Category Archives: humor

Cursory

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It hits my mailbox 9 PM,
the Na-Po-Wri-Mo prompt is in.
I read it once, then twice again,
this challenge of poetic whim.

Waterfalls or blossomed trees,
poets of old would turn to these,
find inspiration on a breeze,
then from known words a poem tease. 

Not me! The laptop cursor blinks.
I read the prompt; begin to think.
pull up Thesaurus in a wink,
and if my rhyming really stinks…

A single keystroke and it’s gone.
Without a care I carry on.
When I decide this poem is done,
Hit “Save,” then write another one.

It’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)!

Day Fourteen prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: write a poem that bridges (whether smoothly or not) the seeming divide between poetry and technological advances.

Not my Dog

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“Cats rule, dogs drool.” Ain’t that the truth! 
Gobs of slobber hanging at the ready so that
with a mere shake of the head they become blobby
missiles of slime slinging through the air
to attach to the nearest person or food or furniture.

But not my dog. 
Oh there may be the occasional teeny tiny droplet
of saliva as he sits patiently waiting for a treat
but a simple dab of the floor cleans it right up and for
anything more problematic he uses the handkerchief
he always carries in his pocket.

Cats sneeze, dogs have fleas
and ticks and intestinal worms and
we won’t even go into the host of gross
and despicable things they pick up from rolling
on the ground just before coming into the house and
jumping on the couch to use it as their
personal clean up towel but really they're
just grinding the grunge deeper into their fur.

But not my dog. 
Bugs are naturally repelled by the aura of cleanness
that encircles him like a shield that even the most
tenacious insect cannot penetrate and his fur is like
teflon so if he encounter any foreign matter it slides right
off him and when he enters the house he wipes his
feet carefully on the door mat and politely asks if he is
adequately presentable before venturing inside. 

Cats blink, dogs stink.
Boy do they! Imagine a grungy gym bag that has been
sitting in a locker with a load of sweat-laden clothing
and then that gym bag falls into a ditch full of putrid
standing water and then is dragged across a not-so-well
picked up dog park and then is left in a moldy shed
to marinate for weeks and that’s how dogs smell.

But not my dog. 
He smells like a freshly washed linen sheet just pulled from
the outdoor clothesline of a country cottage except when he is
wet and then he smells like a freshly washed linen sheet that 
has been left out on the clothesline during a brief 
springtime rain shower. 

Cats purr, dogs shed fur
in great quantities flying everywhere to land on clothing
and furniture and into food dishes and drinking glasses
and if you are wearing black it will come from a white dog
and if you’re wearing white it will be a brown or black dog 
that blasts you like a porcupine releasing its quills. 

But not my dog.
Oh I find the occasional strand of fur in the bathroom sink
after he has finished with his morning ablutions of tooth brushing
and face washing and running a brush through his ringlets of hair
and it is so pretty with a sheen like fine tinsel that I just 
leave it there to enliven the otherwise dull bathroom decor.

And so now you can understand why I am a confirmed 
cat person and would never ever even consider
owning a canine – except, of course – my dog.

It’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)!

Day Eight prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: In your poem for today, use a simple phrase repeatedly, and then make statements that invert or contradict that phrase.

The Odious Ode

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To think that something so revered
could set my teeth to grinding gears,
	one only needs to ken
	I hate to structures bend.

Too oft I fail to recollect 
the rules an ode dost interject.
	I’m simply left to guess
	and strive to do my best.

I’m sure this poem proves my case
though I confess 'twas penned in haste;
	the ode – no friend to me –
	remains a mystery.

It’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)!

Day Five prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: write a poem in which you talk about disliking something – particularly something utterly innocuous, like clover. Be over the top! Be a bit silly and overdramatic.

Horizontal Rain

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It blusters, it billows,
the rain comes in droves.
It's typical winter 
on the north Oregon coast. 

No point in umbrellas,
The wind is a beast;
shreds the cloth with its talons,
snaps the ribs in its teeth.

The rain hits you sideways
soaking deep to the skin,
but springtime comes swiftly
to atone winter's sins.

Now the rain’s slightly warmer
when it slaps at your face.
Umbrellas still useless
as the winds keep their pace. 

You can spot season’s changes:
birds perched high lest they drown,
and the newly sprung flowers
soon blown flat to the ground. 

It blusters, it billows,
the rain comes in droves.
It's a typical spring day
on the north Oregon coast.

It’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)!

Day Four prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: craft [a] short poem that involves a weather phenomenon and some aspect of the season. Try using rhyme and keeping your lines of roughly even length.

dry run

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It’s been a dry summer,

no word play to spare.

What little comes forth

dissipates in the air. 

Pen poised above paper,

ink eagerly flows.

A doodle emerges;

no poems or prose.

A rhyme – ‘haps a reason – 

to brighten my day? 

But no, merely dust

on my laptop’s display. 

Perhaps chalk on the sidewalk

if not paper or screen.

but when the dust settles,

not a word to be seen. 

I’d settle for tropes

or cliches worn and frayed.

word choices so bad I 

must rhyme “marmalade.”

I’ll spare you, dear reader,

‘til rains settle in, when

words fall from the sky

in a glorious din. 

When parched brain receptors

rehydrate and breathe,

I’ll come waxing poetic, 

my soul on my sleeve.

Beyond Compare

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Day Fourteen of National Poetry Writing Month. The muses at NaPoWriMo.net have given us this prompt for today:

…write a parody or satire based on a famous poem… take a favorite (or unfavorite) poem of the past, and see if you can’t re-write it on humorous, mocking, or sharp-witted lines. You can use your poem to make fun of the original (in the vein of a parody), or turn the form and manner of the original into a vehicle for making points about something else (more of a satire – though the dividing lines get rather confused and thin at times).

Since I too get rather confused (though seldom thin) at times, this prompt is a perfect fit. The poem I chose to work with is Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? For those of us who are bard-challenged, I will post Shakespeare’s version below. But first (since I control the quill), here is my rendition:

Sonnet 4: Shall I compare thee to an iced latte? 

Shall I compare thee to an iced latte?
Thou sadly in cup holder dost not fit.
While coffee stains can really ruin my day,
I can control the spillage with one sip.
Sometimes you can be cold as latte’s ice,
Complexion like milk curdled in the sun.
I think it’s fairly safe if I surmise
Your pull date has already come and gone.
My latte won’t last long enough to sour
Nor lose its taste if ice begins to melt.
I tend to drink it up within an hour
The liquid sloshing gently ‘neath my belt. 
   I hope this verse has not offended thee.
   So long to you and your oft bitter tea.

And Shakespeare’s sonnet:

Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to a summer day?

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
   So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
   So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Muse

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A new April morning, a new prompt for a poem.
My thoughts had gone hither – or was it thither? – to roam.
And so I zipped off a quick five-seven-five,
to keep my NaPoWriMo challenge streak alive.

I tapped the blue button to publish my poem.
At just that same moment I heard a loud groan.
“Oh, hey there, Muse.” Quickly, I closed laptop lid.
“Too late!” Muse cawed smugly. “I see what you did!”

“You can toss words like salad; even frost them like cake.
Count the syllables,
divide lines, but it still does
not a haiku make.”

“You thought you could do this Na-Po-gizmo sans me.
But this faux form space filler shows an obvious need.
I’ve sat on that bookcase ‘tween Webster and Roget,
my rhyming riffs roiling and ready to play.” 

“Are you through with the pep talk?” My sarcasm seethed.
“I’ve muddled through without you, although not with ease.
A sonnet on sunshine, triolet carved with care,
and a shanty so swashbuckling you can smell the salt air.”

“You’ve been absent for months now, with nary a sneer.
My quill pen has molted;  a goner, I fear.
My blog has been starved, on it’s penultimate gasp, 
the only sound left: a lone cricket’s rasp.”

“I took a hiatus,” Muse confessed with chagrin.
“But I did it for you, so it’s hardly a sin.
In the Andes I found adverbs; (in Morocco, great stew;)
In Europe, interjections like, ‘Ach!’ and “Mon Dieu!”

“Just stop!” I admonished. “Your excuses are worn.
But at least ‘twixt us two today's poem has been born. 
Perhaps you will deign to remain here awhile?”
“Just like the old times,” Muse agreed with a smile.

Day Twelve of National Poetry Writing Month. The prompt from NaPoWriMo.net:

… write a poem that addresses itself or some aspect of its self (i.e., “Dear Poem,” or “what are my quatrains up to?”; “Couplet, come with me . . .”) This might seem a little “meta” at first, or even kind of cheesy. But it can be a great way of interrogating (or at least, asking polite questions) of your own writing process and the motivations you have for writing, and the motivations you ascribe to your readers.

I didn’t quite follow the prompt, but hey, my muse isn’t always cooperative. Other posts featuring Muse:

Waking the Muse

Bookends (Slaking the Muse)

Reverse Engineering

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Passing Through the Lot on a Hot Day

Whose parking lot? I have no clue.
She probably lives in Timbuktu;
Security cams all turned on me,
She’ll see each car I’m prowling through.

Your big ‘ol mutt is onto me,
entering your car without a key.
Apart from dog drool, crushing heat; 
the brightest day you've ever seen.

Mutt jerks her leash, the collar breaks.
I know I’ve made a big mistake.
Her bark so loud, now sirens wail.
She pins me hard, there’s no escape.

The lot is filled; lights blue and red.
I alibi, cops shake their heads.
They haul me off, the jail’s close by.
I’ve made my bed, so here I’ll lie.

Day Three of National Poetry Writing Month! Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo.net:

Find a shortish poem that you like, and rewrite each line, replacing each word (or as many words as you can) with words that mean the opposite. For example, you might turn “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” to “I won’t contrast you with a winter’s night.” Your first draft of this kind of “opposite” poem will likely need a little polishing, but this is a fun way to respond to a poem you like, while also learning how that poem’s rhetorical strategies really work. (It’s sort of like taking a radio apart and putting it back together, but for poetry).

Okay, so maybe I didn’t quiiiiiiite follow the prompt, but I kinda did, in spirit at least.

The poem I chose to use is Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” Here is Frost’s poem: 

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost - 1874-1963

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

To see how others have responded to the challenge, go to NaPoWriMo.net and check out the comments section for links to other participating poets.

In the Stars

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I was debating with my daughter the other day as to whether I might be an alien, (something to do with my long toes), and I was reminded of this piece I wrote in 2013 for my original (now defunct) blog. As I am the master of my own blog — if not my own destiny — I decided to post it again. Herewith:

Psychic Revelation

You’re not going to believe this… well, maybe you are. I didn’t at first, but now the notion is kind of growing on me.

You see, I just found out that I’m from another planet. Maybe even another star system. It’s a little hard to wrap my mind around the idea, but it would sure explain a lot.

I had a reading with a psychic yesterday, and among other (very accurate) things, she told me that I was an old soul (I’ve always felt that), and that I was a “star seed.” I’d never heard of a star seed. The psychic indicated that I had a lot of “homework” to do to get up to speed on all of this, so as soon as the reading was over, I ran right to my computer to research the whole matter.

The Sirius Temple of Ascension website tells us that “Star Seeds are beings that have experienced life elsewhere in the Universe on other planets and in non-physical dimensions other than on Earth,” although they may have had previous life times on earth as well.

Old soul star seeds are “Guardians of the earth” and have usually had “hundreds of life times on earth going back to the beginning of humanity” or even the beginning of earth. The life missions of old soul star seeds are “tied into the long term evolution of earth and humanity” and so they have incarnated on earth multiple times to fulfill relevant “projects.” Once the projects are completed, the old soul star seeds discontinue their cycles of lifetimes.

The psychic indicated that my purpose was related to healing. She mentioned Reiki (a form of hands on energy healing) and I told her that I was, indeed, a Reiki practitioner. The conversation somehow got sidetracked there when she said that my cats didn’t want me to give them Reiki because they were evolved beyond that and so they just roll their eyes when I try it on them.

I was so astounded at the idea of my cats rolling their eyes at me that I forgot to pursue the whole old soul star seed topic any further in our discussion. My subsequent research, however, turned up some tests that one can take to determine whether or not they are a star seed. My favorite is the Starseed Quiz. It consists of 100 questions and the nifty part about it is that the computer calculates your score at the end.

Some of the questions that intrigued me:

“As a child, did you have an imaginary friend?” I had three. Didn’t everyone?

“When alone & indoors, have you ever worked or studied in the nude?” That would be a “no” for me. Eww!

“Do you have a blank space/or unusually high level of memory of your early childhood years?” My memory of my whole life is pretty blank, not just my childhood. Not sure what that might indicate.

“Do you like tapioca?” Well, yeah! What’s not to like?

“If offered a choice of meeting a celebrity or an alien ~ would you choose the alien?” I wasn’t convinced this had to be an either/or question. I’d personally like to meet a celebrity alien.

The results of my test indicated that it definitely could maybe be a possibility that I am indeed a star seed.

So what am I going to do with this newfound information? Well, my cats can forget sitting on my lap for Reiki any time soon, that’s for sure. But I may need to do some further investigating into the rest of it. Even though I am poking fun at it, who am I to say what is and isn’t within the realm of Universal possibility?

I mean, tapioca seldom lies.

Bird Talk

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Day Two NaPoWriMo prompt: Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on a word featured in a tweet from Haggard Hawks, an account devoted to obscure and interesting English words. 

I used the tweet pictured below, which gave the words for the sounds certain birds make.

Herewith, my poem:

Oh, Dr. Seuss, you silly goose,

you loved to glacitate.

You wrote that owls go hoo hoo hoo.

In truth, they cucubate.

Your nonsense rhymes, those made-up words,

a lazy way to write.

So many real words just as fun,

and downright erudite.

A rooster doesn’t “cock-a-doodle do”

when he cucuriates.

And the hen’s response might well be “cluck,”

but — to rhyme — she glocidates.

Toward “wockets in pockets” I hold no grudge,

but to my ear, it grates;

like the striddly stry of a peacock’s cry

when it so poopity pupillates.