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Ode Humorous Poems | Ode Poems About Humorous

These Ode Humorous poems are examples of Ode poems about Humorous. These are the best examples of Ode Humorous poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Quatrain |

Ode to the Not So Innocent Fifties

If only I had been a teen in the Fifties
I'm sure I would have had "Happy Days",
Like Fonzie I would have donned a leather jacket
And young babes would have lavished me with praise

Like James Dean I would have that swagger
There'd be a cigarette hanging from my lips
I'd have the right moves on the dance floor
They would say "Check out those Elvis Hips!"

You would see me riding down main street 
On my Harley with a babe on the back
Making our way to A&W
The best burger before a Mac attack

Once done eating we'd go to the Drive in
If dad would lend me his new Chevrolet
The back seat would be way more comfortable
Then a roll in the barn in the hay!

With fogged windows we wouldn't see the Movie
We'd still hear Humphry Bogart and Becall 
Passionately rounding all love's bases
Not concearned about the movie at all!

So now I am living in my fifties
I'm Fifty three years old to be exact
The back seats have gotten much smaller
And I am way to uncool to attract!

For Kelly Deschler's Decade Contest.

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015


Details | Rhyme |

Ode To Bacon

Ode To Bacon

I woke up to thoughts of you
I can almost see you now.
I long for just a little lick,
to taste of you somehow.

This hunger in my body,
this hunger in my mind.
Every time I get this urge
it's you I look to find.

I don't know how it happened,
I never even saw it start.
It seems that I was born a man
with bacon in my heart.

The crackle and the sizzle
it is my favorite sound.
The only part I really hate
you come in just one pound.

I think of you I drink of you
you are my finest wine.
Thick sliced and smoked with maple
I'm so glad you are mine.

Piled high on top of bread
or sprinkled on a salad.
Someday of my love for you
someone will write a ballad.

Where I will be the hero
from a fate that's worse than death.
And then spend eternity
with bacon on my breath.

Together as it's meant to be
with all the love we're makin.
Tattooed across my tummy.
My heart belongs to bacon.

Edwin C Hofert

Copyright © Edwin Hofert | Year Posted 2015

Details | Ode |

one race

The firmament above, beneath we exist,
This diversity in divine artistry
Same eyes divers sizes
Different skin same sin
Different color same honor
Same human same humor
Why try to sort out maize from corn? They are all same
Cus just one shot, your race wont spare you

Copyright © victor nwakanma | Year Posted 2015


Details | Quatrain |

An Ode To Pink Poop



Imagine if our poop was a pretty pink Or smelled like a dozen red roses Beautiful music was heard when we tooted There'd be no need for holding noses We'd relish the thought of soiling our whites To show off a new shade of pink And proud to fart Ludwig's Fifth Symphony While sitting on the throne by the sink It can possibly be construed as a bit unusual To be writing a poem about poop But pink poop deserves special recognition So let's all just let out a big whoop! Imagine if our poop was a pretty pink And smelled to high heaven of roses We'd be so proud of our load of pink magic There'd be no need for holding noses © Jack Ellison 2013

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2013

Details | Limerick |

ODE TO CHOCOLATE COLLABORATION WITH DALE GREGORY COZART

To chocolate I pay my respects Some folks say its better than sex whether milk dark or white Ev’ry bar I must bite or I'll get a lack of choccy complex I NEED chocolate it’s an unwritten rule I'm a woman not a blithering fool Give me a constant supply On days that end with a Y when choc’s smeared round my mouth it looks cool Most women love something that’s sweet And chocolate it cannot be beat Deny them and they’ll pout Choc is all they think about Many men think it's all that they'll eat. Collaboration with Dale Gregory Cozart *** Dale posted the poem yesterday and it turned into a collaboration - please feel free to add your poem to his page *** https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/ode_to_chocolate_collaboration_923276 07-26-17

Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2017

Details | Ode |

Ode to a Golf Ball

O tiny, dimpled sphere, virginal white,  
Whooshing on your preordain-ed flight:     
What motivates your Lord to curses spew  
When you've done naught but to his swing be true?   

Slice, and down he calls the wrath of God  
On you and those who made you;  
Hook, and here he whines you failed to heed  
His clear intent to fade you.  

You moved, he reasons, at the bottom of the downswing of the shot  
(As if, inanimate jot, you have the power to move, or not).  
“You’re old,” he mutters when a feeble, graceless effort  
Sends you only laughing distance off the tee.  
“Too bold,” he sputters when a misselected iron 
Flies you over green to rest behind a tree.  

Err as physics dictate, and Lo!, you are to blame;
Perform as he expects of you, no credit's due, 
Only commands that you do more of same.  

You are twice cut by lethal hacks that scar your face with "smiles.” 
(“Grimace” is the better word.)  
While the acid words he throws at you,
The vitriol he blows at you,
Drain his duffer's bile.

Injustice is your lot, bedeviled wretch, until you cease 
Behind a bush or in some pond find peace;  
For when you’re lost in water, wood, or shrub, 
The cretin will commence to fault his club.

1/5/2016

Any Poem Contest
Sponsor: Broken Wings

Copyright © Steve Grammatico | Year Posted 2016

Details | Quatrain |

An Ode To Brussel Sprouts



This is quite a bit overdue my friends It's an ode to Brussel Sprouts Those delicious spherical bundles of joy Not too popular hereabouts Poor wee fellows just want to be loved Along with the other veggies They've long had a real image problem About as popular as a wedgie Thinking of starting a worldwide petition Any Soupers wishing to join Send a hundred dollars to me, Jester Jack You'll receive a commemorate coin Along with the coin you'll receive a bushel Of these oh so luscious little critters As a bonus for ordering before December An autographed picture of John Ritter Hey, it rhymes doesn't it !!! © Jack Ellison 2013

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ode |

THE SCHOOL REPORT

Ha ha ha ha. Here's a poem for all the UK and USA school teachers who are writing any school reports - and they want to tell the real truth about their pupils!!!!!!


THE SCHOOL REPORT


I’m writing here a useful
guide
For those who’ve never
taught,
To help you understand
the terms
Used in a school report.

Teachers are most careful
when
They write the term’s 
events;
They’re honest but they’re
careful
So as not to give offence.

A “lively child” is often one
You peel off a wall.
To call him bad or even 
mad
Just wouldn’t do at all.

“Lacking motivation” is a
Coded way of saying:
‘He doesn’t lift a finger but
Likes gossiping and playing.’

A child that’s “lacking social
skills” 
In terms both straight and
crude,
Is one who snatches what he
wants –
In fact, he’s bloody rude!

“Lacking presentation skills”
Is nothing more or less
Than saying his work’s 
unreadable;
‘It’s all a scruffy mess.’ 

So when you open his 
report
Please stay that generous
hand,
Top of his class, or sat on
his a**e?
Make sure you understand.

BY
DARRYL ASHTON

Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2014

Details | Ode |

THE GRUMBLE FAMILY

THE GRUMBLE FAMILY



There's a family nobody likes to meet;
They live, it is said, on Complaining Street
In the city of Never-Are-Satisfied,
The River of Discontent beside.

They growl at that and they growl at this;
Whatever comes, there is something amiss;
And whether their station be high or humble,
They are all known by the name of Grumble.

The weather is always too hot or cold;
Summer and winter alike they scold.
Nothing goes right with the folks you meet
Down on that gloomy Complaining Street.

They growl at the rain and they growl at 
the sun;
In fact, their growling is never done.
And if everything pleased them, there isn't 
a doubt
They'd growl that they'd nothing to grumble 
about!

But the queerest thing is that not one of the 
same
Can be brought to acknowledge his family 
name;
For never a Grumbler will own that he
Is connected with it at all, you see.

The worst thing is that if anyone stays
Among them too long, he will learn their ways;
And before he dreams of the terrible jumble
He's adopted into the family of Grumble.

And so it were wisest to keep our feet
From wandering into Complaining Street;
And never to growl, whatever we do,
Lest we be mistaken for Grumblers, too.

Let us learn to walk with a smile and a song,
No matter if things do sometimes go wrong;
And then, be our station high or humble,
We'll never belong to the family of Grumble!

BY
DARRYL ASHTON

Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2014

Details | Ode |

A VERY NASTY COLD

A VERY NASTY COLD


I’ve got a cold. I must
admit – 
I’m feeling pretty low,
My head feels full of
bed stuff – 
I hope its quick to go.

My throat feels full 
of gravel. 
My neck won’t support 
my head.
Small tasks are quite
beyond, 
I just can’t get out of 
bed.

My muscles ache as if
some beats is pulling
me apart.
On top of that, my 
head is being stabbed
by a large dart.

I’ve got the shivers,
hot and cold.
No comfort can be
found.
I feel if a foot came
down
And crashed me on
the ground.

My skin is blotchy,
dry and sore.
I’ve got a nasty
nose.
My eyes don’t
function properly.
I hope this feeling 
goes.

Suddenly, just
overnight,
My body feels so
old.
I’m now feeling
sorry for myself.
Cos I’ve got a 
very nasty cold.

BY
DARRYL ASHTON   
    

Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2014

Details | Bio |

Solitude: To Yoda, An Ode

Green bark a prism creates,
Feel the pull of earth, you must.

Rotates, a slime of endless hates,
Can hold me not, this world’s crust.

Friendship’s ties, isolation Deflates,
Succumbs, my spaceship, to bitter rust.

Mist, my soul forever permeates,
Lift-off, booms the rocket’s thrust.

My spirit when light returns, elates,
Swamps swell, swallowed hope’s swirling dust.

Trapped, I am, until student from fate
Arrives to learn; Cloud City or bust.

Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ode |

REST IN PEACE CORONATION STREET

REST IN PEACE CORONATION STREET

 

It is with real sadness and deep regret that we announce the death of Coronation Street. Born in December 1960 in a back street in Manchester, it grew up to become the most watched and best-loved series on television. Noted for all its wit, sharp storylines and strong characters, Coronation Street was unmissable. Fans flocked to Granada Studios to see the place of its birth, and videos of its life and times sold in their thousands.

Millions of fans adored its residents, which included Ena Sharples and Elsie Tanner, whose presence and confrontations on screen crackled and mesmerised; the unforgettable Hilda and Stan Ogden who knew their place (deep in our hearts); and Ken and Deirdre with their continual rows and love interests. For years, it entertained and reigned supreme, regularly topping the viewing charts.

But, almost unnoticed, Coronation Street became ill. An occasional deviation from the script here, a far-fetched storyline there, and the introduction of characters who seemed to have lost their way en route to an Eastenders audition. Fans noticed. What was happening?

In denial, Coronation Street refused to go to the doctor. Gradually its main characters were usurped and suffocated as ‘modern families’, and ‘storylines relevant to today’ took over.

A cancer of political correctness set in. Terminally stricken, Coronation Street grew worse and, unable to watch the death of an old friend, viewers deserted it. There were many at the funeral: scriptwriters who thought, wrongly, that they could raise the dead, and actors and actresses who were glad of the work but knew little of the deceased.

The real Coronation Street was brilliant in its day. Now, friends of the late series can only mourn: they thought it would go on for ever. No flowers by request, but a donation to any organisation teaching scriptwriting would be most appreciated.

 

BY
DARRYL ASHTON        

Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2015

Details | Ode |

AN ODE TO DODO EYEBROWS

AN ODE TO DODO EYEBROWS


When I was in my 20s,
With eyebrows thick
and black,
I bought a pair of 
tweezers
To go on the attack.

And when I overdid it,
And made the brows
too thin,
I bought an eyebrow
pencil
For marking them
back in.

And sometimes. when
I tweaked them
To non-existent state,
I knew that they would
grow again;
I only had to wait.

But no one ever told
me,
Back in those days gone
by,
That if you keep on
plucking,
The roots begin to die.

It's almost an addiction
To tidy just one more;
But like the kitchen 
table joke,
You end up on the floor.

I should have let them
flourish,
So delicately linked;
But like the poor old
dodo,
My eyebrows are extinct.

I hate the morning mirror.
My face is just a blank.
And middle age is bad
enough
Without all this to thank.

My figure's still attractive,
My hair is nicely curled.
But still I've got my
eyebrows on,
I cannot face the world.

So tidy if you have to,
But further - let them be.
Unless, of course, in later
life,
You want to look like me.

BY
DARRYL ASHTON

Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2016

Details | Ode |

GRANNY'S LITTLE LAPTOP

GRANNY'S LITTLE LAPTOP


Granny has a laptop,
its sleek and shiny new;
She gazes at it fondly,
and wonders... what to 
do?

She keeps it gently on 
her lap,
she really thinks its nice,
She doesn't like the mouse 
at all,
she's very scared of mice!

But soon she'll start blogging
and take the world by storm,
With precise posts on ecology,
and why our globe is warm!

She'll be in touch on email,
with family friends on the net;
And keep us all enthralled,
with her global tete-a-tete!

She'll engage in quirky forums,
and have a million fans,
Asking for her recipes,
of fish curries and flans!

She'll keep the world begging,
for her poetry and prose,
For her masterpiece in Egyptology,
for the stories that she knows!

So, get set darling Granny,
we're so happy you're online,
You're a Granny in a million,
I'm so glad you're mine!!!

BY
DARRYL ASHTON

Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2014

Details | Ode |

TIL DEATH US DO PART - MY NAME IS ALFRED GARNETT

MY NAME IS ALFRED GARNETT


(With apologies to Johnny 
Speight)


My name is Alfred Garnett,
and I'm married to a silly 
moo,
'Every time I come home
from work - she tells me
what to do!'

I am a Tory supporter - 
well, someone has to be - 
I keep on praising Ted
Heath - he lived at bleak
house for free!

I work very hard every
day - and I have a little
groan,
And when I was told to
work a three day week - 
oh, I really did have a
moan! 

I like to smoke my pipe
a lot - but the tobacco
costs too much - 
It is my only pleasure -
the sex is out of touch!!

We now have a new 
home help - his name 
is Marigold Winston - 
But because he's like 
a woman - I call it 
bloody treason!

He prances about in a
pinny - and he talks
in an African dialect - 
Why did the bloody 
council pick him? Could
they not be a bit more 
select?

Now I call him Marigold - 
he's always prancing
about,
He really is an eyesore - 
he always has to shout! 

But he does know his
place - he loves his
kitchen duties,
He cooks and cleans
like a demented queen - 
and he cleans my dirty
britches!

My wife, Else, God Bless
her soul - is up in 
heaven now,
But the DHSS stopped
her pension - she's left
me skint - the cow!

I've called the social
services - they are no
bloody good,
They act just like the
DHSS - they don't pay
me like they should!   

My name is Alfred 
Garnett - and I often
have a beer - 
It is my only pleasure - 
now I've lost my, Elsie'
dear!

People say I'm a racist - 
and a bigot, and a 
whinger, 
I think they've got the
wrong person - some
said I was their saviour!!!!

I love to watch West Ham - 
(up the hammers) - and 
watch it all for nothing;
'I even used a wheelchair - 
while the stewards weren't
looking!!' 

I want to say goodbye 
to you - and I thank you
for being true,
Oh, how I miss my Elsie - 
that bloody silly moo!!    

BY
DARRYL ASHTON

Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2015

Details | Ode |

MY COMPUTER

MY COMPUTER


My computer has a language
That is foreign to me
It speaks of RAM and Gigabytes
And what could ROM be!  

I don't understand the Windows
My computer says are there
Nor the Gem Clip at the side of 
my page
Wth eyes that blink and stare!  

I don't unerstand the cures
That maintenance wizards do
It's called defragmenter, scan 
disk,
And virus cleaning too!  

Yet, computer and I work hand 
and eye
With a mouse to translate
The tasks that I want it to do
While it points out my mistakes!

BY
DARRYL ASHTON

Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2014

Details | Ode |

THE TV NEWS DOES NOT AMUSE

THE TV NEWS DOES NOT AMUSE


The world is full of doom
and gloom, no matter
where you go,
It does its best to inject
us all – and make us all
feel low.

Those depressing and 
boring newspapers, they
invade our minds so much,
As their insidious news – 
grabs you by the crutch!

There is simply no escape
from this horrible disease,
And all we want the papers
to do – is publish good news
with ease.

Even the TV news – it’s full
of death and scandal,
And it never lets up at all – 
I think they’ve lost their
handle!

Tales of destruction – and
of death – it can drive us 
all mad,
And all I want to do – is 
feel a little less sad!

One word, especially, it
really is an entity –
It pops up in nearly every 
sentence, it is of course;
“ALLEGEDLY!”

Those depressing and 
boring TV news readers – 
they really are well paid,
Because if they weren’t – 
they’d all be on parade!

They like to dress so smart,
there’s nothing wrong 
with that;
‘But all that is missing – is a 
silly, dapper hat!’ 

They think they are 
celebrities, that is strictly
speaking,
But when they read the
boring news – I want to
give them a good smacking!

So can I make this plea – on
behalf of the nation:
“Give us more good news – 
so we can have a CELEBRATION!”

Will my request be in vain? 
and be ignored by those editors?
As they carry on waffling their
“doom” and “gloom” – it really is
infectious!

BY
DARRYL ASHTON           
        

Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2014

Details | Rhyme |

Ode To A Misguided Mouser

There was a young feline named Jackson,
Who wanted a piece of the action.
While hunting for rats, Jack
Got into a spat, with a strange little
Creature known to us as a bat.
 
This then is the fact of the matter.
The bat proved as 'mad as a hatter'.
And it paid with it's life,
Causing Jackson much strife:
Bad luck for the poor little ratter.
 
They arrested the cat in a hurry
And woe to this poor furry purry.
Without even a trial, he was put on 'The Mile'
Where his life became drab and quite dreary.
 
Jack's been sitting there day after day,
Quite bored and just pining away.
While dreaming of mousies and birds on the wing,
Of hair balls and catnip and such kitty things.
 
"How long, oh how long must I pay?
Please won't someone just whisk me away?
Back to my home where a kitty can roam
And stay out-of-doors all live, long day."
 
The end of this tale I hope tell,
Will find Jack finally leaving his cell,
To be welcomed back home, once again
Free to roam, older and wiser and well.
 
"No more bats for this cat",  Jackson moans.
And it seems that he's learned on his own:
It's far better than not, to keep up with ones shots,
Than call three feet of jail space your home! 


© 2015 Diane Lefebvre

Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015

Details | Ballad |

An Ode to the Thighs

The mountain, it was steep.
The snow was very deep.
Caused involuntary “ahs”
from anyone who saw.

To get up to the top
was not some little hop.
It took tram, chair and poma
to tackle that big momma.

To start from the summit,
a near vertical plummet,
took the heart of a lion,
and left most people cryin’.

He checks skis, boots and poles,
but really he just knows,
he’s putting off the trauma,
the approaching descent drama.

It’s really exhilarating.
His heart is fibrillating.
He sucks up, screams and GOES,
and attacks the chest-deep snow.

It’s man against the mountain.
On his wits he is a countin’,
for to miss one little turn,
means a faceload full of burn.

He turns, he slips, he sails.
It seems he never fails,
to again make it down,
to that quaint little town.

With heart so pure and strong,
it doesn’t take too long.
He’ll never give up the fight
to conquer fields of white.

He goes again, again
The battle he does win
between the fields of snow
and our mighty hero.

The day comes to an end.
Misfortunes do portend.
Our hero’s not come in –
Good god, what’s happenin’?

A cry goes through the town.
Our hero has gone down.
The patrolman are a scurryin’.
The crowds they are a worryin’.

My gosh, good god, oh my
catch a glimpse as he goes by.
Our hero’s on a gurney.
Why’s he on this journey?

Is he hurt – did he crash?
His head a tree did bash?
Please say it isn’t so
Come on, we gotta know.

Speculation runs a flutter.
The crowds they stand and mutter,
with faces stained by tear,
they say “Please help us here”.

The data is a mess.
His friends they won’t confess.
So people stand and stare
at their seeming lack of care.

On his buds there is no frown -
just big smiles all around.
They don’t understand the cries -
he merely thrashed his thighs.

Copyright © Mark Hamilton | Year Posted 2014

Details | Ode |

If I was Leonard Nimoy

If I was Leonard Nimoy I would rush about the place, 
I would hold my long pointy fingers in front of me as I sprang from door to door,
My pointy boots deftly propelling me from shadow to shadow my pointy ears sleek in the dark,
I would wear an elf’s cloak like a slender bony wraith and be like Pan in the woods.

If I was Leonard Nimoy, ceaselessly running here and there,
I would fondle things, peruse things, and look under things and open cupboards,
A real nosey sneak, climbing through windows and going through draws,
I’d sniff other people’s belongings with my long sensitive nose,
trying on peoples clothes, reading their diaries, wearing their shoes.

If I was Leonard Nimoy I would be a real cheeky bastard,
Quickly rushing about, hands in front, cloak flapping behind,
Stooping like a thief in the dark, arranging dinner dates, making phone calls,
Then I would vocally abuse people and adroitly cut them down.

If I was Leonard Nimoy I would use my Vulcan logic to orally molest people,
I would line people up with my stone hard glare and coldly hurl verbal perversions at them
Willowy fingers, hunched shoulders, flat black hair, pointy ears, spikey shoes, cloak fluttering behind.
Expressionless, cool, thin and dexterous, I’d cause a right awkward mess behind the scenes.

Copyright © Steve Humphries Artist | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ode |

Ode to Lobster

Under the depths below the deep 
of this Atlantic Ocean
live the lobsters that crawl and creep
with an articulated motion.

They thrive on the ocean’s sea floor,
from the sloping shoreline
to beyond the Great Shelf and more
where the sea reeks of brine.

They live and hide in crevices
and burrows under rocks,
snug amidst the interstices,
safe like a shepherd’s flocks.

Their diet is omnivorous:
live prey such as fish, worms,
crustaceans, mollusks, and…us!
(Ughh!! that last one makes us squirm.)

Stories of their longevity
are passed on more often than not;
some live to be seventy
years old when finally caught.

Long-bodied, with muscular tails,
ten walking legs (three pairs
of which are claws), framed in hard shells,
they can look like bugbears

and weigh as much as forty pounds
or more! A lobster this huge 
naturally dumbfounds and astounds
like some hoax or a subterfuge.

Believe it or not, back before
the mid-nineteenth century
lobster was a food for the poor--
a mark of want and penury.

Indeed, inmates disliked lobster
so much they ate it with distaste;
even a dignified mobster
could not eat it with a straight face!

It seems our ancestor’s distaste
for this invertebrate
was in error and was misplaced--
much to their discredit.

People today enjoy this beast
in several, delicious ways
alone or together in a feast 
as part of festive holidays.

When boiled or steamed live, they change
color within minutes
of cooking from blue to deep-orange--
ah!...the meat’s now exquisite!!

Enjoy it as “Lobster Newberg,”
a seafood dish du jour
cooked up by Captain Ben Wenberg!
Or as “Lobster Thermidor,”

a French seafood dish of creamy
blend of cooked lobster meat,
egg yolks, (often) cognac, brandy,
and Gruyére—a culinary feat!

Then there’s lobster soup and rolls,
a thick cream soup of bisque,
or Capòn magro--salad bowls
for your gastric pleasure and risk!

Lobster du jour or lobster you want,
whatever your palate requires
any New England restaurant
can fulfill your dining desires!

Lobsters are indeed a great food;
we fish, sell, buy and eat to such
large amounts: but we’d be unshrewd
if we eat and fish them too much.


Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen | Year Posted 2015

Details | Ode |

6 Second Trailer

6 Second Trailer

OMG
Did you see it?
OMG
Its...
I'm...
Oh
My
God

It's a fantastic flick
This is...
OMG

The full trailer?

It's coming
It's coming
OMG
So am I

Did you see her...
His...
Its...
Oh
So sweet
Gotta tweet
Gotta sleep

Don't ya love it
OMG

Who wrote it?

The screenplay?
Who cares?

Opening?

Premiering 2015

Bit early, eh?

What, the trailer?
Ya think?

Yeah, but
WTF
YOLO

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ode |

Opossum My Possum

A tribute to Walt Whitman

Opossum! My Possum! Your fateful journey has ended; your flesh torn and tattered; the curb was so close, the horn you did not hear, children screamed, my eyes keen to steer the minivan. Heart pounding, Opossum! My Possum! Heed my shrill pleas! Here Opossum! “dear father!” Your curly tailed offspring mourn while hanging from a nearby branch. Oh the drops of blood, slightly protruding tongue between pursed lips. I gaze upon your black pearl eyes as I drive by. “But I, with mournful tread,” drive off to the soccer game, as you lay squished and dead.

Copyright © JP Armstrong | Year Posted 2016

Details | Ode |

A COMMUNICATION PROBLEM

A rubbish/garbage collector is driving along a street picking up wheelie bins and emptying them into his compactor.

He goes to one house where the bin hasn’t been left out, and in the spirit of kindness, and after having a quick look about the bin, he gets out of his truck goes to the front door and knocks. There’s no answer.

Being a kind and conscientious bloke, he knocks again – much harder. Eventually a Japanese man comes to the door. “Harro!” says the Japanese man.

“Gidday, mate!

Where’s ya bin?” asks the collector.

“I bin on toiret,” explains the Japanese bloke, a bit perplexed.

Realising the fellow had misunderstood him, the bin man smiles and tries again.

“No! No! Mate, Where’s your dust bin?”

“I dust been to toiret, I toll you!” says the Japanese man, still perplexed.

“Listen,” says the collector, “You’re misunderstanding me. I mean, where’s your wheelie bin?”

“OK, OK.” Replies the Japanese man with a sheepish grin, and whispers in the collector’s ear.” I wheelie bin having sex wiffa wife’s sista!”

BY
DARRYL ASHTON

Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2014

Details | Ode |

AN ODE TO PAUL GASCOIGNE

AN ODE TO PAUL GASCOIGNE



My name is Paul Gascoigne,
and I like a little drink,
But now I’m in serious
trouble – and I need to see
a shrink!

I was a fabulous footballer
in my day,
But I got involved in alcohol –
now I’ve lost my way!

I even played for England –
and scored against Scotland,
But my career soon nose
dived – I just need a helping
hand!

I drink a lot – that is true –
but it really is killing me,
But when I go to the pubs –
all my beers are free!

I have to get a grip, or I’ll
end up dead as dead  –
But all I do at the moment –
I think of beer instead!  

I see myself in a mirror –
and I need a razor blade;
‘I think I’ll cut my throat –
or drink some lucozade!!’

I am going into rehab – as
soon as I jump the queue;
‘Then I will be forever dry –
I’ll drink some Irn Bru!!'

One day I will win my
battle against the demon
drink,
Or carry on as I am – I’ll end
up in the clink!

I have accepted – I ruined
my career – that is what I
know,
But with some help – I
could coach – and watch
the kids all glow.

It seems like mission
impossible – but I am
determined to dry out,
And regain my reputation
maybe I can add some
clout!

I could coach for England –
or for Tottenham Hotspur,
If I sort myself out – my life
won’t be a blur!

Please, do wish me luck –
and I hope not to be a
flop;
‘And if I need a drink – I’ll
simply drink some pop!'   


BY
DARRYL ASHTON

Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2015

Details | Ode |

An Ode to Clam Chowder

Oh, clam chowder, how I would love
You to be like the thing you claim you taste of.
You're seafood, soup, potatoes, all warm
And bubbling in a splendrous, thick liquid form.
Your amount of potatoes, though is extensive,
Because I guess that clam is just too expensive
To be present in amounts that meet my desires.
But I suppose you'd be too costly for buyers.
But aside from that, clam chowder, you're alright.
I'll probably still have some tonight.

Copyright © Joseph Coogan | Year Posted 2015

Details | Ode |

THE MEERKAT SUPER FURRY JET - DESTINATION AFRICA

THE MEERKAT SUPER FURRY JET...
DESTINATION AFRICA. 



The super jet is waiting - 
on the runway for take
off,
It is a super furry jet - 
but who owns this jet - 
a toff?

The name is Aleksandr
Orlov - and co-pilot 
Sergei, too,
They are going back
to Africa - on a mission
for me and you.

Aleksandr ties his tie - 
and acts so professional - 
But just before take off - 
Sergei feels ill! 

'I don't feel very well,
Sergei tells Aleksandr,
Come, come, now, it
must have been that
dinner!' 

Sergei gets out his
crisps - and starts
munching in full flight;
'Aleksandr has had
enough - and causes
quite a fight!'

The computermabob 
is working - and Sergei's
fur stands on end,
Aleksandr looks at him - 
he's going round the
bend!   

Suddenly, they see 
Africa - the sun is 
shining hot,
Sergei's busy pruning
his fur - and he's found
another spot!

Aleksandr says; 'it is a
little pimple - and it's
on your furry leg,
Then, just by magic - 
they see Baby Oleg!  

Professionally they
land the plane - and
their smile is as wide
as wide,
But why does baby 
Oleg - suddenly go
and hide?

She has to be brought
home - the animal 
rights have ordered,
But both Sergei and
Aleksandr - hide in a
small cupboard!

Now they are all on
board - a super furry
jet,
Aleksandr says to Sergei:
"I told you not to fret!"

Now they are back home - 
and Oleg's on his feet,
Sergei asks Aleksandr:
"where's our mongoose
meat?"

All are sat around a table
and Sergei starts to play 
with his pimple;
'When Oleg asks papa
Aleksandr how he found
him - he says; 'it was oh 
so very SIMPLE!!!!'

BY
DARRYL ASHTON 

Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2015

Details | Ode |

Jam Jar

You're the jam in my jar 
And you fill my sugar bowl 
Candy kisses from afar 
And the sweetness in your soul 

You're the apple in my pie 
You're the pecan in my tart 
You’re the sparkle in my eye 
And the pounding in my heart 

Oh, you make my day complete 
For your loving I would die 
You're the one makes me sweet 
All the others made me cry 

You're my world, have you heard 
One and only cherry blossom 
Like the sky is to a bird 
And the night time to a possum 	

You're the angel in my morning
Spreads her wings to start my day
You're the devil in my dream
Helps me pass the night away

You're the aim of my adore 
You're the eye of my amaze 
Couldn't love you anymore 
You're the fancy of my craze

You're the one for my affection 
You're the picture of perfection 
Hand in hand, we'll hit the road 
Don't much matter what direction 

There'll be so much to explore 
And together we'll go far 
Gotta get me to your door 
And my jam into your jar 

Copyright © Mike Martin | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse |

AN ODE TO LITTLE DEBBIE

Oh Goddess, Little Debbie,
Queen of all Saturated Fat,
Sometime of Swiss, which is called Roll,
Now of the delightful Court of Nutty Bars,
I respectfully esteem your Zebra Cakes,
I salute your Cosmic Brownies
And I kiss your empty boxes of Oatmeal Crème Pies.

It can’t be, Oh Goddess,
The tasty chomps of your Honey Buns,
Nor that of your delicious and calorie-laden Donut Sticks,
Which causes me now to wear plus sizes.
But since this is your respectful tribute, Oh Goddess,
It seems appropriate to me to proclaim
According to a greedy and overeating custom,
That I complete one roll of your Powdered Donuts.
Your face, Oh Goddess,
Is so adored that I placed a lovely tattoo
On each layer of my 4-layer belly,
Such as a memorial
Or the obsession
Or my adulation.
It is like the cow coming through chocolate-covered grass,
Yet a bit different,
For the grass is not chocolate-covered,
Only carpet and I am the cow.
Loving you, Oh Goddess,
I love all of your consequences;
But I imagine
That even if I did not love you
I would love the sweetness of even your crumbs,
And my fatness, shaped in the honor of all your snacks.

ALL HAIL LITTLE DEBBIE! :-)

Copyright © Nikkia Roberts | Year Posted 2014

Details | Ode |

ONWARD CHRISTIAN POETS

ONWARD CHRISTIAN POETS


(To the tune of; Onward
Christian Soldiers)


(It may help if you do sing
along!)


Onward Christian poets,
its time to call our bluff,
You can write with harmony – 
because you know your
stuff.
Write the rhyme my poet
friends,
Then you’ll start new 
trends,
Onward to annoy the folk,
and write some more sick
jokes!

(Chorus)
Onward Christian poets – 
writing as they go,
Waving to the crowd they
do – with Christmas time
in tow! 

Onward then ye poets, 
Christmas is now here,
See those decorations – 
why do we not cheer?
See those festive 
Christmas trees – and 
those fairy lights,
Dazzling on the festive
branch, a monstrous
sight delights!

(Chorus)
Onward Christian poets,
moaning at the sights,
They are not that happy -     
they’ve lost their human
rights!   

Onward then ye poets,
sing as you do write,
Writing all those poems,
it is your human right.
People will complain to
you, but you ignore 
them, true,
All they do is whinge 
and moan – oh I need 
the loo!

(Chorus)
Onward Christian poets,
we suffer writer’s cramp,
Now my failing eyesight,
where’s my bleeding’
lamp?!

Onward Christian poets,
battling PC crap,
But when they read their
poems – we give them all
a clap!
Writing poems of MPs, 
and about their sleaze,
Brussels spout their 
dictating views – their 
expenses we will freeze!

(Chorus)
Onward Christian poets,
smiling as they type,
But sometimes they will
admit – they write a load
of tripe!

Onward Christian poets,
feeling quite depressed,
All they want for Christmas,
is something very blessed.
Listening to the garbage – 
that’s on the TV news,
So we’ll write a whole lot
more – and then we’ll have
a snooze!

(Chorus)
Onward Christian poets,
running out of ink,
All that poetry writing,
sure does make us think!

Onward Christian poets,
off to church we go,
Singing all those Christmas
hymns, ‘oh diddly oh!’       
Oh we need a drink or two,
but we may get drunk – 
Give me now my sparkling
hooch – then we’ll write 
more junk!       

(Chorus)
Onward Christian poets,
we wish you all the best,
Not many can write poetry, 
so we’ll put you to the test!   

Onward Christian poets,
writing in the States,
They are all together – 
eating juicy steaks.
Lots of pampered poets – 
eating to their fill.
Now they’re full from
over-eating – now they
need a pill!

(Chorus)
Onward Christian poets,
touring in the States,
But they keep on writing -  
about their own mistakes.

Finally ye poets – they all
gather round – 
Writing about Good God – 
now they’re heaven bound.
Onward now and forward – 
they love their writing fate,
All aboard the poet train – 
and it’s bleeding’ late!

(Chorus)
Onward Christian poets, 
you we all adore,
So let’s all celebrate poems – 
we all want some more! 

BY
DARRYL ASHTON 
  

Copyright © Darryl Ashton | Year Posted 2014