Tag Archives: Silly Poems

“My” Day

The prompt today is willy-nilly.  Now, what would you say the chances would be that I’d have written a poem that already contained that word?  If you are thinking practically nil, then you are WRONG!  Not only did I write a poem containing “willy-nilly” over two years ago, but it is even in the title. The assignment then was to talk about a holiday created in my honor and to describe it all—music, refreshments, decorations and who would come.  Here it is, warts and all:

A Holiday Most Willy-Nilly 

My namesake day would be a dilly.
Simply not run-of-the-milly.
For the concert, I’d have  Willie
and resurrect Milli Vanilli.
Kind of music? Rock-a-Billy.
For refreshments, I’d serve Chili.
Though the terrain would be most hilly,
they’d travel over rock-and-rilly
for races of both stud and filly,
and poets, fleet of tongue and quilly,
reading poems both sage and silly.

Silly Words

Silly Words

Bumbershoots and pollywogs, gorp and whirlybird—
Why are the words we choose to coin sometimes so absurd?

Why does one word sound sillier than others we might use?
Why are some sounds more serious while others just amuse?

Why do some get tummy ache blocking their digestion,
while others simply get the flu? It is a puzzling question.

One names the problem. That is all. No words that might confuse.
Whereas the other says the same in words that might defuse

the worry that plain words might cause–a silly sort of way it
is possible to ease the news by the way we say it.

So if the day dawns cold and drear, don coats and scarves and boots
and if dark clouds float overhead, grab your bumbershoots.

Umbrellas block the rain out and keep your shoulders dry,
but bumbershoots are bound to add a sparkle to your eye.

 

The prompt word today is bumble.

Back Seat Driver

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Back Seat Driver

You are a lovely woman, Kate—
enough to cause my breath to bate,
enough to stun and addlepate—
but if we stop to ruminate
each time we reach another gate,
it is my fear that we’ll be late.
Why not let me cogitate
when forward progress to abate?
If necessary, I vow to wait
as we wage a long debate
on whether to go left or straight
as we approach the interstate,
but each time you excoriate,
criticise or agitate
for route changes, I rue my fate
the day I set up this blind date!!!

From: Your very competent driver, Nate


The prompt today was ruminate.

Transcendental Bad Boy

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Nowhere to go, nowhere to flee.
I cannot run away from me.
I’m stuck inside with no way out.
Just me, with no one else about.
All the others are there outside
this place where I alone abide.

If I could climb out of my skin
and leave this body that I’m in,
escape myself from head-to-toe,
I wonder where I’d choose to go?
Perhaps a river, perhaps a sea––
anyplace that wasn’t me.

For one day, I’d be a cloud
if changing stages of matter’s allowed.
Floating high up in the blue,
I’d think of new things I could do.
I’d find parades for me to view,
then just for fun, rain on a few.

If I were water and you drank me,
I’d view you internally.
Tickle your uvula and then
slide down the chute inside your skin.
Inside you, I would rage and thunder,
from your throat to way down under.

If I were wind, I’d lift the skirts
of dour old ladies and teenage flirts.
I’d muss the hair of social mavens,
pluck nestlings from the beaks of ravens.
No telling what a menace I’d be
if I’d not been limited to me!

The prompt word today was flee.

dVerse Writers: The Ballad of Henry and Ruth

The prompt was to write a poem in a certain musical style.  This tale is heart-rending in a typical late-50’s, early-60’s style. If you were alive and paying attention during that era, you should be able to put a tune to it:

The Ballad of Henry and Ruth

Before she met him at the candy store,
her days were empty and her life was a bore;
but when he offered her his Jujyfruits,
in just a moment they were in cahoots.
He was the drummer in a R&R band.
Down all 5th Avenue, he held her hand.
She felt his pulse beat pump a sweet love tune
and knew he’d be her Sugar Daddy soon.

Chorus:
Yes she met him at the candy store,
between the sucker rack and front screen door.
He nearly tripped over her Mary Janes
and crashed into a rack of Candy Canes.
The Double Bubble and the Tootsie Roll Pops
collided with the mints and lemon drops.
Their love was written in the moon and stars,
but realized beneath the Hershey Bars!

Oh Henry, she was crooning, and much more.
He loved this Bit O’ Honey down to the core.
Shifted his Firestick and they went for a ride
his Baby Ruth snuggled right up to his side.
She cried, “Oh, Henry!” as they hit the Mounds,
poppin’ wheelies as they did the rounds.
He was no Slo-Poke, tell you here and now,
so as he swerved to miss a big Black Cow,

The car rolled over on its Rollo Bars
crashing into six  more hot rod cars.
Atomic Fireball” said the words on his car.
Now how appropriate those two words are.
100 Grand it costs him on Payday
so he’ll be working every night and day—
his Red Hot mama working by his side,
for now his Sweet Tart is his blushing bride.

Repeat Chorus:

Just in case you weren’t around way back then, I’ve italicized the names of the candy bars and hard candies of the era. Sorry for ruining the fun of those of you familiar with the times. I know.  It’s pretty bad, but that, too, was typical of the songs of the era.

This poem is written to a prompt at dVerse Writers.

After Vespers

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After Vespers

I arrived home with much ado,
removed a small stone from my shoe,
took off my girdle, straightened my hat,
smoothed my gloves and kissed the cat!
I believe in proper things––
all the joys good breeding brings.
I do not spit, smoke weed or curse.
I carry breath mints in my purse.

I go to church. I tithe and pray.
I brush my teeth three times a day.
But when I went to watch TV,
I found a strange sight greeting me,
for there sitting upon my couch,
next to my little cat treat pouch,
were two small beings––a her and he––
the lady perched on the fellow’s knee.

They both looked up with cool aplomb
as though they hadn’t dropped a bomb
appearing with no invitation.
What’s more, to my great perturbation,
balanced on the lady’s knee
was the chocolate cake I’d meant for me!!!

She took a bite and gave him one,
then turned to me when she was done,
addressing me, though we’d not met.
(I mean, just how rude could one get?)
And what she said in a haughty tone,
perched upon her human throne?
“I’m afraid this cake is rather dry.
I wonder, have you any pie?”

I’ll tell you no more of this story,
for after that, things just got gory.
My opening words would seem most pale
compared to the ending of my tale.
Suffice it then for me to say
the uninvited didn’t stay.
Afterwards, my gloves came off.
I cleared my throat and gave a cough.

I scraped the cake crumbs in the sink,
mixed myself a little drink,
closed the drapes, unplugged the phone
and stretched out on my couch––alone.
As I settled down to Downton Abbey,
I was feeling way less crabby.
Real glad I hid the pie, y’all,
because I sat and ate it all!!!

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The Prompt: Unexpected Guests. You walk into your home to find a couple you don’t know sitting in your living room, eating a slice of cake. Tell us what happens next.  What a hilarious prompt!  I loved writing this one.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/unexpected-guests/

Dem Bones: JNW’s Writing and Prompt Generator

This is a very strange poem written at an exceedingly early hour to the prompt: Orange Bone (If you read this on the Reader, you won’t see all facets of the poem.  You must go to my site to do so.)

                                                                      Dem Bones

Mexico has tickled my orange bone–
every sedate instinct concerning décor
flown out the window like a freed hummingbird.

A bright gold house with fuchsia trim.
Orange living room with blue and green and red arches.
Denim blue entryway and chartreuse hall.
A turquoise beam in the pumpkin kitchen.

If you have a bone to pick with me over my choice of colors,
it will tickle my funny bone tell you
that I am bone tired
of beige and cream and grey.
Any bonehead can paint a house eggshell or vanilla.
Use marrow of bone
to flavor the soup,
but give me colors that will stir my crazy bone.

Give me cinnamon, mustard, raspberry, persimmon.
Those are colors to make a meal of.
These colors excite and wear me out–
make me bone lazy.

Boney Maroney
with paint under my fingernails.
Vivid. Flashing. Vibrant.
Colors that have satisfied
my orange bone.

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This prompt was generated from:  http://jennifernicholewells.blogspot.mx/2015/08/jnws-writing-photo-prompt-generator.html

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