Best Good Humour Poems
He caught me one night,
As I shivered with cold,
His words drew me forward,
As hearts stories were told.
Stories of love,
Of passions so pure,
Of lifes deep regrets,
Yet...his good humour endured.
Here was a man,
Complete and unending,
A man with deep talents,
A man worth befriending.
Now what he pulls forward,
With his poetic display,
Is the opening flowers,
In loves sweet bouquet.
A beautiful saviour,
Warm arms outspread,
My hearbeat grows stronger,
For my gift of Red.
A tribute to Red O'Mara
© 2013
Ruby Honeytip
“Happy Birthday to Bill Baker for February the 10th”
A poet friend held in such high esteem
A man of wisdom and positivity
Who shines as brightly as a beacons beam
A kind, respectful man
A poet extraordinaire
Abundant with understanding and compassion
His good humour he is now beginning to share
So, to you my Texan buddy
I wish you a wonderful day
Enjoy, relax and put your feet up
While we all at P.S sing Hip Hip Hooray!!
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY LOVELY FRIEND”!!
“Sigma”
It’s a deviant world
a lone wolf finds a place to fit in;
it’s pure poetry, war
heroes dance ducksteps with the romance of it all
some rise, they return home to other meaningless battles
some fall, looking for greener grass and their God
some do not return at all
they find it better to escape
they drift off dissolving into other better or terrible worlds
it’s hard poetry, the romance of war
when you hit the revelation wall;
prayers unspoken sleep,
demons
with their promise of salvation
return
they are put to bed
roughly, like a whore
adorned in slippery satin ribbons of red
masks now removed
snow like medication breathed in
dreams like opium warm the cold veins
pierce everything
like a bayonet
shut out the din
flood an enlarged heart
with all its kintsugi cracks seeping honey and sin
smiling grimly the good humour well-hidden
heroes dream of taking the lead
the quiet broken, dimly lit pawns
avoid the gun-fire and blistering burn of noisy shadows
ptsd survivors
like voiceless poets,
sometimes rise instead
ruling deeply over outranked warriors
CandideDiderot ‘25
"...When you come home
I'll bake you a cake
Made of all their eyes
I wish you could see me
Dressed for the kill
You're my man of war
You're my man of war..."
"His Name is Calciatore"
His name is Calciatore
he loves to follow me
from room to room
he’s exceptionally
well groomed
even handsome,
one might say,
he can be quite serious
yet, he loves it
when I flirt
shamelessly with him,
day after day,
"Love will have its way", they say
it’s always “play ball”
with him, when I say this,
he grins, always leaning in
with a big wet kiss, he licks his lips
ever the true romantic
he is,
definitely,
with this, I agree
always barking
his hirsute opinions
back at me, alone or
with others in the room,
translated, in short,
he thinks, I’m a loon,
a bit like Tin Tin
but a bird
with this, taken
all in good humour,
enough is never
enough
I cannot help
but to laugh
and agree, more
and more, a little bit,
I let out his lead;
loosened up
he understands
implicitly,
who holds the reigns
sometimes,
he croons off key,
off leash, he has me
on my knees
smooching
his ears, his soft spot
with this, he always
agrees
stalking never enters
his frame, although
he loves the chase
he loves the game
He’s a character
this much is true
he loves to lick scoops
of melting L’Amour
from my never-ending bowl
of raspberry ice cream
this tickles his whiskers
he always wants more
of course, naturally,
I'm soft like
warm marshmallow
I give in,
you see
hopeless in love,
absolutely,
no discipline;
warm telepathy
is our own language
d’amour, he's always alert
always on cue, wanting more
when we turn
in for the night
before I turn off
the lights,
with his eyes
he says,
"I Love You",
then,
he confesses,
with his eyes,
before I walk out
the door -
his real name
is Blue.
later I hear
him snore;
such is Love
content, I smile,
a little laugh follows,
then I sleep;
when I wake
next morning,
there he is pronto,
lying beside me
back for more,
he takes the lead
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"Destination: New Covenant"
When we arrived
at our destination,
the place they called
"New Covenant",
we were assigned
fresh armour.
we thought the war
left long and far behind us;
of course,
our ranks had changed,
but our allegiance
for saving contracts
in the between worlds place
was much to our disbelief,
swiftly locked in again.
we were, one must admit
with good humour -
hell-bent, resigned.
Our redeployment
steadfast, some considered
insane, we had no time
to complain.
we, were told to 'man-up'
this was our mission -
so we, the perceived
fallen, unsubtle yet,
viably courageous,
remained
stoically aligned.
"Karma is a b**ch",
the untainted remaining
flaunting their immunity
from return, watching
in their safe sectors
playing their harps,
all chimed.
We saluted,
smiled back at them,
and sardonically
flipped the birds -
we weren't 'tweeting'.
switched on, we were,
in our protection.
Light suits
full commando wings
on display,
we boarded the
supersonic getaway
and at the helm,
The Firm's leader,
the No. 1 Honcho,
the Big Cheese,
the Chief-in-Command
delivers us from...
well, you know the story -
His rank
is very well deserved
earned by blood,
sweat and tears.
Worthy of respect -
over us, he has many years,
seniority, experience.
His instructions
are ultra clear,
some might say,
religious. He's our,
lead stag, we follow, he steers.
He declares, commanding,
loud and sincere,
"Buckle up Legion.
The last battle.
Victory to all.
God speed.
Burning entry
by clouds.
Bury your fear."
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
There is always forward for outings,
Always a reverse if it is missed at all,
But forward in things conjugal ever.
I have been associated with a woman,
She has an in-built, reverse-forward button.
When in good humour the forward is on,
Make an adverse statement, reverse is on.
A lady Hamlet who faces a dilemma never,
To be or not to be is not a question for her.
But always forward in things conjugal ever.
Believe me, I tend to get what ultimately I desire.
If I wish to go for a movie in 1st show,
I need to suggest her for a second show,
Believe me,I get what I desire though.
If I am cross with someone & criticize,
She tends to follow *Ravan’s dictum-
Make enemy’s enemy a friend
=================================
Ninth placement
Contest: Twist and Lock - of Nikko
Ravan, a great character in Hindu Epic Ramayan, was a demon king of Shri Lanka.
A Beautiful Woman
Beauty which is skin deep is fragile and easily destroyed
But character means power which sustains thru’ tides
A sight to behold – stunning, fabulous, striking, alluring
With no grace, charisma, expression she is reckoned as boring.
A beautiful woman is strong, respected, gentle as the morning breeze
Always wears a smile and extends a willing hand to please
Daughter, sister, mother, aunt, wife or friend she is a pride to discern
For commitment to whatever role God has placed her, she’s known
As a daughter she takes care of her young family members
To give mum and dad rest from their daily dilemmas
As a sister she patiently listens to the youngsters’ stories with good humour
And puts up with daring pranks from her brothers who are older.
As a mother she wakes up with the first ray of the morning light
From end to end she makes it her concern to make the day go right
She sacrifices her wants so her children get the best
To see them flourish, succeed, prosper is her first interest
As an aunt she is full of good advice when mother isn’t there
Watching over nephews and nieces whenever she has the time to spare
As a wife she proves herself very capable and is much loved by her man
He adores her, praises her and knows she is a part of God’s plan
A woman of beauty is a joy to withhold
She is worth much more than diamonds and gold
For diamonds and gold cannot comfort or befriend
If you find a beautiful woman, make her your best friend.
Oh the tears from the child as her dolls hair is caught in the spindle
Her little face awash as she tries to rescue it
The little rag doll, her only friend was whisked away so fast so cruel
The spinning wheel stops to her delight, her tears dry and a smile returns as her
doll is eased out of the spun thread on the spindle.
The time it took seemed as long as the sands dropping through the hour glass on her grandmas table, timing the spinning thread as she teases the wool apart, then spinning the spindle to collect the spun yarn, but the rescue is complete, the doll returned unharmed, the child restored to good humour, as grandma frowns a little as the last grains drops into the glass before it is turned to start again, Her money will be short but her granddaughter is happy so therefore is grandma.
The Rescue Metamorph from free verse to rhyme
The squeal from the wheel as the knitted hair is caught within
Horror strikes at the child and tears course down her chin
A rag doll her only friend caught in grandma’s spinning wheel
Pulled from her arms, but tugging at her heart she can feel
Grandma stops teasing wool, the wheel she stops spinning
Her granddaughter’s tears have her own eyes full to brimming
The sands of time through the glass dripping their next meal away
But grandma rescues the doll so her granddaughter can play
© 5/04/2013 ~GG~
Contest Entry.
I’m faffing about on Facebook
Been avoiding it for years
What began as curiosity will
Doubtless end in tears
Hear no speak no see no
Evil learned in conversation
All that knowledge lost in
Two dimensional translation
Like me, share me, follow
All my kittens, quips and poops
See the same old tired threads
Go round and round in loops
Hang out on my home page
Scroll me up and down
Watch my ego on the prowl
Go trolling round the town
Some nights I sit upon my hands
All mischievous and itchy
In order to prevent myself
From posting stuff that’s bitchy
Big Brother sure is watching you
As are the crass and haters
Dark agent provocateurs
And dodgy mass debaters
What price anonymity when
You join the cyber race
Check out your reflection
Mirrored in this interface
Be careful what you wish for
For you may regret you’ve said it
Words that carry on the wind
Can go too far to edit
More human than divine is this
Our need for validation
Best to drink this heady wine
With cautious moderation
Pictures paint a thousand words
In galleries of minions
Words spoken once may be twice shy
Put thought before opinions
Don’t forget the Golden Mean
Steer clear of lie and rumour
And when your birds come home to roost
Accept them with good humour
I’ve been faffing about with Facebook
And I know that I’ll regret it
Nuclear power, for good or ill
... I guess I kind of get it
by Gail
Memories come and memories go
Always we get caught up in what they do
Mostly the good for the bad we ignore
But we glorify it all forget the core
Simply put our memories run havoc
Making our tearstained eyes like rock
Depressed we feel after thinking at times
And happy we get at each old dime
Alas we miss our very present sunshine
Looking back upon the longlost vines
Advice I give to you each in good humour
Look into the present don't forsake the future!
...to my Mum
She was always in the kitchen,
kneading pastry with good humour,
blending garnishes and gossip
as she plied her magic wand
and it was dinner time.
Struggling with algebra
I'd agonize for hours, 'til frustration
got the best of me, she tucked me into bed.
In the morning she was ready with
a fried egg explanation and a hug.
Music was her gift to me, along with
many others, the sound of her soprano
voice still ringing in the air,
the wrath of God was nothing to
her tantrums at my misbehavior.
Sights and smells come bursting through
as if it were just yesterday,
gentle guidance and strict admonishments,
blending like her recipes
for cakes and moral codes.
My smoking has spread cancer
All over me now
Still my strength's the answer
I'm not shutting down
Growing larger everyday
The rumour of my tumour
They need to cut it out
But I'm still in a good humour
Living each day
One at a time
You want to see me dead?
Well I guess I don't mind
Not blind to the detriment of my health
First you must be poor to appreciate wealth
It’s an old trick in the book
To count sheep till you fall asleep
But Mr. Insomnia stays up late
It seems he wants to be my date!
He seems to have alternate plans
He makes me do things I cannot understand
Why the other day for crying out loud
He punished me and threw me out!
It was dark and O so cold, I begged him
Yes I implored, his good humour seemed restored
He took me on a merry go round
I started giggling but had promised
not to make a single sound
Mr. Insomnia’s red eyes on my back
Making me go round on a circular track!
He is a monster that grows inside of me
And conspires with someone
I don’t even want to know
My movements are extremely slow
Why the other day my heart skipped
I only knew it could beat!
Mr. Insomnia arose from his seat
It early morning he is shuffling now
Moving quickly towards his den
If he turns around I’m ready to stab
Him with my only weapon the mighty pen
Instead of sheep, I now count to ten!
20.5.22
Hassan harbours hard-worn hardship in his heavy homeless heart
Drones dereliction devastation and dire disintegration of daring dreams
Dear daughter dead at dawn Delisiha demised dismembered decapitated
Harbingers of hell in heaven heaving with helter-skelter and hatred
Skinny skull surreal surrender to salvation and suffering’s solitude
His maimed mind meanders towards Mecca’ mid-morning mist
‘Mohammed my Master mould my misery to magic martyrdom’
‘Save seven sweet sexy sisters in the scope of sound sensual skies’
Balls brethren bequeathed by my baba for blasting those bastards
Ignorant infidels igniting incensed immeasurable invocation indeed
Bearing the bellicose burden and berated by birth belittled and bold
The courageous courier of comatose carnage carefully counts the cost
Captured in the Caliphate contorted in a crowded catacomb he cringes
Waterboarding washes over the waning warrior’s wasted wreckage
Hassan hopes helplessly for humerus and hips to heal in good humour
GI Graysen giggles and generates generous gifts of guts and glorious gore
Considerate Conclusions
Chains have cantankerous consequences
Brave balls from Baghdad bear the baton
Guts and gore guarantee Guantanamo
Victory is vile vindictive and vicious
18th April 2019
...to My Mom
She was always in the kitchen,
kneading pastry with good humour,
blending garnishes and gossip
as she wove her magic wand
and it was dinner time.
Struggling with algebra
I'd agonize for hours, 'til frustration
got the best of me, she tucked me into bed.
In the morning she was ready with
two fried eggs, the answer, and a hug.
Music was her gift to me, along with
many others, the sound of her soprano
voice still mellow in the air,
the wrath of God was nothing to
her tantrums at my misbehaviour.
Sights and smells come bursting through
as if it were just yesterday,
gentle guidance, remonstrations,
blending like her recipes
for cakes and codes of conduct.