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Baby’s First Soda Pop
When finally a kid is poppable,
once the bottle is untoppable,
the overflow may be unstoppable.
It’s fortunate the floor is moppable!
(The WordPress prompt to day was “Unstoppable.”
Unstoppable
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Tag Archives: humorous poem
Goes Down Slowly
The prompt word today is “slowly.” Disclaimer: If you are offended by risque innuendos, please read no further. My Devil Muse caught me unaware this morning. Last warning. Last chance to stop.
Goes Down Slowly
When you press its end, it has a kick.
It goes down slowly but comes up quick.
Though based on beauty you’d never pick it,
Caught in the throes, some people lick it.
When it spews out liquid from its wick,
what it produces could make you sick.
Don’t wrinkle noses and utter, “Ick!”
I’ve just described my favorite Bic!
A Certain (Lack of) Understanding
Choose One
Sign Language
I know our birth tongues aren’t the same,
but still I think words aren’t to blame.
It is your means of understanding
that convinces me you’re underhanding.
For every time I give you kisses,
it seems you go to other misses
in search of the translation tips
they give by laying on of lips.
My dear, if we were dumb and blind
then translation service of this kind
might make some sense, but I must say
your excuses will not work today.
Please have your translator of prose
stick this finger message up your nose!!!
Simplicity
Simplicity
Simplicity is something that I rarely do.
Why have only one of something when you could have two?
It takes a lot of veggies to come up with a stew,
and we’d do a lot of limping if confined to just one shoe.
Multiples are awesome. Multiples are grand.
Look how many fingers we have upon each hand.
One finger could not do the job. Neither could two or three.
Simple cannot form a hand, did not form you or me.
Simplicity’s much touted but I think it is absurd.
Who ever heard of stories comprised of just one word?
With a single raindrop, the world could not get wetter.
Sparsity may be more chic, but I like clutter better.
I don’t get minimalism. I’m a hoarder to the core.
When I ran out of wall room, I put art upon my door.
There are no piles in hallways. Hoarding need not be a sin.
I’ve built three rooms onto my house just to store things in.
With so many lovely things in life, collecting is a joy.
With life’s manifold choices, why be niggardly or coy?
At the ice cream parlor, why does one have to choose?
You need not always limit yourself just to ones and twos.
Have a scoop of strawberry and pineapple and mint.
Green tea is delicious and tequila’s heaven sent.
Load your dish with raspberry and coconut and mango.
Why do the simple two step when you could do the fandango?
In short, I am a gatherer. I have too many things.
I like to make the choices that a complex lifestyle brings.
When it comes to writing, a stuffed-full mind is fine!
Reach into words and shake them out and string them on a line.
A solitary animal will never make a zoo.
One grain of dirt, one drop of water cannot create goo.
A single cannon fired will not execute a coup.
The world just is not simple, nor am I and nor are you!
*
I’m having a yard sale of left-over words. Below is the “free box.” Take what you will (please note that some of these items have been recently used, but all have been laundered and are ready for a new user):
coy ploy toy bore core
simplicity complicity duplicity felicity
ooze booze cruise who’s whose choose lose blues news pews poos cues ruse sues twos views woos youse
doozie floozie twozie
boo goo hue loo moo new poo queue rue sue soo sioux too to you view woo you
*
Right in line with the theme of the poem, below are way too many photos. If you want to see the details, you know what to do, right? If you don’t, I’ll tell you. Just click on the first photo and click on arrows to proceed through the photo gallery. To come back here afterwards, click on the X in the upper left corner.
Bare Necessities
Bare Necessities
I scream, I cry, I moan, I curse.
My pleas for help are curt and terse.
I look around for something worse,
then lift the sofa just to rehearse.
I quote the Bible–both psalm and verse,
request a doctor, request a nurse,
predict they’ll need to call a hearse.
Why must its contents be so diverse?
I grit my teeth. Then lift my purse!
Blueberry, Blueberry, Blackbird Pie: NaPoWriMo 2016, Day 26
Blueberry, Blueberry, Blackbird Pie
Gotta get a cookie. Gotta eat some pie.
Gotta have some sugar, do or die.
Grab a fork and grab a spoon.
Sugar shack opening pretty soon.
Hey lolly hey lolly, blueberry pie.
Hope to have some by and by.
Old Mother Crank put a pie up on the shelf.
Thought she’d eat it all herself.
Along came a blackbird who grabbed a bit of crust,
then the whole damn pie as the old lady cussed.
Hey lolly, hey lolly, no more pie.
Blackbird made it go bye bye.
Old Mother Fussbudget loaded up her gun.
She didn’t have pie, but she was gonna have some fun.
When she spied that blackbird way up high,
she fired her gun up in the sky.
Hey lolly, hey lolly, no berry pie.
Just that blackbird winging through the sky.
Now old Mother Wigglewaggy baked another pie.
It’ll be ready in the blinking of an eye.
She had two pieces, then she had a third,
Since she didn’t have fruit, she used the bird!!
Hey lolly, hey lolly, no bird pie.
I prefer my blackbird served on rye!
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt was to write a call and response poem.
After the Honeymoon
Today’s NaPoWriMo Prompt was to write a “mix-and-match” poem in which you mingle fancy, poetic vocabulary with distinctly un-fancy words.
After the Honeymoon
Oh my dear,
caught in this star-studded cowboy boot world,
I love you more than an Oreo cookie,
more than bubble gum
or a dill pickle.
You are a full gas tank and my shoelaces.
You are both what keeps me going
and what I am reaching out for—
my goal and trophy rolled into one.
You are my ironing board and my blender—
what churns me up and straightens me out.
Everything in the world is caught up in you.
It is flowering, our ordinary world.
peanut butter sandwiches
and corned beef hash
are surrounded by rosebuds,
soaring heavenward in sartorial bliss.
The sewing machine is holy
and our Dodge truck dreamlike.
The fanciful and practical
are shuffled in our dream world
like cards at a poker table.
A washcloth and a comb soar heavenward.
Birdsong becomes a phonograph needle,
caught in its groove.
Verdant is the garden hose–
pulsating with a new vibrancy.
If I am a tax form, you are my pencil.
You are diaphanous in your kitchen apron,
a fairy in blue jeans.
I could sing an ode to your toothbrush.
If I took a measuring stick to our love,
the world’s breath would be bated,
waiting for the result.
Birdsong would issue from the teakettle
to chorus the announcement.
For oh, my love, our passion is a hammer.
A scythe that slices through the problems of the world:
the shopping lists and the crabgrass.
Love vaporizes our petty problems––
the broken dishwasher
and the broken fingernail––
leaving my bride, my fairy princess.
My pencil sharpener.
The trimmer of my wick,
the cooker of my sausage.
My dear, I am turgid in thy love.
You are what wrenches my heart
and nails shut the door
of every misgiving I might have had.
You are mustard to my sauerkraut,
pastrami to my rye.
Love in a Ziplock bag might seem less fairylike,
blander than white bread
and more Sunday School than magical;
but, my little zucchini,
my Dove bar and my Orange Crush,
you are still my camellia and my rose.
I think of you under lindens,
your footsteps filled with magnolia petals
and your cook pot full of stardust.
Heaven resides in our walkup flat, my dear,
and I pulsate every day
with the memory of that honeymoon
which was only our penultimate dream—
leading up to the chock-a-block,
stuffed turkey with all the trimmings,
overflowing Christmas stocking,
burst balloon filled with confetti,
blissful rest of that conjoined life
that with every morning alarm clock
will spill over us again
like a freshly split piñata.
If you are curious, here is the list of words I made up to use before I wrote the poem:
bated, penultimate, scintillating, vaporous, tyrolean, fragile, throbbing, majestic, cloud, magical, fragile, fairylike, vaporous, birdsong, flowering, verdant, diaphanous, star-studded,dreamlike, rose strewn, elfin, birdsong, Zephyrus, pulsating, silence, hush, tra la la, turgid, verdant, rosebuds, camellias, lindens, pastoral, heavenward, pulsating, sartorial.
gas tank, hammer, shopping list, dog food, can opener, wrench, pillow slip, garden hose, scrub brush, dishwasher, washcloth, comb, Ziplock bag, pencil, phonograph needle, emery board, shoelace, eyelash, curtain rod, stapler, bubble gum, Oreo cookie, peanut butter, corned beef sandwich , sauerkraut, blander, fingernail clippers, measuring stick, pencil sharpener, gas tank, shoe polish, Dodge truck, table saw, ski boot, cowboy boot, bra strap, ironing board, dill pickle,
Disappointing Will (Three Sonnets)
The NaPoWriMo prompt today was to write a sonnet. One of the world’s most famous sonnet forms was the Shakespearean sonnet, the form I use below. William Shakespeare died on April 23, 1616–exactly four hundred years ago today. He is still the best known playwright and among the best loved poets in history. I apologize to him for these sonnets, with which he would most certainly be disappointed; but luckily, “Disappointment” is exactly the prompt for WordPress this day, and so I thereby kill two prompts with one poem!!
Three Wan Dogs before Their Feeding
Our mistress lies upon her bed too long,
her favorite silver thing upon her lap.
That she should put our feeding off is wrong.
We sit and stare at her through her door’s gap.
She taps upon her thing and taps and taps.
Sometimes she chortles, but we don’t know why.
Where formerly her bed was used for naps,
a favorite dog cuddled against her thigh,
she now spends all her time there with that thing
as we sit hungry, waiting to be fed.
She seeks the nourishment that words can bring,
for she is sure that if she leaves her bed
before she finishes her sonnet, then
her muse will not agree to come again.
Three Hungry Dogs Intent Upon Their Feeding
At last at last she opens up her door
and feeds our sister first, lest we devour
her food ourselves and then not leave the poor
dear girl with any sustenance to power
her barking at the other dogs who pass.
But now our mother fills our bowls as well––
each portion measured by a measuring glass.
Each second we must wait becomes a Hell.
She scoops out first the dry and then the wet––
more for the big dog and less for the small.
We worry over how much food we’ll get,
remembering times when we had none at all.
But finally, our portions, too, are dished
(although not quite so full as we’d have wished.)
Three Patient Dogs after Their Feeding
Now see our dishes cleaned and neatly stacked?
Our human lolls once more upon her bed.
to write more stanzas that she formerly lacked
and free herself of rhymes that fill her head.
The small dog leaps upon her bed to lie
and garner a small scratching now and then.
We larger dogs lie watching from close by,
kept from our human in her iron pen.
See her now, look quizzical and rapt?
We know not what she thinks there on her back.
Where formerly she read or watched or napped,
she stews about just what her poems might lack.
For Shakespeare she is not, the silly goose.
Her talents? More in line with Dr. Seuss!!!
(Click on the first photo below to enlarge photos and read captions–also written in couplet form.) Good grief. It’s my muse’s fault. The girl can’t help it!!)
We also hunger who only stand and wait
But soon our lady rises to the bait
“She” portions out our food with motherly care.
Diego’s next to feed, determined by age.
Morrie looking up hopefully
Though Morrie is always the last to feed, He makes up for it with ungodly speed.
And then, lest Frida leave a scrap of kibble, he licks her bowl free of each lasting dribble.
By then, our mom has gone back to her writing, before we’ve even finished with our biting.
Although he comes in last when being fed, at least he fits into our lady’s bed.
Perhaps when this infernal poem is through, we’ll win our lady’s company anew.
Lesson from the Garden of Eden––WP Daily Prompt/Writers Quote Wednesday Writing Challenge
Lesson from the Garden of Eden
When Adam tripped on Eden’s portal,
Eve could not resist a chortle.
She found she loved this new sensation––
her first encounter with jubilation.
Day by day, she watched him jiggle.
Without clothes, he made her sniggle.
Meanwhile, he admired her wiggle
and secretly, he learned to giggle.
Day in, day out, behind their knuckles
they resorted to these chuckles
privately, not knowing the other
also had tee-hees to smother.
Where things before had made her bitter,
now they simply made Eve titter.
And when occasionally they bickered,
instead of shouting, Adam snickered.
Thus did laughter come to save
these first children of the cave,
and when they became ma and pa,
they taught their children to guffaw.
Then each succeeding generation
increased their sense of jubilation––
enjoying each others’ flubs and gaffes
with chuckles, chortles and belly laughs!
As friends and family still use humor
to solve discord and dispel rumor,
would that nations forever after
Replaced their guns and missiles with laughter.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/giggle/
https://silverthreading.com/2016/04/13/writers-quote-wednesday-writing-challenge-laughter/
Misplaced Meandering
Misplaced Meandering
I’m asking you who is not lost in this life––
which child or mother or husband or wife––
our direction determined by machines and signs
that know our direction, but not our designs?
I think I’d prefer a simpler way
where I could just drift through each hour and day
turning right at the blue house, then going by guesses
without Google maps or those damn GPS’s.
Remember when maps could be lifted and folded?
If you were berated, corrected or scolded,
your wife was the one who said you’d gone wrong,
not a voice from your dash interrupting the song––
“Long Way Home” on your player, crooned by Tom Waits––
as your TomTom says you’ve gone through too many gates.
No more do we lollygag, detour or amble.
We can’t program Garmin to dawdle or ramble.
Lost in our motor home, lost in our car
though we know precisely just where we are.
Lost in our lives, no direction our own
with nüvi on our dashboard and Waze on our phone.
They point us in their choice of route and direction
while never inquiring of our predilection
for scenery, museums, or byways or diners.
When spontaneity beckons, they are decliners.
Remember those trips when you were a kid
when your dad would pull over whenever you bid,
take off on a side road to see what was there
and wend this way and that way with nary a care?
Now that sort of journey is bound to excite me,
but to take off today with these systems to fight me?
The thought of their voices is bound to incite me
to turn them all off and scream, “You can just bite me!”
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 