Tag Archives: Humor

Poetry by Prescription: A Single English Teacher’s Lament

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Today’s prompt was suggested by Ann Garcia, another “reformed” English teacher.  Her prompt:  Write a poem about grading homework.

A Single English Teacher’s Lament

Two periods of composition
have put me in a bad position.
With class size swelled to 38,
no longer have I time to date,
for teaching all to write a thesis
means my workload never ceases.

Each weekend I take home a pile
to check and grade and reconcile.
To try to sort them out is hard—
each sentence shuffled card by card.
Each comment must be made with tact,
their logic looked at fact by fact.

Each student had to write just one.
Now handed in, their toils are done.
While I have 76 to grade,
and now regret assignments made.
How many more? I have to ask,
imprisoned by this grading task.

I have created my own repentance.
I gave myself the thesis sentence!

Thesis: noun: thesis; plural noun: theses

  1. 1. a statement or theory that is put forward as a premise to be maintained or proved.”his central thesis is that psychological life is not part of the material world”
  2. 2. a long essay or dissertation involving personal research, written by a candidate for a college degree.”a doctoral thesis”

 NOTE TO READERS:  I HAVE RUN OUT OF PROMPTS!  IF YOU WANT TO SUGGEST A PROMPT FOR TOMORROW’S POEM, PLEASE SEND IT AS A COMMENT.

Poems by Prescription

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Yesterday I promised to write a poem about the best topic presented to me by “readers.” Four were proposed, but I can’t remember the fourth, so if you proposed one and I’ve neglected you, please submit it again. I can’t promise to always write about all topics submitted, but this time I did—well, with the exception of one.

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“Sisterly Squabbles”

A little weep, a little sigh,
a little teardrop in each eye.

Grandma Jane and her sister Sue,
one wanted one hole, the other, two

punched into their can of milk.
(All their squabbles were of this ilk.)

The rest, of course, is family fable.
They sat, chins trembling, at the table.

When my dad entered, we’ve all been told,
their milk-less coffee had grown cold.

*(Prompt by Patti Arnieri)

“Take a Walk and Tell about It”

Straight out my bedroom door would be a doozie.
I’d end up right in my Jacuzzi  !!!

* (Prompt by Tamara Mitchell)

“Friends”

If not my friend
to the end,
you might a’ been a me
lifelong enemy.

*(Prompt by Patty Martin)

 

 

 

NaPoWriMo Day 30: Ciao, Adios, Auf Wiedersehen, Adieu

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Ciao, Adios, Auf Wiedersehen, Adieu

To NaPoWriMo we must say
a fond “Goodbye” on this last day.
I‘m able to, for I have found
the strength to say it the whole world round.

When I was young, I traveled far
from Germany to Zanzibar.
Australia, Bali, France and Spain,
to Africa and back again.

And though I mostly loved them all,
from Venice to the Taj Mahal,
as my departure time grew nigh
I had to voice a sad goodbye.

To Ethiopia I strayed.
For eighteen months I stayed and stayed;
and when I had to leave too soon,
I had to say “dehena hun.”

In college days, when I was young,
German was my foreign tongue;
but when to Frankfurt wir mussten gehen
I just remembered, “Auf Wiedersehen.”

The French were rude and cold and snotty.
They mocked my accent and were haughty,
so while I had to bid “adieu,”
I’d have preferred to say, “pee-ew.”

Florence thrilled me from the start.
Their lasagna is a work of art.
When I left, they all said, “Ciao.”
Their kitties, though, all said, “Miao.”

I never went to Israel
but nonetheless, I’m proud to tell,
the rabbi books? Read every tome.
So I know how to say “Shalom.”

Though “Arigato” is bound to do
when you want to say thank you,
“Sayonara” is the way to go
to bid farewell in Tokyo.

Bali’s full of dance and art
that treat your eyes and fill your heart.
I must admit, I had a ball
before I said “Selamat tinggal.”

Mexico was saved for last
And now I fear my lot is cast
Since “Adios” I cannot say,
I’ve decided I will stay!

(for the sake of pronunciation, I have taken the liberty of adding an extra “e” to “dehna hun.”)

You might have already guessed that on this last day of the NaPoWriMo challenge, the prompt was to write a farewell poem.

NaPoWriMo Day 19: Shell Game

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Our prompt today was to take a look at a list of actual sea shell names and to use one or more of them to write a poem inspired by one or more of the names. This is the list of shell names:

 Snout Otter Clam, Strawberry Top, Sparse Dove, False Cup-and-Saucer, Leather Donax, Shuttlecock Volva,  Tricolor Niso, Triangular Nutmeg, Shoulderblade Sea Cat, Striped Engina, Woody Canoebubble, Ghastly Miter, Heavy Bonnet,Tuberculate Emarginula, Lazarus Jewel Box, Unequal Bittersweet, Atlantic Turkey Wig,Peruvian Hat, Incised Moon.

And of course, I had to do more than one.

Shell Game

The Snout Otter Clam
is considered quite glam
with its nose like a stoat
and it’s soggy fur coat.

A Strawberry Top
has a very fine mop,
but when you want to eat it
you need to delete it.

What’s that in your paw sir?
A False Cup-and-Saucer?
I grant it’s amusing
but not made for using.

The Sparse Dove’s so small
you can’t see it at all,
but its bill and its coo
will reveal it to you.

This Shoulderblade Sea Cat
could catch us that mouse
if his shoulders would fit
through the door of our house.

Triangular Nutmeg? A most handy spice
with remarkable flavor and shape that is nice
for additional reasons
than savory seasons.
It won’t roll from the table,
for it is not able.

The Shuttlecock Volva’s
reputation is shot
for a stay-at-home lover
it surely is not.
It goes back and forth
from love three to love four
‘Tis Country Club gossip
amounting to lore.

and now, for the grand finale:

“The” Ride

Dad bought me a Tricolor Niso
though I wanted a Porsche that’s black.
I didn’t know he could be so
gauche and just one of the pack.

The car’s top was green houndstooth vinyl.
It’s body was fuchsia and yellow.
My first ride in it was my final,
for I was a fashionable fellow.

I couldn’t be seen in this auto
lest my reputation be shot
I must explain that my motto
was always that “cool” could be bought.

The dashboard was made of puce plastic
the seats were all tufted and piped.
but what turned me finally spastic
was that the Engina was Striped!!!!

I crashed down the hood and I shouted,
“I cannot be seen in this car!”
Each rule of “sexy” it flouted.
This auto was waaaaay under par.

I sold it and purchased another
that’s top of its line, so they say
and though drive a Porche I’d druther,
I had to go another way.

From now on I’ll avoid all the highways
and go by the water instead.
Take all the rivers and byways
and follow my heart, not my head.

For I traded that abomination
for a top-of-the line that can float.
And the name of this lovely creation—
is the Woody Canoebubble boat!!!

 

NaPoWriMo Day 18: In Defense of Poetry

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An Apologia for Poesy

My gardener’s broom goes whisking light
first left, then right, then left, then right
with touch so slight I barely hear
the bristles as they take their bite.

The birds were first up and about,
and then both dogs asked to get out.
Then that broom reminded me
of one more creature left to rout.

I stir myself to go and pee,
then check the new prompt left for me
on NapoWriMo’s daily page.
Until it’s written, I’m not free.

It’s back to bed, I find it best
to go, computer on my chest,
typing words with beat and rhyme
still ensconced in my morning nest.

Searching for ideas and words,
I use the rhythm of the birds
and Pasiano’s sweeping broom
the braying burro, the bleating herds.

Noises fill this busy world
even as I’m safely curled
still abed, my senses all
alert and ready, full unfurled.

I hear the grackle far above,
the insistent cooing of a dove,
as in the kitchen, Yolanda dons
her apron and her rubber glove.

I hear the water’s swirl and flush
the busy whipping of her brush
around each glass I might have left,
careless in my bedtime rush.

Her string mop silent, I barely know
if she’s still here. Or did she go?
I find her in the kitchen still,
arranging glasses, row on row.

It’s back to bed again I trot.
Arranging glasses I am not,
but rather words I nudge and shift
here and there until they’re caught.

Glued to the page forever more––
be they rich words, be they poor––
nevertheless, these words are mine:
poems, stories, truth or lore.

We are not slothful, lazy, weak
because it’s words we choose to seek
instead of labors more obvious
like plumber or computer geek.

Words’ labors are most harrowing.
Our choice of them needs narrowing
and not unlike the farmer’s sow,
mind’s riches we are farrowing.

So blame us not if others mop
our houses or they trim and crop
our gardens for us as we write.
From morn till night, we never stop.

‘Tis April and we have this chore:
each day a poem, and what’s more
we never know till the morning’s light
just what theme they have in store.

Poets, our lives may seem effete––
not much time spent on our feet––
but those feet are busy, still,
tapping out our poem’s beat.

Cerebral though our work may be,
we are not lazy, you and me,
for though we lie in bed all day,
our writing’s labored––­­that’s plain to see!

Today’s prompt was to write a ruba’I, a Persian form comprised of a four-line stanza with a rhyme scheme of AABA. Robert Frost’s famous poem Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening uses this rhyme scheme. Multiple stanzas in the ruba’i form are a rubaiyat, as in The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.

 

 

NaPoWriMo Day 16: A Teenage Mythology

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A Teenage Mythology

A sneeze is how a poltergeist gets outside of you.
At night a different stinky elf sleeps inside each shoe.

Every creaking rafter supports a different ghost,
and it’s little gremlins who make you burn the toast.

Each night those tricky fairies put snarls in your hair,
while pixies in your sock drawer unsort every pair.

Midnight curtain billows are caused by banshee whistles.
Vampires use your toothbrush and put cooties in its bristles.

Truths all come in singles. It’s lies that come in pairs.
That’s a zombie, not a teenager, sneaking up the stairs.

It will come as no surprise that our prompt today was to write a ten-line poem in which each line is a lie.

 

NaPoWriMo Day 12: Love on the Fast Track

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Love on the Fast Track

Love is a vehicle
powered by internal combustion
and able to carry only
a small number of people.
“We’re going by love,”
you can say, as they
hop aboard.

Even with no love
of your own,
you can now lease
some of the industry’s
best-selling love
for the equivalent
of a daily fast-food fix.

Easy-to-use online tools
put you a step ahead
in finding your next love.
At Loves.com,
you can search 2.6 million
new & used love listings
to get a dealer quote
or use an advanced search‎
to compare loves side-by-side.

Mexico Love Rental
offers cheap deals
at six rent-a-love agencies,
so save on affordable rent-a-love
when you book online today.

Our new love reviews
and love buying resources
are designed to help you
make informed decisions
when buying your next love.
See love reviews
for new loves
for 2014 and 2015
at loveanddriver.com.

Love is its own special universe
of design and engineering.
Learn how it works at
love.howstuffworks.com,

or if you have no interest
in the scientific side of love,
lovetown.com offers content
never before seen in the field
of love games.

Today’s prompt was to pick both a common concrete noun and a noun for something intangible, then to Google the tangible noun to find some sentences using it and to replace that tangible noun in those sentences with the intangible noun, then to use those sentences to create (or inspire) a poem. My least favorite prompt ever. This was the result. Now, check out this video:

NaPoWriMo Day 11: Strawberry Hill Forever

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Poets have been writing about love and wine, wine and love, since the time of Anacreon, a Greek poet who was rather partial to that subject matter. Anacreontics might be described as a sort of high-falutin’ drinking song. So, today our prompt was to write about wine-and-love.

Strawberry Hill Forever

So take we rum and take we Coke
and sippy-straws so we don’t choke
on ice and limes within our glasses
and fall dead on our tipsy asses.

Let us to Elysian fields
take our drinks and also meals:
cheese and grapes and shepherd’s pie,
potato chips and ham on rye.

Let us frolic in the lee
without your kids—just you and me.
Spread a blanket and have some fun.
Show ourselves to the morning sun.

If perchance you’d prefer wine,
well, you take yours and I’ll take mine.
I’ve chosen well. I think I will
take some Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill

found in a box of college things:
pennants, books and old class rings.
This dinosaur, screw top intact,
we must imbibe, it is a fact,

to stir libidos and memory
so I might take thee on my knee,
cop a feel of thy lovely ass
and roll thee in the green green grass.

Afterwards, we’ll fill our lips
with sandwiches and pie and chips.
No satyr dined on lovelier fare.
No nymph tasted food more rare.

And when the sun falls in the west,
we’ll cork our wine, pack up our chest
and hurry home. We can’t be late.
Your husband’s getting home at eight.

NaPoWriMo, Day 10: Neo Burma-Shave Ads

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Our prompt today was to write a poem advertising poetry.  The third one is not quite an ad, but it has the cadence.

Neo Burma-Shave Ads

Make your words
both scan and rhyme.
Writing poetry’s
not a crime!

Get a seed of thought
and sow it.
Once it grows,
you’ll be a poet!

Robert Frost at the Movies

Robert’s poems
scanned and rhymed.
His meter? Even
and well-timed.

Yet when he tripped
on slippery tile
and dropped his
poems in a pile,

the usher hissed
in tones most vile
to get his “feet”
out of the aisle!

NaPoWriMo Day 8: Slack One Lying On the Cobblestones

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Our prompt today is to write a poem based on another famous poem. The poem suggested is this one written by Cesar Vallejo and translated by Robert Bly:

Black Stone Lying On A White Stone

I will die in Paris, on a rainy day,
on some day I can already remember.
I will die in Paris–and I don’t step aside–
perhaps on a Thursday, as today is Thursday, in autumn.

It will be a Thursday, because today, Thursday,
setting down these lines, I have put my upper arm bones on
wrong, and never so much as today have I found myself
with all the road ahead of me, alone.

César Vallejo is dead. Everyone beat him
although he never does anything to them;
they beat him hard with a stick and hard also

with a rope. These are the witnesses:
the Thursdays, and the bones of my arms,
the solitude, and the rain, and the roads. . .

This is my version of Vallejo’s self-eulogy:


Slack One Lying On the Cobblestones

I will die in Mexico, on a zany day,
on some day when memory fails me.
I will die under the feet of a burro––as I don’t step aside––
perhaps on market day, as today is market day, in a fall.

It will be a market day because today, market day,
buying new shoes, I have put them on
the wrong feet, and never so much as today do I find myself
having problems negotiating all the cobblestones ahead of me, alone.

Remi is dead. That burro walked on her
although she never did anything to him;
he tromped her hard with his hooves and hard also

with his trailing rope. This is what was left:
her shopping bag, the bones of her dignity,
her bolillos, her new huaraches, and the road. . .

(Note:  Remi is my preferred name to be called by friends, although few consent to do so.)