Category Archives: Humorous Rhymes

The Reluctant Neophyte

The Reluctant Neophyte

I’m too old to be a neophyte. There’s nothing left to do.
So please do not suggest that I do anything that’s new.
Don’t want to go to parties with folks too erudite.
Safaris do not tempt me. I hear those lions bite.

Bungee jumping? Please. No thanks to fun at such a height.
Aerial adventures I’ll leave to Wilbur Wright.
Wild evening adventures simply do not excite.

I’ll skip the latest dance craze. I don’t go out at night.

I’ll never take up kick boxing for fighting’s not my sport.
I’ll say the same for pickle ball. I’m not the tennis sort.
In short, I have done everything that I could find exciting.
It simply is too late for me to do my neophyting!

The prompt word today is neophyte.

Almost Ready to Stand-in

Almost Ready to Stand-in

If I had a bit more moxie,
I’d be Kardashian by proxy.
I’d be less studious, more frocksie
and trade these garments long and boxy
for a mini dress that’s foxy,
wear heels less Oxfordy and soxy,
hang out with girls named Tess or Roxie,
more cool and definitely less poxy.
I’d be a cockette of the walksie!

 

 

The prompt today is proxy.

Ghoulish Stew

The neighbor’s goulash party was a yearly hit,
but as the new guy on the block, he’d never been to it.
And though he was a clothes horse—stylish, svelt and cool,
he wasn’t very good at spelling, as a rule.

So when he was invited for a goulash blast,
he didn’t know the party was for a mere repast.
Now here he was, dressed in his sheet, feeling pretty foolish
when no other party-goers showed up looking ghoulish.

 

 

The prompt today was ghoulish.

Sharing Mr. Teddy

 

image from internet                              

Sharing Mr. Teddy 

Caught in baby’s neck creases, clinging to Grandpa’s cuff,
escaped from Mr. Teddy are these little bits of fluff.
These airborne little clumps of fuzz go anywhere they please.
They catch in Daddy’s nose hairs, causing him to sneeze.
They wind up in the pancakes–an artistic swirl of blue.
A few of them are tracked outside under Billy’s shoe.
When he climbs onto the school bus, they go along with him,
and everywhere that Mommy goes, to grocery store or gym,
a piece of Teddy comes along to be left behind
somewhere in the wide wide world, but he doesn’t mind.
He has so many fluffy parts that he can share a few.
And when you come to visit, you can take some home with you!!

The prompt today was fluff.

 

CFFC Challenge: The Letter “J”

Judith

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Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge this week directs us to post a photo of something beginning with the letter “J” that contains at least six letters. Believe it or not, it took me a good ten minutes to come up with such a word!  I was about to resort to the dictionary when I spied this photo on my desktop. I had used it just a few days ago, but earlier, when I went to put it away, my eyes fell on the purse and I started to wonder what I would have carried in a purse when I was three years old. It seemed like a good subject for a poem, so I left the photo there to remind me to try to do so after I did Cee’s “Fun Foto” post. It didn’t occur to me for a long time, that since my name is Judith and it was a photo of me, that I could do both at the same time. 

Cee’s “J” Challenge.

 

Church Purse

What does a three-year-old put in a purse she takes to church?
Held primly on her lap as legs swing freely from their perch.
Feet dangling from the pew above the varnished floorboards where
fifty years of townsfolk have walked enroute to prayer.
Small straw purse grasped tightly in two nail-bitten fists,
too little for a lipstick or store receipts or lists.

If perhaps the sermon stretches on too long,
what can she find inside this purse that she has brought along?
Black plastic strap she’s twisted securely ‘round a finger—
once she has unwound it, how long will the marks linger
pressed into her chubby flesh, like four little rings
she surveys as she unsnaps her purse to view her “things?”

A single piece of Juicy Fruit in case she gets a cough.
A snap bead and a single bud that happened to fall off
the rosebush of that big house as she ran ahead to linger
on their way to church and squeezed it with her finger
(and perhaps her thumbnail) until it finally snapped.
She’d peel off its petals later as she napped.

She knew she shouldn’t do this. They’d told her this before,
but her parents walked so slowly, and those naps were such a bore.
God may have seen even the smallest sparrow fall,
but were single rosebuds seen by him at all?
That lady they belonged to was so bossy and so haughty
that she provoked the saintliest children to be naughty!

A single plastic wrapped-up toy she worries to and fro
from her last night’s Cracker Jacks bought before the show.
She softly rustles cellophane between her restless fingers,
then sniffs them to determine if the caramel smell still lingers.
Mama gently elbows her to say she should desist––
fluttering her hand a bit, loosely from the wrist.

She looks for things much quieter in her little purse.
Her snap pistol is noisier. This marble would be worse,
dropped upon the church floor where it would roll away.
If she caused such a ruckus, what would the preacher say?
Something at the bottom feels so round and sticky.
Probably a Lifesaver gone all soft and icky.

A little lace-edged hanky that Grandma tatted for her.
She said that she would show her how, but she’s sure it would bore her.
A folded piece of paper. Crayons––one blue, one red.
If the sermon goes too long, she can color instead.
Mama will not mind and neither will her Dad.
Sister will be embarrassed, but she cares not a tad.

Later on her Daddy’s eyes will start to close,
but she’s sure her mom will nudge him before he starts to doze.
That’s why she is sitting right there in the middle
to correct his snoozes and her daughter’s every fiddle.
Sister is so perfect she needs no reprimand,
so she sits on the outside, removed from Mama’s hand.

After the sermon’s over, the collection plate
passes here before her, certain of its fate.
She’ll unsnap the little purse and reach down far inside it
to try to find the quarter where she chose to hide it
stuck in her silly putty in a little ball.
Now she wonders whether she can remove it all.

The people farther down the pew look in her direction
to try to see the cause of the collection plate’s deflection,
so her quarter is surrendered to join the coins and bills
piled there around it in green and silver hills.
It is the only quarter blanketed in blue.
It is a nice addition, this unexpected hue.

Sister looks disgusted, but her parents do not see,
That quarter cannot be traced back to her now, luckily.
Church will soon be ended with a prayer and song,
and when the music starts up, she will gladly sing along.
 She still dreads church but she gives thanks, for it could be worse.
She could be forced to live through it without her Sunday purse!

You Can Have All the Oranges

 

You Can Have All the Oranges

Pink’s been reserved for babies. Black and blue are much abused.
You need only look at nature to see green’s been overused.
You would not like the fuchsia, it is gaudy and distracting.
And yellow’s like an ingenue who’s been caught overacting.
White’s not really there at all and scarlet is too flashy.
Tan can be depressing. Gold lamé is simply trashy.
Silver strands among the gold by some are found distressing.
Flesh a color that’s best seen only while undressing.
Gray is simply nondescript. It looks like white that’s dirty,
and day-glo colors best reserved for people under thirty.
Deep purple is too moody and mauve is also glum,
as are other purples like heather, puce and plum.
Taupe’s a mousy color—too boring to be worn,
and gold they’re holding in reserve for bankers (and for corn.)
But you can have the oranges from tangerine to peach—
all the tints and shades and tones that are within your reach.
Pluck oranges from the color tree a dozen at a time.
I’ve no use for a color that has no words that rhyme.

This silly poem came about as a result of a family story much-told.  When my mother and father made a trip to Appalachia, they were waiting at a train station and saw a woman with a number of children. One little boy was especially fussy and kept pulling at a lumpy and heavy-looking bag that his mother was carrying in the arm that wasn’t holding the baby.  The train was pulling into the station and that little boy was balking and holding up their progress toward the train platform when the mother called out to him in a harried voice, “You can have all the ahr-anges you wants when you git on the train!”  It has been a much-used family saying ever since, especially useful when someone is holding up the act!
My ending line actually came about as I was trying to find a word to rhyme with orange and realized there weren’t any.  I believe it is somewhat famous for this fact.  Well, that and the sunset!

 And koolkosherkitchen brought this other “orange” poem from two years ago to my attention as well: https://judydykstrabrown.com/2015/03/22/hue-bris/

The prompt word today was orange.

I.D.

Identification

When Freud talked about the ego, super-ego and the id—
all the different parts of us within which humans hid,
(all the things that made you “you” and things that made me “me”)
he thought that he’d identified all that there could be.

But if he were living, he would add a chapter or two
to say that id, ego and super-ego wouldn’t do.
There’s a punctuation omission I fear he failed to see.
It is that vital part of us that’s labeled the i.d.!

It used to be that I possessed my own identity
and showing up was proof enough that I was really me,
but now “me” is not me enough, and I find it hard
to face that I am only me when carrying a card.

 


The prompt word today is
identity.