Tag Archives: silly poem

Interspecies Advice, For Wordle 352

Interspecies Advice

I threw my troubles overboard, but they refused to sink.
They came rolling right back to me, washed pure and clean and pink.
I hardly recognized them, as they looked so fresh and new,
free of the ooze and grime and dirt and all the past year’s goo.

I wiped them dry on dungarees, and, my efforts spent,
I found out just exactly where all my troubles went.
My jeans now stained and ruined, of my troubles I’m not rid.
My troubles had popped out again from where they’d only hid!

So please tell the panda, the giraffe and kangaroo,
that whate’er you do to rid yourself, past troubles will find you!
You can hide up in the treetops or bound over the plain,
but your troubles will come after you and cling to you again.

Words for Wordlle prompt 352 are: fresh, clean, pure, ooze, dungarees, ruin, rolling, panda, spent, overboard, sink, new.

Locked Rooms for Thursday Inspirations, Nov 30, 2023

Locked Rooms

My thoughts live in a mansion, restrained to just ten rooms.
When the unused rooms grow cobwebs, they must sweep them out with brooms.
They cannot see their pleasures, for they enter with eyes shut.
Sealed chambers filled with many things, but we do not know what.
It is exhausting just maintaining all these extra spaces.
No wonder that I lose my keys and forget most new faces.

No telling when we’ll let our thoughts roam free in other rooms.
For all these years they’ve been sealed up like dark and unused tombs.
Perhaps we’ll find they’re portals to other times and places.
Perhaps they lead to other worlds in intergalactic spaces.
They might allow a journey into the minds of others.
Would extrasensory perception make us enemies or brothers?

I’m sure the reason that we use small portions of our brain
is because if we knew of them, we’d use them all in vain.
We’d journey through the cosmos to plunder other spheres.
React to them like enemies, guided by our fears.
If there is any entity guiding how things go,
perhaps they recognize that Earth’s evolving sort of slow.

Our energies put into things instead of who we are.
Instead of love? Investments. Instead of aid? A car.
If perhaps we aren’t allowed the full use of our brains,
it is because we have not learned to use them for our gains.
How we look’s important. How much it costs the point.
We’re ruining our planet by cluttering up the joint.

Our brains we use for warfare. Weapons we can’t control.
They wind up in a child’s hands or on a grassy knoll.
They’re used for entertainment on a computer screen
in games that build aggression. We win by being mean.
Shows they call reality prefabricate each role.
The lowest denominator seems to be their goal.

True, other things are in our mind: poems, music, art,
dance and social functions, a few of them with heart.
So we stage elaborate galas to raise the money for
children who are hungry, adults chewed to the core.
And yet some of us still balk at giving health care to the ill.
If they are not wealthy, they must chew the bitter pill.

No doctors and no dental care. No succor for the poor.
If they worked, they’d have health care. Complaints are such a bore!
These things we fill our minds with. There’s no need for more brain space.
In the ten percent of brain we use, new thoughts we cannot face.
This E.S.P. is hogwash, and U.F.O’s are fiction.
Even the thought of universal health care causes friction.

For every room within the mind that’s used, there are nine more
filled with mysteries we won’t know until we try the door.
Some enter and return to tell of wonders they have spied.
Yet unenquiring minds respond by saying they have lied.
We’ll never leave these sealed up rooms unless we learn to dream.
Let creative thoughts flow out in an uncensored stream.

To seep beneath closed doors into our mind’s more spacious realms.
Be adventurous voyagers standing at the helms
of ships of mind that sail the wilder seas of consciousness
regardless of the ones who try to censor and to hush.
Turn off the TV sets and games of war and violence.
Let Honey Boo Boo slip back into former innocence.

Lay Kim Kardashian to rest, pull out your skeleton key
that just might let you in to all the rest that you can be.

For the Thursday Inspiration: Key

Kindergarten Romeo. (For dVerse Poets “Holy Guacamole!”)

Kindergarten Romeo

A bunch of  yellow dandelions
squeezed tight in your fist,
your face all raw emotion,
red faced, you held them out to me,
the ripe odor of little boy
surrounding you like a cloud.

The dVerse poets prompt is to write a poem (probably about guacamole, maybe?) using a mixture of at least four of the following key words: avocado,  bunch, chop, cilantro, coriander, cumin, finely, fork, jalapeño, kosher, lime, mash, onion, pepper, raw, red, ripe, salt, seeds, serrano, shell, smoky, spice, squeeze, tomato, white, yellow. Everything else is up to you! (The words I chose were: bunch  ripe red squeeze  yellow.)  Ha! No Guacamole.

To read other Guacamole poems, go HEREImage by Anthony Vela on Unsplash

Meat Market for SOCS, Nov 3, 2023

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.

 

For #SOCS: Meat (This is a reblog of a 2019 poem, but since all of my writing is stream of consciousness, I figure it meets the prompt.)

Mixtape

Click on photos to enlarge.


Mixtape

I’ve been doing a dozen things
at once all day long.
My Day of the Dead altar
is in its seventh incarnation—
marigolds
and mosaic skulls added,
the flowerpots
wrapped in silver foil.

In front of most
of its honorees
is a single offering.
Chocolate for my mother,
a tiny glass of milk
with cornbread
crumbled in it
for my dad,
a joint for Gloria.

I need to decide between
a tiny book of poems
and a can of Coke for Bob.

Altar rejects
litter the table
and floor around me
and the frames I’ve been painting
around the paintings I should already
have taken to the gallery
still don’t look just right.

But from the iPod,
Mary Gauthier is advising me
to have a little mercy now.
So, although I can’t resist
putting away the Scotch tape
and three pens
and two three pairs of scissors first,

I am committed to writing
just one poem
before first going in search
of the  glass of “Oats Overnight”
I made and then misplaced
and then my phone—
lost for the fifth time today.

I thank Telmex for the house phone
I keep solely
for calling my lost cell phone,
which I find two feet away
from my left hand,
buried under an unruly pile of papers
and a paper maché figure
of a small skeleton
in a sombrero
and hoop skirts
holding an empty basket.

Joe Purdy
bewails Canyon Joe,
surrendering the stage
to whoever recorded
a C&W version of
“Let it Be Me.” Someone
not the Everly Brothers—
perhaps you know who.
My ipod just says “Track 09,”
which sounds like
a Bob Dylan song,
doesn’t it?

And this is the best argument
I can think of
to end this attempt at a poem
and surrender to Netflix.
Or perhaps a swim
in this afternoon’s
still-hot pool.

The dogs will come out
to commune
as well.
And perhaps the white owl
will fly over as it did
that night long ago,
swooping low
over the pool,
then rising to wing
over the neighbor’s house.

The Avett Brothers
are advising me to
“Go to Sleep”
but I resist.
Too many piles to deal with
and perhaps I should venture
one more try at getting my new computer
to sync with the Cloud.
Or watch that last episode
of “Sex Education” which
I cannot believe
I am addicted to.

Griffin House declares
they are “Crazy for You,”
which seems appropriate
to end this poem with.
These songs
have aged well
over the ten years
since you sent
the mixed tape
I’ve been listening to
ever since.

A Day at the Beach

A Day at the Beach

My hairdo is unraveling in the ocean’s spray,
and the men are talking fishing so I haven’t much to say.
I do not know their language and the sea breeze makes me cough.
My skin’s at risk in sunlight, but a stone-throw’s distance off,
in the shelter of a palm tree, I find shade, at least,
open up my backpack and partake in a small feast.

Then after I have eaten, when the sun has reached the rim
of the far horizon, I finally have a swim.
For once the sun’s not flaming, it creates a lovely glow,
sinking toward the ocean and vanishing below.
The sea has pleased the fishermen all day, cast after cast,
but as the sun sinks into it, it’s pleasing me, at last.

For CMMC: Pick a Topic from my photo Photo by Cee!!!

Toothpick

Toothpick

A blade of wheat that my dad found
spread out alone upon the ground
was no doubt relieved and thrilled
that it wound up, instead of milled,
stuck between my dad’s front choppers,
better there than in the hoppers
of the flour mill’s grinding wheels—
a sacrifice to future meals.
A fate as toothpick far superior
to a stomach’s dark interior!!

The three word for the 3 Things Challenge are: Thrilled, Milled, Ground

During wheat harvesting, my dad often had a stem of wheat, head attached, sticking out from between his two front teeth.  Caught in the act of picking his teeth, it was a handy storage place.  Other times of the year, his front pocket always contained a few toothpicks to first use, then suck on, switching them from side to side between his lips. This prompt was made just for me!!!

Timekeepers

Timekeepers

My dogs have clocks for stomachs.
I don’t know how they do it.
They value things by the extent
to which a dog can chew it.

Their feeding time is 8 AM
and without exception,
at precisely 7:59,
they demand  my attention

by pouncing on my stomach,
rousing me from sleep
so our kibbles appointment
I am sure to keep.

It happens every morning,
daily without exception.
It does no good for me to try
to practice a deception

by pulling covers over head
and feigning a deep sleep,
for my canine companions
have agendas I must keep.

Grumbling, I roll out of bed
to pee and then to sprint
to fulfill their 8 o’clock feeding
with no further hint!

So, seeing that I post each day
faithfully by nine,
do not merely credit me.
My incentive is canine.

Image by Cintage 72 Prompters: Zoe and Coco!!!

Jail Break: For The Sunday Whirl Wordle 623

Jail Break

All these words are borrowed. They are not really mine.
They came all neatly packaged in an orderly line
where they were held hostage, gathered up and wrapped—
a lexicography in waiting with its power oddly sapped.
Words slack with grief, all gathered in a long veiled sigh,
as though lined up like prisoners, scheduled to die.
Bare pockets empty of bare change, stripped of all their worth,
words that once soared to lofty heights were now brought down to earth.
But here I am their savior, for it’s been left to me
and other hero poets to set their power free.!

The words for The Sunday Whirl Wordle 623 are: slack grief hostage gather bare heights wrapped words pockets long veiled sigh

Out on a Ledge (A Mountainous Misadventure)–For Wordle 622, Oct 1, 2023

Out on a Ledge
(A Mountainous Misadventure)

You’ve provoked me out upon this ledge
and forced me to survey the edge,
but I’m the biggest coward of all,
fast-forwarding to view the fall!

My eyes scroll over far below
the distance that I’d have to go
if I were to tip myself
off this narrow mountainous shelf.

That edge looks crumbly to me,
and instills in me a need to pee.
The sun’s rays swell into a fire,
that well may be my funeral pyre.

My buzzing brain shows lack of trust.
A throbbing heart dictates I must
be off to flee this place I hate.
I just remembered a previous date!

Get me out of here real fast,
or this date will be our last.
When you said we should get high,
I didn’t know you meant the sky!!!

 

I keep telling myself I’m going to stop doing these, but they are irresistible.  The words for The Sunday Whirl Wordle this week are: provoke ledge eyes rays scroll need throbbing buzz fire hate trust fall