Category Archives: humorous poem

Scorpion in the Sacristy

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Scorpion in the Sacristy

Minuscule but powerful, it causes us to shake.
The most masculine among us have been known to quake
and to seek protection whenever one is seen,
for it is rumored that their punch is wicked mean.
They inspire colorful language from the subjects of their strikes,
because it’s understatement to simply scream out “Yikes!”
when stricken by a scorpion. The occasion calls for more,
and that is why the village priest was pardoned when he swore
as he removed the host veil and was stung upon the hand,
for though the Holy Father issued a reprimand
for the sin of taking the name of Christ in vain,
since the priest was still in shock and reeling in his pain,
not one of his parishioners, it’s said, has censored him,
for each and every one of them thanked God  it wasn’t them!

Prompt words today are colorful, minuscule, punch, quake, protection and seen.

Spring Picnic

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Aunt Stella being silly at a family picnic. I was imitating her.

Spring Picnic

That first tidbit of food
swallowed—
that morsel of potato salad
or that sip of lemonade—
activates what April picnics
are fated to attract
as surely as ants—
afternoon rains,
predicted as a slight chance
for this vicinity,
but now diluvial
in their force.

 

For dVerse Poets Open Link. Night  and also making use of these six prompts from different sites: food, vicinity, diluvial, tidbit, activate and afternoon.

(Hover over the photo for a second to read the caption.)

On the Edge

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On the Edge

One on my lap and one by my side,
Queen-sized or king-sized, no matter how wide,
I’m always pushed out to the edge of the bed.
though I’d rather be in the middle, instead.
The tinier dog snuggles close as she’s able,
leaving me hanging out touching the table,
while the little-bit-larger dog curls on my lap
and no matter how much I wiggle or tap,
she will not budge to allow me to shift.
I know she considers her presence a gift.
One burrows closer under my arm,
as though by her presence she’s warding off harm,
but it makes typing hard with my arm in the air,
lest I disturb one of this bed-hogging pair.

 

 

Not fiction!!!!!! 5 a.m., weighted down and on the edge!!!!!

If Only I Could Play Guitar

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This is one of three guitars I decorated for the “Guitar Gallery” in Ajijic. It was covered in mirrors and silver ornamentation. It was purchased by a gallery in Montana. If you ever see it, please let me know where its new home is.

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 talk 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!!!”

 

The dVerse Poets prompt is to write a poem about music. I admit that this is actually a poem I wrote nine years ago so I am guessing few who now read my blog have seen it before.

To read more poems on this subject go HERE.

Man Vs. Machine

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Man Vs. Machine

It is expedient that we convene
to discuss this new machine.
With teamwork, could we not achieve
all our higher-ups believe
needs to be done by this contraption
that according to its caption
can do the work of many men,
perhaps, it says, the work of ten?

Farewell to manpower, hello panic.
Made obsolete by things mechanic!
While ensconced in our cocoons,
it seems that corporate buffoons
have been brisk to seal our fate
and, alas, we’ve learned too late
that man by man, we’ll be ejected
by this means today detected.

And this is why I’m doubly keen
on dealing with this damn machine,
for men have brains but robots don’t.
If we retaliate, it won’t,
I think that we should make the hit
and simply throw a wrench in it!
Thereby persuading all our bosses
of better ways to stem their losses.

Word prompts today are cocoon, brisk, teamwork, expedient, discuss and farewell.

Bucket Listless

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Bucket Listless

Before I have to face the heavenly ordeal—
(perhaps discovering that what I’ve scoffed at is for real.)
Before I kick the bucket, and while I’m still alive,
I’ve been told I have to choose a thing or five
and label them my “bucket list,” a practice I abhor,
(and even if I did, I can only think of four
things that might elate me as I shuffle toward the door.)

If I had the energy, I’d surely take to wing
and fly to foreign spaces to see everything
I didn’t see the first time, when I was in my youth
and as short of brains as  I was short of tooth.
Something about youth draws fortune to our side,
and when you bring up adventure, I think of ones I tried
and shake my head in wonder, surprised that no one died.

I’d like to go to Ireland or on a last safari,
or maybe back to India to replace the sari
I buried my dear cat in because he loved it so,
yet I fear my energy is at an all-time low,
so I will spend my dotage sitting in my chair,
thinking of adventures that I do not dare
pursuing, for I find I dread their wear and tear!!!

Prompts today are: bucket list, elated, heavenly, ordeal, alive and wings.

To Martha’s Muse

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The muse of painting, on the Opera House in Guanajuato, Mexico

 Here is Martha’ Kennedy’s, prompt that came in response to my “Demused” poem:
“My muse got the word from yours that she’d like you to start at least ONE poem with, “Tell me O Muse” She just wants a little acknowledgement.”

I’ve never turned down a prompt yet, Martha’s Muse, so here is your poem of acknowledgement:

To Martha’s Muse

Tell me, O Muse, if it is you
telling my muse what to do
to spur me to get off my duff
and write lines that are good enough
to meet the current status quo,
instead of being just “so-so?”

If so, please let me know it’s me
penning the lines, and not just she.
So if she sickens, dies or just
loses her poetic thrust,
I can make it on my own
to write a poem that’s fully blown!!!!

This frees her and also me
from interdependency.
Frees her to leave me all alone
to find “amusement” on her own,
and once she’s off to do her roaming,
I’ll practice independent poeming!

Though in the past I’ve been bemused,
when on occasion I’ve been de-mused,
I’ll take my genius off the shelf
and write my poems all by myself.
(And though, dear muse, freedom is thine,
I’ll claim my credits as purely mine!!!!)

Though Martha’s muse probably ain’t
just one of words, but also paint,
I hope that she has room enough
for all my muse’s extra stuff,
for as she departed, slamming  doors,
she said she’s off to knock on yours!!!!

Demused

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Demused

My muse is on sabbatical. I think she’s feeling surly
from  umpteen years of being awakened way too early
to find a rhyme for “rainbow ” that my readers judge sublime,
only to discover every single time
that I get all the credit for the work she does
each new day in succession. And why? Simply because
she happened to be sanctified and then assigned to me
to insure a steady flow of poetry
without making an agreement regarding who’d be credited
as author of the poems conceived, then written and edited.
So now I seek to rectify my decades-long misdeed
by saying that hereafter, I certify and cede
half the writing credits to my muse of inspiration,
hoping the result will be she’ll come home from vacation,
refreshed, newly-inspired and forgiving of my sin,
full of new ideas and ready to begin.

 

Prompts today are succession, surly, sabbatical, sanctify, arise and rainbow.  Image by j Jo Justino on Pixabay.

 

Writer’s Block

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Writer’s Block

This poem will go unspoken, unwritten, unconceived.
It will have no mentor by which it’s been received.
It won’t be manufactured to become a hot bestseller,
in fact it won’t be read by you nor any other feller!

This poem’s an ice-blocked river with words jammed up inside it—
each word imbricated with a word stacked up beside it.
I just don’t have the wherewithal by which I can procure them
and turn them into poems where you might have to endure them!

 

Prompt words today are imbricate, procure, river, mentor, manufacture and unspoken. Image by Anomaly on Unsplash.

Next Step

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Next Step

Life is a conundrum often unresolved.
Every day another sin to be absolved.
from transgression to transgression, mankind’s been known to scuttle,
searching for excuses to use in their rebuttal
of charges that we’ve ruined nature’s sweet confections,
destroying with what we have wrongly seen as our corrections.
With a flippant attitude, missing the wider view
of how we affect everything with each thing that we do.
Thus, impartial in her actions, nature then corrects,
working out solutions to ills that she detects.
How she must be wondering if mistakes in our past
might lead to the solution that mankind cannot last.
And so she’s started over by altering our genes,
thus aiding all mankind to evolve into machines!

 

Prompt words for the day are flippant, rebuttal, conundrum, impartial, correction .