even without  bikini line!

 

The prompt word today is “vanish.”

Tart Addiction

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Version 2jdbphoto

Tart Addiction

“Zesty, piquant,  rich at heart”
describes his favorite sort of tart.
Tender to the touch and bite,
a bit of crust and formed just right.

He likes one after every meal,
his appetite to seek to seal.
A zesty wench presents the tray
as soon as the meal’s cleared away.

A tart a night may meet his lips,
yet not one goes upon his hips,
for no cream or cherry pie
is what tempts his tongue and eye.

His tarts come without calories:
Veronicas and Valeries.
In two weeks, he has had a dozen—
the serving girl, and then her cousin.

Which tart tonight will he prefer?
Will it be custard, fruit, or her?
The sort he likes is just the latter,
his tarts cannot fit on a platter.

The prompt word today was “Tart.”

Tete a Tete

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Tete a Tete

She seems to have made a career
out of practicing “sincere.”
Her trembling lip, her balanced tear
as she murmurs, “Oh, my dear,
I’m sorry, I know how you feel,”
work better when they’re meant for real.

In fact, she only lends an ear
because of what she hopes to hear––
shocking, scandalous or queer.
And oh, my dear, she’ll persevere.
Huddled over a drink or meal,
she can hardly hide her zeal

as she brings up your greatest fear––
your erring child or spreading rear,
the lover who’s been gone a year,
that bank loan that’s now in arrear.
She only asks because, you know—
just because she loves you so!

In patience, she is without peer.
She’ll face you, rapt, her face thrust near,
and ply you with another beer.
She is your confidant—your seer.
And though she says her lips are sealed,
her oath will too soon be repealed.

Her parting kiss, it would appear,
is offered to the ionosphere.
It makes no contact.  Does not adhere.
It seems like she’s shifted a gear.
The next time she dines out, it’s true,
she’ll be dining out on you!!

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The prompt word was “sincere.”

sincere.

Beating the Bans

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Beating the Bans

If you think that I’ve flunked at being a wife
and been 86’d from a domestic life,
was it the pie crust that I made too tough?
Might I have failed at life in the buff?
Didn’t I kiss right? Did I flub the pressing,
leaving a wrinkle in my husband’s dressing?
Did I speak out too much for my kind?
Not take into account that fellows might mind
if I had a career of my own to take care of,
not feeling it adequate I had a pair of
breasts you could fondle or legs I could wind,
an adequate body, a perky behind?
If I’m not the kind of lass you might marry,
the sort who leaves you rattled and wary:
brash and smart and outspoken and bold,
excellent negotiator, stubborn and cold?
If I am unfit as a humble home’s resident,
perhaps I might make you an excellent president!

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/banned/

Too small

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That Small Feeling That Something’s Wrong

My intuition sounds its gong.
I have an inkling something’s wrong.
I look  around  for what’s amiss,
but cannot tell what signals this.
My arm and neck hairs stir and rise,
as if to warn me of surprise.
This tiny hunch keeps me alert,
but insight is a fickle flirt.
When nothing happens, it goes away
and I live out my normal day.
That tiny niggling little prickle
might lead to nought, for insight’s fickle,
and sometimes things are just so small
that they aren’t there at all.

 

The prompt word today is “tiny.”

Bar Stool Brush-Off

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 dsc00962

Writer’s Digest Prompt: Write a poem making use of at least three of these words: ghost, crack, free, hand, check, know. I used them all at least once.

Bar Stool Brush-Off

There’s not a ghost of a chance
that you’ll crack my code,
free-wheeling know-it-all
that you are.
But as your hand smooths
that errant strand of hair
back into its perfect place,
I’ll hand you this:
every time you check your reflection
in the mirror behind the bar,
it is clear no number of looks
will clue you in to yourself.

http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/wednesday-poetry-prompts-368