Bloganuary prompt: What makes you laugh?
“I’d say cherry Pop Tart.”
Dogs Make Me Laugh
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“I’d say cherry Pop Tart.”
Tag Archives: humor
“I’d say cherry Pop Tart.”
Tattle Tail
Droplets
Rain drops, water falls.
Sometimes it gets sloshed and spills.
Clumsy H2O.
What Just Happened?
Day Two of NaPoWriMo. Today’s prompt:
Write a poem that resists closure by ending on a question, inviting the reader to continue the process of reading (and, in some ways, writing) the poem even after the poem ends.
End with a question? Are you sure?
What Just Happened?
Say, did you hear that noise just now?
No? Neither did I.
What do you suppose it was?
Or wasn’t.
Could have been most anything,
but you know what I think?
I think it was nothing; a very quiet nothing.
Came out of nowhere, and went…
nowhere.
You think I hear things that aren’t really there?
Where did you hear that?
Never mind, that’s neither here nor there.
Fact is, I’m not hearing things that aren’t really there.
Nothing wrong with that, is there?
Who am I to judge a sound by its absence?
Speaking of sound judgment…
are you thinking what I’m thinking?
No? Me neither.
What do you suppose it was?
How to
Day One of NaPoWriMo. The prompt:
[W]rite poems that provide the reader with instructions on how to do something.
Herewith,
How To
There’s so many things I’ve yet to learn,
like where and why and what and who.
So who said what, why is it where
most try to teach “how to?”
How to fall in love;
how to win it back.
How to lose the oaf
when his façade cracks.
How to earn big bucks
quick and easily,
how to file the forms
for your bankruptcy.
How to win respect from
those you disdain,
how to show concern
with sympathy feigned.
I won’t tell you how
to live your life.
It takes patience, care
and sometimes strife.
But I’ll gladly show how
to change your and my luck
with just four installments
of twenty bucks.
Rodent Robbers
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.”
Let Sleepy Towns Lie
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.
World Within Bivalves
For you,
I would move heaven and earth.
But where in the world would I put them?
The world is your oyster.
I shall place heaven and earth in an oyster.
Universal themes, these.
Pearls of wisdom.
Heaven and earth on the half shell.
Street Names
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.
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)
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).
What Rhymes with Stanza? 