Tag Archives: Silly Poems

Hop Scotch (Don’t Worry. Be Happy!)

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                       Click on photos to enlarge.

 

T

                                  Hop
Scotch

                      “How green is blue?” the child asks,
“What is the taste of pink?”
                        A prodigy koan-master
 with a novel way to think,
                        such problems keep a child’s mind
engaged in matters other
                         than all the daily problems
of a father or a mother. 

                         No spider ever stumbles
when spinning out her strands,
                         for the feet she walks around on
are really only hands.
                         No specter of a problem
ever plagues a goat.
                          He simply feeds upon the world
and lives his life by rote.

                       And so it is with children.
They go from thing to thing
                      with no worries of the outcomes
that their acts might bring.
                       They leave to human adults
the worries of such things
                        and simply live with pleasures
that every new day brings.

Prompts for today are “How green is blue?” spider, stumble, specter and goat.

Dear Joan (Note Found Pinned to a Husband Left at the Curbside)

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Dear Joan
(Note Found Pinned to a Husband Left at the Curbside )

We’ve been friends for forever, but I fear that we are through.
I have no further patience for the awful things you do.
Pretending to be humble, but not shouldering  the blame,
you’re just a kindred spirit in appearance and in name.
There’s no need for thanksgiving for you are that crafty kind
who is an ally when it’s easy but vanish in a bind.
Your friendship is fair weather, for you suddenly get busy
when good times are over and my life is in a tizzy.

I find myself alone in most times of perturbation.
Then you reappear when it is time for celebration.
Our need for help’s not only when we’re rolling in the clover,
so when it comes to friendship, I think our time is over.
A real friend should be one who also shares in all your sorrows
instead of all that sharing that happens when she borrows
appliances and money, your clothes and then  your house.
Then before you notice it, she’s borrowing your spouse.

So I must insist that you find a different friend.
There is really nothing new left for me to lend.
You’ll need a better job now that you have my honey,
for I am the one, my dear, who’s always had the money.
You’ll be needing to support him in his accustomed manner.
He needs a proper tailor and a booth to make him tanner.
He prefers the Riviera, Monte Carlo for the gambling,
a Lear jet for his weekends, Maseratis for his rambling. 

He was whining like a puppy—a most pitiful yelp—
when I dumped him at your walk-up, so I hope that you can help
him carry all his baggage up to your third-floor flat.
I fear he’s not accustomed to labor such as that.
Feed him three square meals a day. He fancies caviar.
But watch him like a hawk. I wouldn’t trust him very far.
You might survey your friends again and find one who is plucky
who will take him off your hands for you if you are really lucky!!!

 

Prompt words today are humble, shoulder, kindred, thanksgiving and kind. Photo by 俊逸 余 on Unsplash, used with permission.

 

When Seafolk Get Together

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I know I’m not supposed to be posting anything, but my friend Leslie sent me this email and of course it inspired a poem. Here is the list of collective nouns for ocean animals that she sent me.

Did you know….

It’s a smack of jellyfish
A shiver of sharks
A battery of barracudas
A romp of otters
A consortium of crabs
An audience of squid and
A fever of stingrays

 (Thanks @oceana for the valuable ocean info.)

This is what resulted!

 

When Seafolk Get Together

I’d like to smack that jellyfish for oozing here and there,
sticking to my elbows and globbing up my hair.
If I had known its tendency to stick right to my belly,
I would have brought some peanut butter to go with my jelly.

Sharks always make me shiver. You can’t tell where they are.
They might be nearly anywhere—swimming near or far.
The Chinese love their shark fin soup. They love its taste and crunch,
and sharks return the favor by having us for lunch.

Who knew a barracuda could navigate on land
and survive on highways as well as sea and sand?
All they need is batteries (the Plymouth folks discovered)
to become amphibious—both land and water covered.

If we made boots in their sizes, I know otters would stomp,
but since they must go barefoot, instead they dive and romp.
They open up their oysters by lying on their backs,
putting rocks on tummies and giving them great smacks.

A consortium of crabs can be an itchy deal.
Not the sort of gathering that one wants to feel.
Perhaps out on the beach it’s easier to bear,
but crabs should never gather in anybody’s hair!

Squid make a perfect audience. They do not mock or sneer.
They have eight hands to clap with, although they cannot cheer.
If you sit behind them, how fortunate for you,
for they wear no hats or hairdos to obstruct your view.

That guy there in that Stingray is a speeder and a weaver.
I think that you could say that he must have racing fever.
If he were a fish, it would be fine to go ballistic.
On land, alas, he’s just a fatality statistic.

Fertile Fashion

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Yes, you can make the images larger by clicking on the photos!!

Fertile Fashion

She had a verdant sort of glamour unabated by machine.
Thus all of her garments were a vibrant shade of green.
Her bodice made of leaves and her skirts all made of branches
interwoven with fresh grass from her father’s ranches.

She knew she would inherit all his forest land and grass
which would be sufficient for covering her ass
for throughout her lifetime except for those long winters
when the grasses withered and the branches turned to splinters.

That’s how she came to following the sun to warmer places
where  grass was always greener and with no wintry traces.
She had a fleet of weavers and they developed followings
that started up a fashion trend based on nature wallowings:

women picking grass and leaves for home-woven duds.
Embellishing with tiny bees that burrowed in the buds
that they wore for earrings and the sheep and cattle that
followed them in twos and threes to feed on purse or hat

woven from green grasses and embellished with fresh leaves.
They nibbled on their hemlines and fed upon their sleeves.
And this is how the world came to accept the final crudity
of fashionistas who evolved from verdancy to nudity!!!

Today’s prompts are glamour, following, verdant and inherit. All illustrtions harvested from the internet.

Rope

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Rope

They’ve dispelled my excitement with a coiled line of rope—
imprisoning my fantasies and murdering that hope
that fairies really do exist with dragons and magicians.
Using scientific words and proofs of the tacticians,
they’ve put the rope around the neck of childhood and jerked
and I admit the strategy of reason really worked!
I don’t believe in Santa Claus. I don’t believe in fables.
They’ve ruined Cinderella and lynched Anne of Green Gables.
Pure reason is my only friend now that they’ve slain the rest.
They’ve installed stark reality but murdered all the zest.
I’ll welcome second childhood when silliness again
replaces stark reality to cushion the world’s pain.

 

Prompt words for today are line, dispel and rope.
The dVerse Poets prompt is to write a quadrille (44 words only) making use of the word dragon.

Interplanetary Trick or Treat

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The prompt: Most of us know those famous words when Neil Armstrong first touched down on the moon. What will be the words transmitted when a human first sets foot on Mars?

Interplanetary Trick or Treat

Our trip was fine and we feel dandy.
We’ve come real far, so where’s the candy?

 

https://wordpress.com/read/blogs/118697376/posts/7274

The Old and Unrested

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IMG_4795
The Old and Unrested

The old and unrested return to their beds,
propping their pillows under their heads.
Pulling their blankets up to their ears,
they let up on the gas and go into low gears.

Setting their brandies or porters or gins
on their bedside tables, they settle their chins
upon their chests and watch some TV
on laptops that sit where their boobs used to be.

Life is confusing when you are too near it,
especially ’cause it is so damn hard to hear it.
Then when you’re alone, it’s entirely too loud.
These neighborhood noises should not be allowed!

They turn up the volume to drown out the noise
of the car alarms, weed eaters and screaming boys.
They lie all morning, secure in their beds.
Life is much easier lived in their heads!

For Daily Inklings, Objects at Rest.

Some Cursory Comments

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Some Cursory Comments

My cursory comments I doubt will draw raves,
garner no compliments, create no waves.
Words cast to the wee hours have little wit.
It would be no loss if they never were writ.
And yet they keep coming, first one, then the next.
Doubtless their readers will be sorely vexed
to see that these lines here are nothing but fluff.
Cursory comments are rarely enough!!!

For Fandango’s Cursory prompt.

If You Break My Piñata

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If You Break My Piñata

Bug wumples and persnickadoodles.
Gyre-whipped and Polka-dotted.
When I jiggled the piñata of my center-brain,
that’s what fell out.
There’s a whole world in there that’s as open as free love, and
no whippersnapper’s gonna convince me of the opposite.

Why plod when you can boogiesnatch?
Why mince when you can frollope?
Some bug-eyes sit on the fence and just watch the world go by,
but I say you gotta join in the parade.
Shake your wigglewaggle and gyrate your genombres.
They like it that way. They been boxed up too long.

You got a bundersnatch cowering in your credenza.
Open the door and let it boogie out.
It will educate you about the flibberdaddles and teach you the fandango.
Your hips will not know what to do with all they will teach them.
Your toes will flippietoe and your fingers will twiddle.
Your eyeballs will roll in their sockets and your teeth will chatterbox.

Knock-kneed and pigeon-toed, you’ll mince and you’ll canter.
Things will fall from your memory like wrapped candies from a piñata.
You will find toys and prizes and weird hats to change your future.
You will find wind-up creatures that you can wind into life
so they become realer than reality:
blop doodles and freinoys that will perch on your shoulder and execute the tango.

Curlicues to burrow into your ears and open you up to a new kind of music
where the notes are laughter and the rests are heaven.
If you don’t want any of this, then don’t swing your stick at my piñata,
‘cuz if you do and if you are successful,
it will be nothing short of strandacious.
The weak of heart need not play.

This is the dVerse Poets prompt: Say you were going to write a personal ad and didn’t want to waste your or anyone else’s time with a clichéd list of “best qualities”, acronyms on status, race, and sex, or interests such as “love taking long walks on the beach.” (Who doesn’t?) You can write your ad looking for a potential life partner or, visualize your fallen apart soul that has crumbled along life’s rugged path and you are trying to gather all the pieces to become whole once more. Honesty behooves you and your ‘missing part’ as it is the only way to attract that which you seek. Write a poem that only your intended audience will get. Show them who you are, not who you want the world to see. 

Travel Advisory for Marital Bliss

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Click on any photo to enlarge all.

For dVerse Poets today, we were to compose a poem making use of the following street names:
Rope Walk, Potacre Street, Silver Street, Catshole Lane, Buttgarden Stree, Gas Lane, Coral Avenue, Dragon Hill, Baron Way, Mutton Lane. Well, I used them all, but don’t blame me for the zaniness of the following:


Travel Advisory for Marital Bliss

When I’m asked to walk the rope,
I am most likely to say, “Nope!”
But(t) Garden Street sounds more ornate.
I might pass through its flowery gate.
I won’t be Dragon up the Hill.
Don’t do inclines, and never will.
Silver and Coral? My confession
is that they suit my old profession
as a silversmith and vendor,
so if you are a generous spender,
I’ll go on a buying spree
and sell the results, then, to thee.

Don’t go for mutton. It ends in gas,
so on those two, I’ll have to pass.
There’s a barrier on Baron Way.
I can’t go there, for no one may.
Acres of potholes also mar
Potacre Street and so my car
must avoid both Catshole and it
lest we wind up in a pit,
damaging our undercarriage
and my stability of marriage.

Are we going there? The wife says no,
for she decides where we will go.
So, much as I would like to wander
up all those streets up over yonder,
dVerse Poets are not my boss,
so this adventure will be my loss.
And though I will not ace your test,
all-in-all, I think it’s best
to limit where I’m going to roam
and simply take the fast route home.

For dVerse Poets Pub prompt.