Best Funnytime Poems
Four “Golden Girls” seated at a table
Grey streaks our hair, but minds remain stable
Convention is underway
Michael has something to say
He opens our meeting with a fable
It’s about a tortoise that beats a hare
Some of the “fast writers” begin to glare
Joyce, Francine and Barbara know
It takes time for verse to grow
We’re the queens of rewriting; this we swear
Iolanda’s introduced to read her book
“Lava of my Soul,” no gobbledygook
We’re mesmerized by each line
At the end we toast with wine
Joyce says, “Now those words took some time to cook.”
It’s Karen’s turn to read “Silent Whispers”
We see tears falling into John’s whiskers
“Tears of joy,” Francine exclaims
For Karen’s Best Seller fame
Applause rings out from grateful listeners
After the “meet and greet” it’s nearly dawn
The crowd starts to thin as our comrades yawn
Joyce, Francine call it a night
But Barbara still sits upright
We two remain when most others are gone
One poet called us “Late Night Cockroaches”
This indignity did not encroach us
We call ourselves “LNCs”
Awake in wee hours with ease
Waiting for our princes to approach us
That’s when the James Brothers draw near
Peranteau and Fraser, to make it clear
With two erotic writers
LNCs pull “all nighters”
Knowing that we can propose; it’s Leap Year!
*Entry for Michael’s “A Table of Four” contest
At my table: Carolyn Devonshire
Joyce Johnson
Francine Roberts
Barbara Gorelick
I have so many jeans that I can wear.
They lie inside a box upon my floor;
in every color there I have a pair.
With pants galore, I could not want for more!
I don't take time to sift through all those clothes
when I am in a rush and getting dressed.
Nor do I have the time to stand and pose
before my mirror to see which looks the best.
The "Zanadi," flare-legged, and faded blue
I grab with very little hesitation.
From Asia, straight to Walmart, ( and it's true)
they always fit (Oh, joy, less complication).
And when those darn things feel a bit too tight,
I diet till they hug my hips just right!
By Andrea Dietrich
For Nette onclaud's Contest:
"It's In The Jeans"
"Rise an' shine you lazy cowpokes! Time to saddle up yer hoss!
Time to move them moo-cows to summer range!" yelled th' trail boss!
"You've lolled around here all winter, now it's time to earn yer pay!
Jump in yer jeans, pull on them boots an' let's git 'er underway!"
All winter long they'd grown fat in th' bunkhouse eatin' Cooky's fare,
But knowin' that on that long, dusty trail, grub could be mighty spare!
How they'd long fer good ol' gut-fillin' grub as they wuz mendin' fences,
An' roundin' up them wily dogies roamin' over God's vast expanses!
Come supper time th' cowpunchers would lounge about a blazin' far,
Smokin' roll-yer-owns, chewin' th' fat an' nursin' cuts frum bobbed war!
Thankin' th' Lord fer their grub, Cooky yelled, "Come an' git 'er fellers!
Ain't much, but me an' my ol' Dutch oven done purty good!" he bellers!
Th' menu never varied but they knew better'n to complain about his cuisine,
Er Cooky could be as grumpy as a rattlesnake er a disgruntled wolverine!
Ever' supper consisted uv th' same ol' thing - a classic case uv deja vu:
Beans, spuds, bacon, sour dough biscuits an' a dollop uv mystery stew!
Frum across th' valley a harmonica's melancholy tune wuz heard,
As th' night guard kept a wary vigil an' soothed th' restless herd.
Th' cowpokes dreamt uv a hearty breakfast but they already knew,
It'd be beans, spuds, bacon, sour dough biscuits an' a dollop uv mystery stew!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Remember that dude Little Boy Blue?
Well, he's a very good a friend of mine
We used to have all night jam sessions
Just to help ourselves unwind
Of course, you know he plays a horn
And I play the doghouse bass
I knew that boy was going places
It was written all over his face
He played that horn like nobody's business
He could really moan the blues
Did I tell you I taught him all he knows?
You can believe that if you choose
I heard he's not playing anymore
And he's left the music scene
They say his lips shrunk, something awful
After an accident with hemorrhoid cream
That just goes to show you
You better look before you brush
Take your time and your lips won't shrink
And now, I guess, it's time to hush
Kids flick paper airplanes
And goof around in class
But what can you expect?
The teacher won't get off her ass.
Such lovely etiquette
Our tax dollars at work
So please don't strain yourself
You inconsiderate jerk.
I speak as a student of this class
This very poem my example
And as you can clearly see
My free time is quite ample.
Instead of learning vocab
I'll write some pretty words
While I should be learning other things
Such as nouns, adjectives, and verbs.
But I've far excelled this
It's a waste of my time
I already find this form basic
Why am I still learning rhyme?
Because I am subject to my lazy teacher
Who fritters her time away
As one so elequently put it
"This class is so gay."
My wife and her honey do list
It keeps me busy all day
Take the clothes out of the dryer
Fold them up and put them away
Clean out the garage, change the bulb
Wash the car, feed the cat, and cut the grass
Don't you dare, forget the windows
And don't leave any streaks on the glass
Pull those weeds out of that garden
And take the dogs for their walk
It's time to winter proof those windows
So, go to the store and buy some caulk
I think those shutters need painting?
Don't forget to trim the trees
And put some anitfreeze in both the cars
We wouldn't want the engines to freeze
The carpet in the den needs vaccumed
You have to water the plants
The needle and thread are in the kitchen drawer
So mend the holes in your pants
Man, am I ever tired
The sweat is covering my head
Well, I guess I better get started
It's time to get out of the bed
It's been a hard day's write .
And I've been workin' at this screen .
It's been a hard day's write.
Ain't nothin' happening.
I'm feelin' mean .
But then , when I get that rush
It happens all of a gush.
You know I feel alright .
You know I work all day
And then dash home to
My PoetrySoup .
And it's worth readin' what they have to say
Those brilliant writers
Yeah ! , what a troupe .
But then , what I like the best
Is writing for a contest.
You know I feel alright .
I haiku
Limerick or strictly in rhyme .
Then I'll do
Free verse and all out of time .... time .. yeah !
It's been a hard day's write.
Brian Strand can do it and Rhoda too .
Mrs. O'Leary - George and Devonshire
Caryl and Catie , to name a few .
But when I read Caroline ,
Dane-Ann and Joyce chill my spine
You know I feel alright .... You know I feel alright .
Inspired by John's Beatlemania contest .
Sing to the air of " Hard Day's Night ".
sittin' on the back porch,
drinkin' gran'ma's brew;
lots of free time on my hands,
can't think of what to do
i wanna strip naked,
go lay out in the sun;
chiggers chompin' on my butt,
ain't my type of fun!
maybe i'll build a treehouse,
but i ain't got no wood;
it's too hot to break a sweat,
that won't do no good
perhaps i'll have a cookout,
but i ain't got no meat;
i can't go to the market,
although it's down the street!
i wanna write a poem,
but i ain't got no words;
i long for inspiration,
while countin' flies on turds!
maybe i'll sell my dog,
clean up this funky yard;
that would make me sad as hell,
goodbye is just too hard!
sittin' on the back porch,
drinkin' gran'ma's brew;
lots of free time on my hands,
can't think of what to do...
Overflowing like the sparkling spring from acerbity,
The emerald stones on the relieve peak
Causing welling up like stormy waves,
And breath taking halt, grunting
Roar as the thundering drums reverberating;
The window pout unfold a feature
As when open wide,
Spoilt by the joyful loudness of croaking;
Grief lips drawn taut
Drop spreading flow,
Drop to wash the ripe Apple cheeky, drop
And meandering through grooves and porous ream
Obstacles of pendants and pillars;
Conclusively arrived, making the jugular waterfall,
Cascading into sea of tears.
True, men do not weep
That bespeaks Hercules vaunting ego,
But, I thank you sir,
Often they sob now or before
Not for unfaithful heart breaks
For loves aplenty,
Not often loves for not excusing
In passing by to greater beyond,
But on lucrative dear deal that sore gone,
On capital fretted away
On good look in,
But crash without remorseful pity
The masculine effeminately swim in river of tears.
Strokes of wipes to back from savage master
The oppressive bully to hapless youth,
Which draws livid reddish lines picture
And rabid yell of agony on twisted mouth,
When puerile little lad yelp
Could be for appeasing breast
But, definitely not for help,
Could lustfully be warmth of mama’s arms,
Things we’re n't aware but peradventure leg to arms
Or nothing, whichever way,
Their stubborn screaming suggest
Ways of impuissant expressing unanswered request.
Tears of gladness
Moved to elevating joy,
To see again long time lost love,
Surely for ages and time agone
Surprising hugs with all kisses,
Dearest who aforethought cross beyond
But now you are prospering.
The Bathroom Scales
By Elton Camp
There they are, just daring us to step on
And see which way our weight has gone
The bathroom mirror shows the sad fact
But the authority of a read-out it does lack
And while in there we are entirely out of luck
Ten pounds for clothing cannot try to deduct
But we can still imagine there’s some defect
That what the scales say is not really correct
Finally we step on, dreading how they may read
And, sure enough, it isn’t what we hope or need
So, we resolve that much harder we will try it
And this time we will carefully follow our diet
But until we have enough time to lose some weight
It’s better to put the scales in the garage in a crate
I got a part-time job
of which i"m very fond.
It is down at the South Inch
at the local boating pond.
I help to sell the tickets
and call out when they"re done,
and in this sunny weather
it really is quite fun.
There are fifteen rowing boats
and paddlers if you must,
but there are no sailing dinghy"s
the wind here does not gust.
The job it needs attention,
you have a pen and book.
To keep track of everybody,
and you have to look...
to see that all is well
and no one misbehaves.
The waters only three foot deep
but their life you"d have to save.
But on one Saturday,
the pond was really busy
so much going on
my head was really dizzy.
I looked into my book.
What is a man to do.
I could not hurry time
there will always be a queue.
"Number six your time is up"
I called with little choice.
Then looked across the water
as they ignored my voice.
"Number six,"I faintly croaked,
"are you doing fine?"
and then the penny dropped
"In trouble number nine?"
THE 12 ANNO-DUODECIMALISATION PERIODS
Wintric time is now slippopherous and the slithey snowlerimon
Is experiented with the newly-arrived vernality in the air.
His triple anno-duodecimalisation period is in terminfication
Which has megaramifications and blerious implifications bare
For the floracious and faunacious spread of life-and-growthicity
The next few anno-duodecimalisation periods will encertain
The success of the seminal vesicles of herbatorial and floribundial growthity
And the ground-coveration will soon be overspread with leavy-fruitain.
Treedonry, tall and gloribundant shall castigate their shadowsmith
Across meadowfields so mertile and bloductive. Soon the triple
Anno-duodecimalisation of the pre-wintric time will proviso us with
All the beautiflic and delicioned harverted produce from our farmliple:
Making us readified for the oncoming wintric time, a periodontary
Of slippopherous and slithey snowlerimon, coldpainly beyond comparicary.
When trying to understand women
Mr. Spock is my role model
An eyebrow raised in curiosity
Just waiting to hear something illogical (i choose poorly with women :)
But even Mr. Spock
Sometimes gets a wild hair
Like that time he breathed those spores
Then smelling something else in the air
His hair as black as coal
His blue shirt calmly reassuring
But there was definitely something odd
About the way his ears were pointing
Casting aside the advice of friends
Letting a flower’s scent cock his head
But when he started acting like Tom Jones
It caused a state of dread
Fist pumps into the air
Busting a move to ‘Lady’s Night’
Even a hound like Kirk was appalled
When Spock thought he was Napoleon Dynamite
Say What?
As electrifying as a disco ball
Churning lights, sparkling gems
Like Marty Feldman on happy pills
Blurting out, “I’m in LOOOVE, Jim!!!”
So if a sweet smell hits my nose
I’ll remember I’m emotionally impaired
“A man has got to know his limitations”
And next time I’ll take a cold shower
Form:
I'm a blue collar worker who works outdoors
and I'm also required to wear a hard hat all day.
My exposed skin and face tan at a very fast pace,
but beneath that hard hat, absolutely no way.
The last time I went bandanna free,
someone got distracted, lost their footing and tripped.
All I heard as I fled the scene was, "Did you see that human Q-tip?"
In addition to speaking in rhyme, I dress in black all the time
but that shouldn't reflect upon my personality.
I just claim not to be so great when I attempt to color coordinate
but the simple truth is black is safe and I'm just lazy.
I live the single lifestyle and by that I simply mean that I have chosen to live alone.
I enjoy True Solitude, so I don't share living quarters very well.
My home has to be My Home.
I keep mostly to myself but that shouldn't suggest that I can't be the life of the party.
Back in my day I wore many a lampshade.
Now I've calmed down. I don't party too hearty.
Well, enough about me. What about you?
What are your interests, your passions?
What do You like to do?
Who knows where this might go or how it might end.
At the very least, I Hope to find A Real and True Friend.
Oh yeah, one last thing I need to mention to you.
A little sex from you also would be very nice too.
I was doing very well. I was doing just fine
and then I had to blow it with the very last line.
Am I right ladies? Damnit!
****************************************************************************
Please do not respond to the above ad ladies. It is now null and void. I pretty much live the
life of a hermit these days.
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When I Am Feeling Sad
When the bills come. When bad news breaks. When I’m feeling sad.
I simply start eating my favorite things. And then I don’t feel so bad.
I eat cheesecake and some doughnuts. Next its time for flan.
Peanut butter cookies, hot fudge sundae with whipped cream.
I eat many things.
When my heart aches. When I’m lonely. When I’m feeling down.
I sometimes start drinking my favorite things. And then I don’t feel so bad.
I drink: milk shakes. Diet coke float. Ginger with eggnog.
If still feeling sadly, I sit down and eat: a half-gallon of mint ice cream.
I eat chocolates, some with cashews, almonds or pecans.
If that doesn’t do it, I just eat more things until I don’t feel sad.
Calorie counting and meal planning do not seem to help!
My exercise buddy just threw in the towel. So, now I’m feeling sad.
It’s time to start eating my favorite things; I hope I won’t feel bad.
© Dane Smith-Johnsen
February 27, 2010
Poetic form: Narrative