There once was a man from Niagara
whose wiener's so long it would stab ya'
but when it got little
his pills became skittles
until he O.D.'d on Viagra
© ~JSLambert 2011*****A classic "stiff" competitor, standing "firm" amongst other "members" in the "thick" of the competition:) hope everyone gets "a rise" out of it!
Thea, grandfather Alferd's dog died, she was so old and sick
Now is Thea on the moon, says Adrian who is six
Michael Jackson died so unexpectedly and abruptly
He is on the moon and plays with Thea, says Adrian who is a big fan
Betzy, grandfather Arild's dog died, she was also old and sick
Now Betzy is also on the moon with Thea and Michael Jackson and play all day
Great Grandmother died so unexpectedly and abruptly
Adrian who is six had difficulty understanding
Adrian who is six cried many tears for Great Grandmother
but comforted himself with the fact that she is sitting on the moon and
makes waffles to Thea, Michael Jackson and Betzy
A-L Andresen :) - A true story -
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Since Kash revealed "her" secret, I have turned red.
All day I cried onto the pillow on my bed.
I think the whole true awful tale needs to be said.
A tragedy! I now feel like a blunderhead.
And though she is a vixen, I have to say I led
Kash on that “love rail” with me. Bold-spirited,
with lustful Soupmail, eagerly I visited
this "lass", who seems so manly! Lies had been fed
to me by her. She’s not a man, and I misread
her amorous responses. All my hope has fled!
There’s more! I’m gay. My real name's Andrew. Now with dread
I face the fact I can’t have Kash. My poor heart’s dead.
(I decided I better put an explanation here because I wrote this more than a year
ago for a contest in which we were supposed to write a poem that could be either
a lie or the truth. After Kashinath, my good friend and a MAN, wrote a very funny
poem proclaiming himself a woman, this was my way of doing a fictional poem in
response to his funny contest entry! OH, the poem of KASH POET is called A SECRET FUNNY TALE, I hope you will read it!)
For Shani Fassbender's really cool contest: Tell Me a Secret
And now for PD's contest: Make me Laugh
For the last few days
her depression had weighed
heavy, a thick woolen shroud,
her thoughts thickened by darkening clouds,
in an endless tunnel the sides closing in like a narrowing funnel.
She sat, immobile, staring
through the window of the house she'd built with such caring.
It'd started as a shack by a pond on some land
and she'd hammered and built it
with help from no man.
She kept adding on, room after room,
as if she, too, suffered from the Winchester doom.
Eccentric, they'd call her, if she had any bread,
but, since she was poor, she was "soft in the head."
A tiny little woman, emaciated, so thin,
she was not much more than frail bones under skin.
Yes, she was surely a pitiful thing,
shoulder blades jutting like primordial wings.
Like an old phonograph with its needle stuck,
she prayed for death, so far with no luck.
Suddenly there came a tremendous din,
like demons scratching on her roof of old tin.
Startled, heart pounding in her bird-cage chest,
she was suddenly afraid of a cardiac arrest.
Armed with her twelve gauge she crept to the door,
a thousand claws scratching, louder than before.
She'd always been brave and her life had been hard,
so, gun at the ready, she stepped into the yard.
Locked and loaded and aimed at the roof,
she feared for her life, to tell you the truth.
(Not minutes ago, she was begging for death,
now she was worried this might be her last breath.)
Then she looked at the roof and let out a gasp,
the rifle fell heavily from her stunned grasp.
There on the roof and thick in the trees,
was a sight that made her weak in the knees.
HUNDREDS of VULTURES all eye-balling her,
clacking their beaks as they seemed to concur.
Aunt Kate started laughing and laughed 'til she cried,
she hooped and she hollered, holding on to her sides.
The birds, having reasoned she'd make less than a bite,
stretched out their wings and took off in flight.
Her depression has lifted and, I heard a rumor,
that her life had been saved by God's sense of humor.
********Many thanks to Aunt Kate for this wonderful true story.**************
Extraordinary, I am
Craving for unusual thoughts
Endless exploration without boundary
Understanding the gift I shouldn't fought
Invisible drawings in my mind
Playing with the words in my head
The food of my soul
I feel so lucky
The random thoughts
A lifetime companion
A self esteem builder
A goal planner
Be my forever life saver
I write more
I talk less
I want to please
I chose to bore
What tickles me the most
Is to know what I'm for
Thinking is my love
When my mind goes empty
That's when I hate
My day dreaming lust
Organizing things in my mind
Playing roles of simulation
Where images of art is my vision
And words of attitude is my heart
Sitting through this gloomy day
I sit and stare and wait.
My mind begins to wonder still
with whats to come to date.
I sniff the air like a pack of wolves
in search of scent and smell.
My eye's scan round this dismal room
but its only me I tell.
So lets try something new this time
and hope its better yet,
I laugh at this my crazy mind,
I think he wants a bet.
Come on now this could be fun
you might just find a mate.
Let your fingers be your guide
and hope its not to late.
Well here we are the game at last,
he thinks he stands a chance.
What is it then this stench we have?
Or can you guess without a glance?
He tastes the air and fills his lungs
and shouts its apple toffee,
but he lacks a tongue to taste it all,
I plainly say its coffee.
I have entered many poetry contests
to display my best...an amazing number of sixty or more,
only one of my poems has won first place;
poets are like enduring athletes who fight to the very core!
One big hurray goes to myself for the first win,
congratulations to the other participants
who are on the top of that list, or have been
awarded Honorable Mentions for their efforts!
When my poem doesn't make it to the finalists's list,
I don't feel discouraged, I brazen out the doubt and try again;
even Lance Armstrong, with his skills, can't always win his race,
and the trophy must be given to someone else!
I rejoice when some of the chosen poets appear
on the winners' list; I am happy for their accomplishment,
and into a word-restricted message's box I gladly comment
on their poetry...with the insight of an achiever!
And for those whose names never made it as previously thought,
I honestly tell you, from experience, not to be a bit discouraged...
your time will come when your enthusiasm will require a big shout;
never put the word, " Winner " to rest, write for fun and persist instead!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
I do not know?
If one room of writing I can never leave,
Than faithful I will remain.
Dancing joy in books.
Paint my face with colorful ink,
Scrolls cloth me in bagginess.
Bringing a smile & laughter to overcome the pain,
My Witness indeed.
Looking down from the Heaven.
Lived I did,
Mostly dark moments.
My life past,
Living Sheol I thought could never be broken,
Ball & chain no more.
Welcome little boy in me,
Time to play!
Once in awhile he needs his nap.
Can the man take the pen?
Like every child he desires cookies & milk.
Cookies are the joices of others,
Milk to carry on after the reading in joyful hope.
Here I am Monty Python,
I'm signing on the dotted line!
By the way,
We'll discuss my pay later!
In my next life I want a mother who
loves me like she should,
and a father who is sober,
is that portion understood?
And please give me a brother who
treats me with humanity,
and whose talents do not teeter
on the sharp edge of insanity.
Lord, next time, make me beautiful,
with skin as smooth as cream,
and eyes the hue of twilight
and the riches of a queen.
And, God, grant me a singing voice
so I can rock on stage,
and let me meet my soul mate, Lord,
before I reach old age!
I say, the heck with Karma,
give me one life of pure bliss,
where troubles never find me
and nothing goes amiss.
Things'll be different, next time...
Just be still
still my beating heart
my beating heart
don't beat so loud
so the sound does
don't give me away
it has to
be my secret
can not give me away
please be quiet, just keep it
for some of us don't feel
just be still
even though my heart
is real just be still
Globally, miners jubilantly jump for joy
Smiles on the faces of every girl and boy
The grins of a newly opened Xmas toy
Trade unionists bounce along the street
Music blaring and the tapping of feet
From nurses to Bobbies still on the beat
Street parties announced in the nation
Satan who brought economic inflation
Is deceased, now’s the time for elation
Its times like this I’m sad I’m an atheist
And can only shout and wave my fist
And then go to the pub and get pissed
Green, green, is my lady's face
If ever friends become common place
Should I converse with others too long
She hangs her head in selfish disgrace.
When another comes along
And she catches me glancing wrong
Her attention then becomes quite keen
With her grip becoming doubly strong!
Green, green, is my lady's sheen
And you may just consider it mean
That I would elate to see her changed
To that covetous shade of pea green.
You see, she's a wee bit strange
In fact I think she may be deranged
For, she purposely ruins all my moods
I just can't wait until we're estranged!
Green, green, and terribly prude
And a great cook if you like stale food
She's always asking, "Is she the one?"
To names my conversation alludes.
She seems to weigh a whole ton
And withdraws if I ever have fun
Then, should I ever come home at dawn
She makes me recall the things I've done.
Green, green, is that devil's spawn
Who always makes me feel withdrawn
And when she pressures me to excess
I close my eyes and wish she was gone.
Well, I really should confess
My lady is....."Lady Loneliness"
And only Father Time will attest
To her who lays my lady to rest.
Timothy I. Brumley
F.ree T.he W.aves
f.REE t.HE w.AVES
F.ree T.he W.aves!!!
Is what they say,,
Got my self some true tales
About the world today.
Oil job site fails.
Poor Sea World has to pay.
I found many black sea shells
Oil got in their way.
I wanna claw my nails.
On B.P.for turning our sand to clay
I can sit and give details
How they ruin our ocean bay
Instead I'm sending mean E-MAIL's
Expressing anger for their oily display.
How their stupidities drop our sales.
I hope they choke while eating a sea buffet
I hope someone feeds them sting-ray tails
As they drink coffee at there sea side cafe.
Everything sooner or later prevails
And ocean life will once again find a way.
God send them rain hit them with heavy hail
It's to late for B.P.to pray..
2 months of a black grave trail
((LOL)), B.P.you angered the US.A.
Getting off easy with no jail
That does not make things okay.
I will not wish you all to go to hell
After making the ocean a bigger body of dead prey
Your clean up time is slower than a sea snail
Many uncalled dead seagulls are found in your oily decay
Funny how the president takes the heat of your bail.
You screwed our blue ocean water to a stream of black and grey.
An oil site ran by a higher percent of males
Oh well what can you expect and say.
With the world in the way of oil spills.
Is like B.P.oil's is saying F.T.W.anyway.
While we the protesters say, F.ree T.he W.hales!!!
F.T.W.=free the whales!!!!!
Bob had a special talent
That only worked in his men’s store.
He had ‘clothing ESP’.
He knew what his customers wanted…and more.
When customer would come into his store
Bob would invariably say,
“Hello. I'm Bob. Don’t say a word.
I already know what you need today.”
And he was always right,
Never missed a color, fabric, style or size.
He even knew the necessary alterations.
Customers couldn’t believe their ears and eyes.
Meanwhile, in another part of town,
Joe had a pounding, relentless migraine
For every minute for more than five years,
It had driven him near insane.
He’d lost his job to the pain.
Then, he lost his wife.
He had lost a lot of weight and rarely slept.
Yes, his was a miserable life.
And, of course, sex was out of the question…
Even a little self-abuse.
There was nothing left for Joe but pain.
He felt his life was of no use.
So, Joe went to his doctor.
“Doc, please help me end this pain.
Give me something to make me sleep
And never wake up again.”
“You know I can’t assist your suicide.”,
Then he looked sad, perhaps ashamed.
“I never dreamed it would last five years,
But I know how to end the pain.”
“You can make it go away?!
Tell me, Doc! What’s the word?”
“I’ll have to remove your testicles.”
Was the last thing that Joe heard.
But…when he came to, it struck him.
Sex was out of the question anyway;
But he might enjoy his meals again,
And he could sleep for days.
“Please check me in, Doc.
This opportunity I cannot shirk.”
So, the doctor removed his testicles.
He did his very best work.
A few days later, Joe waddled along,
Headache free and feeling pretty nice;
But every attractive woman he saw
Reminded him of his sacrifice.
He decided it was appropriate
To do something nice for himself for a change.
So, he went into a travel agency;
And a six month cruise he arranged.
As he left the travel agency,
He was excited, feeling ready to go;
But for such a glorious adventure,
He would need new clothes.
As he walked along, he saw Bob’s Men's Store.
He walked in, only to hear Bob say,
“Hello. I’m Bob. Don’t say a word.
I already know what you need today.”
“How could you know?” asked Joe.
“It’s a gift. I don’t know how, but I do.
You’ve suffered five years with an ailment,
Found relief, so now you’re taking a cruise.”
Joe could not believe his ears.
How could this stranger possibly know?
"You're right! That's amazing!
And I'm going to need new clothes."
Bob then laid out a fabulous wardrobe
All the right colors, fabrics, styles…and each size.
Joe was incredibly impressed.
He could hardly believe his ears and eyes.
“How do you like the wardrobe?”
“It’s wonderful!” Bob could see that Joe was pleased.
“Now,” said Bob, “What about undergarments;
You know…shorts and tees?
Let’s see…medium crew neck tees, all cotton.
I believe that you prefer white….
And jockey shorts, all cotton…. 34s.
Yes, I'm sure that’s right.”
Joe beamed, “You’re an amazing talent
And I just this second realized,
You've laid out this entire wardrobe
And only missed one size.”
Bob, surprised by his mistake, asked, “Really?
What did I miss? I did my best for you.”
“Well…you’re right.” said Joe, “I do wear Jockeys,
But…well…I wear 32s.
“Oh, no!” said Bob with an ugly grimace.
“That would be a serious mistake.
Thirty-twos will cramp your balls,
You’ll get migraine headaches.”
One more alien... an extra terrestrial. Bloody foreigners.
Angels in heaven
Dancing on a small puddle
Always stay afloat
Why can’t I do it how I want to do it?
Been told my rhymes are simplistic at best
I may violate pentameter but I write what I like
Why must it pass some journal’s vapid test?
Behind a block of writer’s I’ve been hiding
Cowed by thoughts of editing snafus
Trying to write deep, intensive tomes of valid lore
Only to be chastened and abused
There’s elegance found in concise expression
Saying all the world in just a line
No matter that I know this I belabor all my thoughts
Create an elegy for elegance in time
Onomatopoeia is my best friend
And alliteration waltzes through my dreams
Thoughts chatter, clatter, chirp and clunk around about my head
Demanding that they be released in streams
And after I have done what I have done here
Exposed my heart by opening my head
I send it forth with hope that someone will enjoy my words
And get rejection letters in their stead
But won’t you like my poem just a little?
I promise it won’t be a trite conceit
You say my writing’s convoluted, so, I strive to simplify it
Then you call my writing sophomoric and cheap
Yet still my writing exists, remonstrating
That whether it be ballad or blank verse
It should be able to do just exactly what it feels like
And it finds you and your editing, perverse
It says it does not care if it is published
Doesn’t want you to consider it profound
For if you did then it might accidentally be common
And make cool people like me put it down
But won’t you like my poem just a little?
At the very least try to be noncommittal
If you lost a hope
here is a nice fluffy rope
and a scented soap.
Watch this scene with both eyes and try not to blink C: -->
I stood there... silently
Like a predator near prey
I sneak behind YOU
You weren't even aware of it!! Ha-ha!
I made YOU jump hIgH
Like a startled hare
I chuckle and smile
You know that mischievous smile of mine?
Your reaction was
PRICELESS - you were so upset
But YOU forgave me
Well...I'm flattered. . .
We laugh'd together (just like the good times)
In a chorus - our volume
Picked up extreme sound
Believe me - I could hear our laughter from a mile away!
But I'm glad I did
My best to make you giggle
Wouldn't you agree?
im livin in a world, where all eyes on me.
trying to curve my own route.
but route 66 keeps finding its way to me.
ive been plenty sick, in all the events layed before me.
even when i reflect to my lowest points
i dont regret any of the choices
That I’ve deployed in my era
A lot of it by error, but hey
We live in hell conditions and there ain’t no air condition
Or any guidelines when life throws you in the sidelines
But when hindsight twenty twenty hits
You’ll begin to understand life’s a bunch of equations and you in the mix of it
An you’ll have to think twice, before running into a situation and becoming the best of it
it’s what got me here, it’s what got us here
Ran with my thoughts blazing up to her place and
Guess what happened next
She opened up heaven’s gate
And just before late I slipped out
I’m a Grown ass man
Doin his thing, waitin to blow up like an old land mine
In doin what he drools over
But time after time
Something decides to creep up and cover the light
Lost my way
Then I revoked to ever know, I ever thought that way
But in the in between time, that in the mean time
Spent a lot of time
Gettin pissed off just to medicate and lift off
Don’t need Don Perion to sip off
Already had my way with the bottle
Even thought to get back with the trouble and rejoin the hustle
That’s just what happens to a man who really knows his old ways
Whos tired of making ends meet and ponders getting back to the streets.
Memory sets in and he remembers an O.G. saying
No matter how tall your pockets stand when you ball
Eventually times gonna make you fall
And I as I pull myself together
I don’t wanna end up like the twin towers rubble
I mean no offence to nine eleven but at that time I probably could have used a reverend
But all that’s irrelevant now
because i live with a different perspective now
there you go you made it to the end :-) comment if you like, constructive criticism wanted as well.
I must be getting old.
But I will not be told.
Those stairs are hard to climb.
I will not moan and whine.
Bending to tie up shoes.
Waiting in those long queues.
Once young, now aging fast.
Soon I’ll have that free bus pass.
Flailin’, flailin’, flailin’;
There goes my ball sailin’
Into a trap, the water or the woods.
Flailin’, flailin’, flailin’;
You can hear me wailin’,
“Why won’t that damn ball go where it should?
Drives go right. Putts go wrong.
I shank my wedges or ‘skull’em’ long.
My golf game’s just no damn good.
I’m swingin’ too hard & lookin’ up;
As if I’ll actually see it go in the cup….
As if it ever really would.
My alignment’s too far left or right.
My ball can find the only tree or trap in sight,
Even if the shot starts out lookin’ good.
These days, I carry some special tools:
A handheld weed eater with extra spools
And a pruning saw, in case I’m in the woods.
I’ve even tried to ‘buy’ a better game.
No matter. My scores were just as lame.
Those new clubs didn’t do what they should.
Bogies & doubles...even triples... are common scores.
I very rarely get pars any more.
Believe me, I’d change it if I could.
My buddies said it must be me,
A teaching pro I should go see.
They said he’d fix my game…..if anybody could.
The pro said, “Hit some balls while I watch you.
Just set up and hit’em like you normally do.
We’ll see if I can do your game any good.”
After the first bucket of balls I hit,
He calmly said, “Take two weeks off…then quit.
Take my advice. You really should.”
Now, what really has me vexed,
I’m wondering what I’ll try next.
That pro’s advice was no damn good.
So, I struggle along with my flailin’ game;
But, strangely enough, have fun just the same,
Finding hope in rare shots that are actually good.
Yet he lets bad things happen
How can he exist?
What's in a sound, that has no word
But to our souls and spirits it’s the best thing heard
Laughter is a pleasant sound,
It spreads joy all around.
Whether you're young or old, laughter can be like magic to our souls
Even with a joke to a boring person laughter can control
A cure for something that seems impossible to endure
Laughter comes spontaneously
And makes you happier instantly
I think worry is an invisible tumor
But it can be cured by humor
To giggles, sniggers, chuckles, mutters, murmurs, and mumbles
I laugh so hard my words start to stutter and stumble
Who could not love the sound of laughter to it there is such a happy ring
And the simple gift of laughter it is such a wonderful thing
Laughter is the best medicine
While crying is an unforgivable sin
To laugh is always such great fun
It relieves the soul, the heart, and the lungs
“The person who knows how to laugh at himself will never cease to be amused.”
Contractual agreements with publisher caused DELETION
Oh the internet
A battle ground for morons
Will we ever learn?
The head of British Gas
will take a pay cut.
Your favourite watering hole
will never shut.
There may be acid rain
because the ozone layer is kaput,
it’ll be OK.
Elvis Presley will announce
that he is well and truly dead.
You will be given a wage
to stay in bed.
There may be squatters
in your garden shed,
it’ll be OK.
There’ll be a non-stop funfair
in your local park.
Granny muggers will prowl
the streets in the dark.
There may be need
to build a fall-out Ark,
it’ll be OK.
Leicester City will achieve
the Cup and League double.
Politicians will resign
when in trouble.
You may have to live
in a pollution-free bubble,
it’ll be OK.
Lady Gaga will become
the Antichrist (or Pope).
Cliff Richard will crack
and start smoking dope.
You may have to listen
to another Tim Vine Joke,
it’ll be OK.
Footballers will not dispute
the yellow card.
Salman Rusdie will not need
an armed guard.
The next London airport
may be New Scotland Yard,
it’ll be OK.
Scope is the drink sans pleasure
That always burns a hole
And stings your gums -and have you heard
It's worse than vile gall
And Listerine is more absurd
And sure your tongue to harm
Yet mouthwash wasn't meant to hurt
Like an acidic storm
Therefore imbibe with caution and
You'll find that you agree
Another beverage there ne'er will be
So full of caustic glee
For Brian Strand's "Adaption" contest
Parody of Poem #254 - "Hope" by Emily Dickinson
Poem #254 by Emily D ickinson
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
For sale a bunch of fine unused words, many misspelled
Poet can’t uses them; mind is on strike, the pen has been stilled
These words never used for they never quite seemed to fit
Got them online; advertisement said they were a complete poetry kit
Can’t send them back because I did use a few; the remainder unused
Selling at half price; many are funny words which will leave you amused