Category Archives: humor

Rodent Robbers

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27

Snap! smacks the mouse trap,
as the spring is spryly sprung.
The trap slaps shut with a jolt abrupt.
Now the deadly deed is done.

Wheeze! breathes the brave mouse,
as she gasps to grasp some air.
That’s how it goes when the cheese she chose
is a ploy plied to ensnare.

Voilà! exclaims the vainglorious vole.
“You disdained and disbelieved
that a twig tip-tapped could trip the trap.
Such a clean scheme I conceived.”

Shush! shouts the shaking mouse.
“It was I who death defied.
Put a plug in your pompous prattling
while we partake of our purloined prize.”

dVerse Meet the Bar: Onomatopoeia 

Let Sleepy Towns Lie

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18

jail time

The sands of time had ground to dust.
The wheels of justice left the bus.
My day in court long overdue,
due process – it seemed – had stood me up.

This sleepy town gave me arrest
for stealing nest eggs off their nests.
When left to choose ‘twixt right and wrong,
I wrongly chose, then quickly left.

Blind justice sniffed me out that day,
threw me in jail; the key, away.
Each year, society’s ransom grew.
How long until this debt was paid?

One night I knew just what to do.
I poison-penned an IOU,
slipped through the cracks and stole away,
and vowed my life of crime was through.

I bailed from jail, but I’m still not free.
I watch my back, it watches me.
I’ll no more practice to deceive, ‘cuz
from ‘neath her blindfold, justice sees.

dVerse Poetics: Twisted Adages. “For this week’s Poetics, we will start with an adage, or several adages, but we won’t stop there.  I am asking you to craft your poetry around an adage or two that you must change in some significant way.”

I may have gotten a bit carried away with my wordplay, but you know, when it rhymes, it pours. 

I wrote a previous post that fits the bill for this challenge as well. You may find it here.

 

Vice and Virtue

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20

apples

I am greedy for your charity.
I lust after your chastity.
While some may call me slothful,
I prefer “procrastinatory.”

I admit I’m green with envy at
your temperate humility.
and yet I take great pride in times
my wrath yields to civility.

I’m a glutton for your kindness.
You’re impatient with my pride.
I am sinful, you are virtuous.
You’re Jekyll, I am Hyde.

If you offered me an apple,
in the garden we could hide
With your heavenly companionship,
it’d be one hell of a ride.

Inspired by the dVerse Poetics challenge to write a poem based on the seven virtues (charity, chastity, kindness, temperance, diligence, patience and humility), and the seven deadly sins (greed, lust, envy, gluttony, sloth, wrath and pride). 

Street Names

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18

From the dVerse blog for Tuesday Poetics: May 29, 2018: “Here’s what I want you to use tonight as inspiration for your poem. I’ve listed some street names for you, and I want you to imagine what the street is like…or who might live there…or how the name came about.”

The street name I selected from the list is Buttgarden Street.

garden

We pass this way most every day,
my faithful dog and I,
and on this street a man we meet,
his mutt heeled at his side.

We greet as neighbors tend to do
a nod and friendly hi.
Our dogs sniff at their private parts;
we turn a modest eye.

A garden for the neighborhood
some volunteers commenced,
fronts this street for several feet
behind a cyclone fence.

“I wish they’d put this somewhere else,”
my neighbor groused aloud.
“This used to be a quiet street.
Now every day’s a crowd.”

True, many gardeners come each day
to tend their tidy beds.
With backs bent low, they weed and sow,
as blood runs to their heads.

Perhaps someday we’ll see green stalks
of veggies grown with care.
But until then there’s just a crop
of butts up in the air.

Bookends (Slaking the Muse)

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I began April’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) with a poem about “Waking the Muse.” Now thirty days later (and 30 poems, though not all were posted), I will bookend the month with a sequel to the first poem. Hence:

Slaking the Muse

“Good morning!” I called as I came through the door.
“It’s time to learn what our next poem has in store.”
My muse gave a snort. “I’ve got ideas galore.
But haven’t you heard? I don’t work here no more.”

“What gives?” I inquired, with mounting distress.
“Your pen is not inked and your grammar’s a mess.”
“It’s over,” muse sighed, “perhaps all for the best.”
“But we’ve only just started!” I rushed to protest.

“No more NaPoWriMo, since April is gone.
No challenge, no prompt, so it’s time to move on.
To the bookcase I’ll go, with my Greek lexicon.
‘Midst these two huge thesauri you’ll find me anon.”

“Please don’t leave me now,” I implored with a cry.
“There will be no more poems without you at my side.”
“Indeed,” said my muse, looking ever so sly.
“Under better conditions, I’d perhaps longer bide.”

“What is it you want?” I knew I’d been had,
having first felt so glum, and now equally mad.
“I will double your pay, if you think it’s so bad.”
“Twice nothing is nothing.” Muse knows how to add.

“You can take some days off to relax and repose.”
“That serves as a start,” muse begrudgingly supposed.
“These dealings between us are still far from closed.
But we’d best start composing while I’m yet rhyme-disposed.”

Her thoughts so profound that in awe I must gasp,
at times muse’s musings I struggle to grasp.
My pen moves as fast as the strike of an asp,
and the rest will be history (once time has elapsed).

bookend 1

In the Stars

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4

star seed

I am Capricorn,
the sign of the goat.
Stubborn, hairy, smells bad?
Not very auspicious.

Born in the Year of the Rat.
Twitchy, gnawing,
no sense of fine cuisine?

My tarot card is The Devil.
Need I say more about that one?

“You are a star seed,” said the psychic.
“A star feed?”
“Yes, a star seed. Didn’t you know?”
No, no I didn’t. I’ll have to look that up.
Star feed…

I was born on the fourth of the month.
Compassionate, nature-loving, highly ethical.
Okay, a little boring, but I like it much better than
goats, rats and devils.

Zodiac, Chinese calendars, Tarot,
feeding stars…

I think I’ll take up numerology.

NaPoWriMo Challenge, Day 27:  pick a card (any card) from [an] online guide to the tarot, and then to write a poem inspired either by the card or by the images or ideas that are associated with it.

Preacher

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4

“Will you deliver the sermon?” he asks me.

One Sunday a year, the pastor teaches Sunday School
and asks parishioners to lead the worship service
in his stead.

Ha! Me? Preach a sermon?
I preach to my kids all the time,
mostly in the form of
“Do as I say, not as I do.”

A potential theme for a Sunday message, for sure,
but would it play well to the gray-haired majority of
this small congregation?

I think not.
It doesn’t even play well with my kids.

I hate public speaking!
And I’m none too endowed in the reverence department, either.
No way! I say to myself.
“Sure!” I say to the pastor.

On the given day, I rise to the podium.
(“It’s called a pulpit, dear” an angel whispers encouragingly.
“Shows just how qualified you are to stand behind it,”
scoffs the dude with the pointed tail.)
I look out over the sea of blue perms, bald pates, a few mullets…
and I gulp.

A voice I don’t recognize delivers anecdotes
mixed with pious postulations;
a splash of bible verse, a dash of poignant quotes
and a twist of lame joke.

Stirred, not shaken.

At one point, I tell a story about my young daughter
and I use the word “mom” a couple of times in succession.
From the rear of the sanctuary, a toddler responds.
“Mom?”
People laugh.
“From the mouths of babes,” I say.

Soon enough (or not soon enough, some may think)
the service ends.

Polite parishioners approach and tell me how well I did.
Truth be told, I thought it went pretty well myself.

A diminutive elderly woman tugs on my sleeve.
I bow slightly so I can hear her comment.
“You gave a very nice sermon,” she says, patting my arm.
“Thank you!” I beam.
“Of course, I couldn’t hear a word of it.”
She turns and slowly totters away
toward the cookie-laden tables in the fellowship hall.

At first I’m dismayed that she would complement
without having heard my sterling performance.
(“Performance?” the angel arches an eyebrow.)
But then, I think, maybe she’s on to something.

Without being put upon by someone else’s message,
she is free to rest in a pew on a Sunday morning,
surrounded by congenial peers
(“… and some noisy rugrats,” the horned heckler interjects),

and worship in her own choice of words.

Amen to that, I say.
Amen, says the angel.
Whatever, says the sulphurous cynic.

“Can we go home now?” asks my daughter.
“Let’s.”

Thus endeth my preaching career.

sg 11th partial

NaPoWriMo challenge, Day 23: write a poem based on sound.