Best Good Humor Poems
The beloved Queen of Hearts was a merry queen, who'd ever loved to bake;
Like confetti midnight stars, sparkling; or the yellow, noon sun, wide awake.
She baked myriad varieties of cookies, and delicious pies of different kinds;
And also scrumptious cakes, so divine. Like pure gold, tinted rainbows find.
The king had a cheerful disposition, too, but betimes could be quite stern;
Like the scarlet blossoms, which fail to thrive, before floriculture is learned.
Faithful friends became part of the many faceted court, like tinted bubbles,
Fancy dressed, and as vital to royal felicity, as a jade rose, with no troubles.
Forthright family were familiar at court, in the fleet, peregrine falcon days,
Fast-forwarding to fabled, fruity tomorrows, and to fitful, spiced, solar rays.
They lived in the house of green ivied walls, in the royal, emerald summer;
When golden sun visited almost every room, eager to touch a world of color.
Silver maples touched sapphire skies, on their street of red, sweet Williams,
Edged by creamy sand, where the surf came, onto teal, foaming, pavilions.
Nighthawks and wild wood anemones, were neighbors, bestowed by nature;
In nameless, never-ending, silvery hours. Red butterflies, loved floral flavors.
Heart tomatoes adored the orange sun, when wood ear mushrooms listened;
And Canterbury Bells plants were ringing, by roses whereon dews glistened.
Toad lilies stared in bug-eyed fascination, at the searing season of surprises;
And Billy Button blooms were getting dressed, as skies split in colored slices.
'The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts, all on a summer's day;' a Friday.
But alas, 'The Knave of Hearts, he stole the tarts, And took them clean away.'
When purple even arrived, 'The King of Hearts called for the tarts,' in a roar.
The lad relished sweets, but the king was mad, 'And beat the Knave full sore;'
'The Knave of Hearts brought back the tarts, And vowed he'd steal no more.'
The kindly queen quietly quipped, 'After all, the boy has never stolen before!'
The King of Hearts was returned to good humor, and that lad kept his word;
And was back in favor, like pink spring tulips, or a song of blue mockingbird.
the ice cream truck
do you remember in fourth grade when it was the end of the school year?
kids running around in class, volunteer parents planning for field day events, teachers grading tests.
a year's worth of crafts and colorful displays filled the walls like wallpaper.
you can hear singing from the kids in room 4b, ms. mcdonald's class.
the weather outside was a balmy 80 on this june day.
text books, paint brushes, and the obligatory pre-chewed bubble gum filled the desk cavity.
the assistant principle announces something inaudible on the speaker system.
and we are fast approaching the anticipated summer break.
summer. that's when spring lovers finally kiss and the butterflies leave their cocoon.
birds singing and the flowers are saturated with their red, blue, and pink hues.
the last day of school is finally here and the children ride the bus for the last time.
vacations. swimming pools. ocean city. the smell of hot dogs, grass and humidity.
jersey summers are hot. really hot where i grew up. you sweat just by looking out the window.
then one day, the familiar sound of circus-like music faintly approaches town.
louder and louder until everyone knows its the ice cream truck turning the street corner.
the famous mr. softee, or good humor truck, or some local self employed bearded man.
whatever it was, ice cream in all kinds, flavors, colors, and shapes was 25 yards and 25 cents away.
the music kept playing as children seemingly sprayed out of their homes in rapid succession.
a gathering soon followed with parents and children standing all against that delicious truck.
chocolate. peanut butter. vanilla. strawberry. cookies and cream. cookie dough.
sandwiches. bowls. cones. smoothies. sundays. sprinkles. nuts. oh so yummy!
i miss that ice cream truck. i miss those days...
...and i miss you just as much.
The humid air sweats streaming curls down the toddler’s flush cheeks like Fusilli hot from the stove. The golden ringlets cling to her forehead, bouncing like Slinky’s in front of her, blue-agate, eyes. The backyard’s sounds-bat cracks and wise cracks-surround her. Squeals echo from the mounds of loam behind her new house. The homes out back form a red, yellow, blue, green monopoly board configuration.
The sand box she sits in is full of scrap two-by-four blocks. Using a naked purple-haired troll doll, she attacks the pine-block castle, tumbling the battlement. A plank spans the puddle
(created by the leaky green garden hose). The barefoot tike, troll in hand, starts across the board toward the moonscape of mud mounds; where her sister and friends run screeching armed with rotten tomatoes. She almost makes it before falling in and running mud covered to mother.
Polish Catholics, Italian Catholics and Irish Catholics, lived side by side with English Presbyterian’s and we errant, runaway, Jews. The scent of tomato paste, knackwurst and borscht wafts through the same soupy air, where we play King of the Mountain. Big Boys and Plum tomatoes flew indiscriminately through the August air like missiles. The only thing which stopped the action was the distance ringing bell of the Good Humor truck, here on Cherry Tomato Alley. Here where each new neighbor had transplanted themselves: their children, their gardens, their sprinklers, and their cars to fulfill the American dream.
First Published in Melancholy Hyperbole Spring 2015
Jack the Quatrain King a possible moniker
When it comes to quatrains, he’s an astonisher
With humor and wit he deliver’s his world view
Unfortunately now, he’s part of a silly clerihew
Linda or A Poet Destroyer
I didn’t know poetry had Warriors
I read some poems and she loved to fight
I would just read and think, that aint right
Seren Roberts, a welsh girl, yes she proudly is
Call her English and you prolly won’t here gee whiz
A poet and an artist I know this much is true
But did she write a poem talking about fox poo?
This is all in good humor towards three of my favorite poets here. Hopefully no one gets offended and if they do I’ll be happy to remove this.
Charlie. I worked with Charlie for 14 years. He was a little older than me, did the same job. Sure had the "highs and lows" - he must have been manic-depressive or bipolar or something. He'd blow up, but remained a good friend. Charlie was big, had to be 350 lbs. or 160 kg. A very good drummer, he could work magic with just his fingers and thumbs on a table. He said nobody in his family ever lived past age 55. Colon cancer. At first, there was some steely resolve to fight, but it quickly leached most of it out it of him. He was correct about age 55.
Bob was a mechanic, and didn't work "on the road." At that time, it was somewhat like being in the military for most of us - we had our rank, our chain-of-command, and our missions (not to mention our egos). Bob was at peace, competent, relaxed, quiet. He was a little hard to understand - he spoke softly, perhaps slightly muffled, as if with a small speech impediment, but always with good humor and a twinkle in his eye. I'd see him a few times a year, when we were back from a tour of work. Always wore a red bandanna around his head.
He was as purely good-natured as anybody I've ever met. This was in the days before cell phones, and in the repair shop there was a pay phone that was enclosed with sound-dampening material, so you could hear over the din. One time I lost my wallet - that cold, nauseating feeling - I'd left it in the little sound-booth. After searching the grounds for two fruitless hours, I came upon Bob, approaching me with the most honest smile. "Are you missing something?" he said, holding out the wallet. No games, no sarcastic comments, he was just glad to help.
And then one time he wasn't there. "Bob died - he had leukemia." I hadn't known; I don't think he told anybody, maybe a boss right at the end. Oh Bob.
if i could make a real black man
i'd bake him like a cake
i'd mix him up and pour him out
and this is what i'd take
i'd start off with some honesty
i'd mix in in real well
so i won't have to listen
to the lies that some men tell
some trust would be the next thing
that i'd sift into the mix
that way i'd know that he's for real
and won't fool me with his tricks
sensuality would be next on the list
i'd really mix it up
don't want to skimp on this one
i think i'll add another cup
then i'd get out my measuring spoons
1/2 a teaspoon should be enough
cause when i start to add the thug
i really don't want to add too much
good humor is a must for me
i'd add a cup or two
cause a real man knows that laughter
can always pull you through
the fear of God is something else
you know i'd have to add
cause only God can help him deal with me
so he'll stick around when times get bad
and when it comes to flavor
chocolate chip is my favorite kind
i think i'll add a bag or two
i know that he won't mind
he'll have to be a bald man
cause that's the kind i like
and yes he must have the ability
to talk to me all night
once i've mixed up all these things
and i'm sure that's all it takes
i'd pour him out and lick the bowl
and wait for my black man to bake
Lap of fancy fills with flowers,
Just to think of her tonight,
This is not an idle talk,
I'm in good humor tonight.
I would not reveal my secrets,
To enchanting eyes of hers,
But she took away my power,
I could not resist tonight.
Beauty's garden I'm traversing,
Half-inclined to soar up high,
Heaven don't throw at the wings
Of my joy your rocks tonight.
I have no pre-occupation
But her deep mysterious eyes,
I am stealing black collyrium
From the eyes of deer tonight.
The heart's mirror takes its luster
From her splendor, may be somehow
Supplicant, it rubbed its face
On the feet of Love tonight.
My good thoughts are a reflection
From the scripture of her face,
In the vault of chance and fate,
I see evil shunned tonight.
Keeping far from grape's daughter,
And with good luck being in bed,
The first option I forbid me,
Second one my right tonight.
Reason, you think only of one thing,
The impossible, so leave me,
Don't you talk to me this once,
Of forbidden love tonight!
Qasem Ghazanfar,
Translated from the Persian by the author
Blessed are those who naturally possess
a strong sense of self and solid self-esteem.
- This is nature at its best.
Vulnerable are those who solely succumb to
relying on extrinsic forces to consider their self-worth.
- This calls for nurturing in its most primal state.
If children grow up being enjoyed rather than tolerated,
They learn to accept themselves and others.
If children are liked as well as loved,
They feel like they fit in the world;
They have a sense of belonging.
If children are talked 'to' rather than 'at, '
They find their own voice.
If children are included in good humor and laughter,
They're inclined to believe that wishes come true.
If children are showed faith by actions and prayer,
They are quick to have hope.
If children live with peace and harmony,
They discover their own Truths with confidence.
~Such sustenance rears individuals with promise and positive perspective.
~It is the gift of healthy self-esteem;
~A positive self-concept.
If nurture naturally embraced you, have gratitude.
Be joyful in the acceptance of you and those around you.
Remain involved with self-discovery and improvement.
Raise your head high and breathe; for,
You are the fortunate.
It's Halloween and as we know
It's a special time of year
There's scary things and ghostly beings
Meant to bring out fear
There's lots of innuendos
I hope you do not mind
If I can take the liberty
As some may not seem kind
They're meant to make you Snickers
And put a smile upon your face
Please forgive me for my twisted mind
If that is not the case
I'd like to know, if you'd mind
If I tricked you with my treats
Your like a tasty candy bar
I'm sure you're sticky sweet
I'll take you to the Milky Way
Or maybe even Mars
I want to squeeze you Bun so tight
My rock candy is so hard
You're like a Peppermint Patty
You take my breath away
I'll bring you years of Almond Joy
I've so much more to say
When you lick a Lollipop
It makes my poor heart race
I wish that you would unwrap me
Let's cut right to the chase
I'd place some Miniature Kisses
All around your luscious Mounds
I'd start with licks, then give you my Twix
Till you shout O Henry loud
To taste your Whatchamacallit
I would give 100 Grand
And move my Butterfingers
All across your skin
You can bet that Mikey likes it
And his Pop Rocks would explode
How many licks would it take to get
To the center of his Tootsie Roll
I'll be your Sugar Daddy
If you will let me be
I hope to Skor, at least once more
Without the Musketeers 3
I'd share with you my Payday
If that is what you choose
Then we could Rolos over
To 5th Avenue
I promise you no needles
Can I poke you just in fun
I hope you've found Good Humor
And it's the best Bar None
Well thank God they left. Nice local sports bar; I sat close to an elderly man, probably 80 years old, and a younger guy that was his son, as I gathered from their conversation. The old boy kept an even keel and decently good humor throughout; he was used to it; the allowances we make for close family; or no use to fight a battle now. Much of what the son said bounced off and ended up on the floor, like water off a duck's back, and thank God for that too. I was instantly irritated - the constant patter of vacuous suggestions from the son as to what the father should be doing in his life, what he should do differently.
Just look at him: the old guy is fine, you can tell just by seeing him. But the son, ah now this was worthy of a stage character, the slight build, the receding hairline, the pencil-thin mustache, a mousey look overall, even rat-like, with furtive eye movements and almost constant physical twitches, he must fear silence indeed to have the need to fill it with such drivel, if not telling his father how to improve his life, he was proclaiming his own shrewdness and ambition, such prowess we rarely see, to joke about it - ah, when the truth is that he's a 35 year old in a job that would be barely good enough for a 20 or 25 year old. When you have to go on about it so, we all know it's not the truth. I never once snorted, or caught the old guy's gaze and rolled my eyes; I stayed within myself.
Maybe it's just me. Really, how bad could it be? Well no, it's not just me - any sane person would be inwardly cringing, massively, fighting the urge to run screaming into the night before the younger man's words induced brain cancer in them. What a world....
But I suppose that at least a little bit it is just me.
Two things you don't want 9.1.15
If I appeared slightly under the weather
or if he just wanted a little fun,
my dad would ask if I had
the cholerie morbus*.
If not that
maybe the heebie jeebies.
Neither sounded like
a real ailment.
I thought he'd conjured up
the maladies – "Oh, Daddy."
Do you suppose he knew?
Had he read that President Zachary Taylor
died suddenly of cholera morbus in 1850.
Maybe he picked the term 'heebie jeebies'
from the 1926 Louis Armstrong song of the same title.
We'll never know.
After he asked I felt better
He made my little bouts brief.
I think my dad, the finest of men,
simply enjoyed the sound of 'cholerie morbus'
and 'heebie jeebies'.
He loved to gently tease and was full of good humor.
*My dad always said "cholerie morbus", not "cholera morbus", which is "acute gastroenteritis occurring in summer and autumn and marked by severe cramps, diarrhea, and vomiting. No longer in scientific use." Sounds too awful for him to have known what it was.
Aha...At Last,..Bitta Bing Bitta Bang
The Figurative Nail Hit On The Hair Strand Size Head!
Though no physician,
this aging baby boomer
absolutely, intuitively, and
unequivocally sensed hair loss (mine),
at first a speculative rumor
not simply in my (ahem) head,
no matter a minimalist groomer
nevertheless, thinning follicles,
upon dawning realization, sans medical
sought relief thru good humor,
though within this balding cerebral noggin
became repulsive as if my scalp
pulled pate rendered as a tumor.
Thus an unexpectedly present surprise
when in private consultation in the guise
as out patient client (early afternoon
December 19th, 2018),
where I did fraternize
and kibitz with the medical assistant
(old enough to be my...sister),
aye did exercise
mild mannered mien mean, aye do patronize
before doctor Rudolf (dearly
reigned) Roth, a practicing
Dermatologist told me no lies
his instant karma knowledge - mainly his
thirty seven years expertise
sought to excise
a prominent non cancerous mole approximately
centered middle of back
a small patch of skin,
he needed to anesthetize
nonetheless, a reassuring persona,
yours truly did lionize
(not merely, cuz
he received a five star rating,
specialist under auspices
of Penn, Medicine)
in Radnor Pennsylvania),
his modest calm did neutralize
any uneasiness, as did his pronounced
humility earn kudos to idolize
such rarely present gentility, and
unwitting capacity did harmonize,
and maximize significance to me,
asper my thinning limp
hair logically rationalize
identified underactive thyroid gland
(hypothyroidism) tubby,
which didst legitimize
no hair brained rooted concern,
hence...less reason to catastrophize',
which for no reason I
wanted to mildly emphasize,
hence choice to apostrophize...
THE MEDICINE MAN
When I was a girl,
We lived way out back,
In the swamplands where life,
Was hard but no lack,
Of love and good humor,
And inventive fun,
We were tired but happy,
When day was done.
One evening my uncles,
Were chasing me,
In a game of tag,
Near a big Oak tree.
I couldn't see,
The tree in the dark,
So I hit it full bore,
And there made my mark.
I was down for the count,
Out like a light,
They took me to Grandpa,
Who, seeing my plight,
Set to work right away,
To bring me around.
He reset my nose,
Made sure I was sound.
My face was a horror,
A regular mask,
But with his tender care,
I was soon the same lass.
He made poultice, used herbs,
To take down the swelling,
Relieving my pain,
And discomfort quelling.
He was quiet and gentle,
And didn't say much,
But he knew a lot,
And he had the touch.
He doctored our family,
He doctored our friends,
And many an animal,
He came to tend.
He was just an old Indian,
But I never forgot,
The things that he did,
Proved he knew a lot.
He lived his life quiet,
The best that he could,
And he did his best,
To live like he should.
He never stole,
Wasn't given to drink,
Said too much booze,
Made it too hard to think.
Didn't hold much store,
In money or fame,
But he knew the importance,
Of a good family name.
What others think,
He said with a grin,
Depends much on you,
So try not to sin.
He taught by example,
And he taught us a lot,
And the things that he taught us,
I never forgot.
Judy Ball
For Tell Me A Story Contest by Debbie Guzzi
Stupendously brilliant beyond compare,
This is how Mr. Right views himself,
Though intellectually disabled beyond repair,
He has fame, fortune, and great health.
When he decided to take up the thespian craft,
Handsome with a chiseled body of course,
But upon the stage, he'd make others laugh,
He would throw things about using brute force.
Alien he was too good humor it would seem,
When someone told a joke he would anger instead,
While everyone else would be laughing with screams,
And though he would deny of having a big head.
He swore he never drank or took drugs of any kind,
Addicted to himself Mr. Right was doing fine.
/|\
A Lady Hamlet
I’ve been tied in with such a clever lady, It’s my fate
Has in-built, reverse-forward button ready, It’s my fate
When she is in good humor the forward button is on,
Make an adverse statement, reverse is ready, It’s my fate
A lady Hamlet who faces a dilemma never,
To be or not to be not question really, It’s my fate
But she is always forward in things conjugal ever.
Tend to get what I desire ultimately, It’s my fate
In case if Ram is cross with somebody & criticize,
She’ll make enemy’s enemy a buddy, It’s my fate.
================================
DATE 25-10-13
Dr. Ram Mehta
7th place win
Contest: Take the leap by Debbie Guzzi