Best Kidding Poems
My kid gets smarter every day
She queries in a thoughtful way:
"Are two M.D.'s a paradox?
Are kosher fish in spring 'May lox'?"
"Go ask your Mom". She says, "I did!
She said to ask another kid".
Going to take myself seriously today, I promise myself.
But not yet. Right now, I am in playing mode.
Heading toward my art studio. Painting now.
I will take myself seriously later, I think.
But them I remember that we do not like being serious.
We are not happy when we are serious,
so, I release this idiotic idea into the atmosphere with the
ridiculous ideas of trying to be precise, neat, or younger.
Poodle... A puff on the left
A puff on the right
And always dyed white
The Nest... Teased like a stampede
That's been unleashed
The look of an endangered beast
Shaved Art... Some with faces, some with decorations
Are they going forward or behind
I hope they are supervised
Mohawk... Oh my what a shock
Some are four feet high and unbending
If you don't duck you'll be crying
Half Of Hair... One side bald the other side long
What a dingdong
It's just all wrong
So this is my opinion, sorry if I offend you!
1/27/15 T Reams
The depths of my soul are too shallow.
The fruits of my labor grew fallow.
A sing songy rhyme in three quarter time.
Is all that this poem has to show.
But what can a free thinking fellow.
Do when his mind has turned to jello.
As he sits and requires to express.
What he knows, he know's won't impress.
So he jump's in with nothing to lose.
With his iambic poetic shoes.
If you pay close attention.
You'll notice him mention.
But quite secretly, only with clues.
The afternoon's weaving and waving.
As he still sit's here just misbehaving.
Doing nothing worth while, now somewhat of a style.
He finds that it's all that he's craving.
An emptiness filled to the brim.
Is all that is left inside him.
A repose to the past that surely can't last.
OMG, are you kidding, how dim.
(NP) SHE WAS KIDDING
Its not offensive odors which bother me
That’s the province of my loving and ever-tolerant wife: she
Whose nose can detect a shoeless sock
Which has been worn for even a half hour on the clock,
Or me cooking sausages even before they start to smoulder,
Or if I ate onion three days ago. No. As I get older
It’s noise pollution which is my life’s bain,
Especially rock music which gives me pain,
The guys with 600 watts in their car at the red light,
The punks on the corner sharing earpieces in the night,
And I can still hear it half a block away straight.
Obviously good music ended with Sergeant Pepper in 1968
But the worst of all the modern notions is (c)rap
“Music”. I mean who was it that told the guy in the baseball cap,
The fat guy in sunglasses, that he could sing?
Was it his mother? Didn’t he know she was kidding?
……………………………………………………………………………………….
Entered in Susan Burch’s Contest Noise Pollution
Hey, mister Rent-a-cop,
did you see what she just did?
Oh, sleeping on the job again
are we now
Family ties is always good to have I see,
so I suggest you better go
lay the store law down
Lifting from the shop
is an everyday crime
Put the candy bar away,
and chase after the stolen items
Don’t let no freckle faced pigtails
get the best of you
Don’t let a twelve-year-old
get you in the I’m-with-Stupid news
Why are you still fooling around
tying your shoes?
Why is your walkie-talkie
still on a snooze?
You gotta be kidding me,
mister Police Academy wannabe
I didn’t know
everything in the store
was for free
it's illegal now to be a kid
no matter what, once, was did
no longer allowed, they now forbid
put a sock in it, slam down the lid
there was a time, that many know
when it wasn't so
and kids romped wildly, to and fro
from yard to wood to overflow
across the day, squealing joy
the privilege of the hoi polloi
no silvered girls or golden boys
everyone was the real McCoy
and played innocent because they were
devious played plans did not occur
because life was all a sharpened blur
of play day friends in all grandeur
now, many lament of days gone by
when innocence was a feast whereby
kids grew flying clear-blue sky
to adults who can't see eye to eye
in fact those times - they still are
no adieu uttered - no au revoir
no quench of light from brightened star
childhood's about being a kid, so far
so kids are kids the whole world over
L.A. to Bahrain to country farms all over
they can see a day, fresh with sweet clover
to roll in, an' play on, an' lose their composure
kids don't have to remember that life's fun
they naturally want to summersault and run
it's been that way since time had begun
and will always be, 'til all time, is all done
© Goode Guy 2013-04-15
We can’t go out so what to do?
How do we spend our time?
Imagination, racing thoughts
My brain on overtime.
There’s gardening, painting, DIY
Non urgent jobs to do,
They’re boring and predictable,
I need stimulus, tried and true.
That lazy dog could do a bit,
He snores his life away
Maybe I could combine some things
And make him earn his pay.
The veg patch is so overgrown,
With weeds and grass and such,
It needs a plough to turn it all,
To dig is far too much.
I contemplate the problem,
Ideas are coming fast,
My engineering side comes forth
To help me in this task.
A rotary lawnmower
With motor burnt right out,
I’ll take off all the spinning bits
And modify throughout.
A blade made from a shovel,
That I found lying around,
I built a wooden structure
And fixed it facing down.
A harness formed by ropes,
Tied to doggies walking brace
Then fixed back to the plough
Would keep the mutt in place.
I could steer it by the handles
While the dog was harnessed in
Then turn the garden over,
Job done, that’s it, we’re in.
I put the dog’s brace on him
And he thought his luck was in.
It must be walkies he seemed to say
As he looked at me and grinned.
I led him to my work of art,
And he sniffed at it a bit,
Then he looked at me and shook his head,
Raised a leg and peed on it.
I tied the ropes to his dog brace
And I told him what to do,
But he sat down in front of it,
His labour he withdrew.
I cut a long and whippy stick,
And urged him to get on,
And when I smacked him on the back,
I thought my end had come.
He shot off like racing hound,
Yelping all the way,
The plough was going sideways,
Gouging on its way.
He headed for the rose bushes,
The wife’s most treasured bit,
Then smashed them down to matchsticks
In a horrendous, swathing hit.
I was yelling, he was yelping,
The noise was quite insane,
As he cut a huge wide furrow
In our lush lawn’s green terrain.
The plough got stuck fast suddenly,
The dog wrenched off his feet
And he landed, winded on the ground
Like a hundred yards athlete.
I dismantled the plough
And scattered the bits,
No more projects from my thinking cap,
As I surveyed the garden wreckage
Of my lockdown’s worst mishap.
When the stars set,
Somewhere far away
behind the high mountain,
the Sun engulfed
the coolness of the night,
across the river and the wild terrain.
the yellow brightness,
woke the world up,
to wage the fights again
the dew drops that shone
on leafy, green grass,
washed the dirty stain.
the kids of all races,
played then hand in hand
And, I laughed without refrain.
My mother had the energy of a five-ring circus
She refused to walk with slow people
unless they let her run circles around them while she walked
She kept her cancer a secret none of us kids knew.
My sister called and said Mom went by ambulance to a hospital.
I drove four hours to visit her, and they were sending her home.
She woke up long enough to say, “why are YOU here?”
They insisted on bringing her to my truck in a wheelchair.
I thought this was silly.
This is a woman who can run laps around a truck while it’s moving.
Is what I still thought.
When we got to her apartment building she handed me her keys.
She said, “Go down the hallway and get the wheelchair.”
I thought she was kidding, so I laughed.
Then I felt small.
She meant it.
I got the wheelchair and manuevered her to her apartment.
It was the last day she would be there.
The next two months she spent in hospitals or a nursing home.
The last day I saw her was her last day on Earth.
I began praying God would take her home.
She was tucked into her bed in heaven by angels that night.
Cancer is a disease I would not wish on anyone.
If I could do most anything
A week to have for my very own?!
I'd put away the mop and broom!
The paper work would have to wait!
No rush to work, ....so what if late?
I'd put my chores upon the shelf
I'd sleep in late, perhaps till noon
I'd take the car out for a ride
I'd walk about the countryside
And lay along the riverbank
And toss some sticks, and take a swim
And ride my bike, and play some pranks
Eat peanut butter with loads of jam
And make mud pies....because I can!
And watch the ducks and geese that gather
Those ticking clocks?....Ignore....I'd rather!
I'd sit out in the sun that gleams
Among the trees I'd lie and dream
I'd head back home, and whistle songs
I'd make a call and right some wrongs
I'd take a nap and eat a snack
Then put music on and do a dance
I'd take a good book from the shelf
Curl up and indulge myself
A mom like me who hovers...races...
To keep the pace, going places
Helping, filling needs of many faces
Never has alone time...spaces
So one week's worth of self indulgence
Sounds like bliss...could it exist??
Perhaps I should find a great disguise...
Would that be wise? Go undercover...
Just a week, sounds quite resplendent...
Just as long as it's not forever....
As I reminisce
through childhood eyes
I see vivid images
of my family home
where bumbles would bounce
Our garden seemed to stretch for miles...
perhaps that’s why
I made an odd birthday request
for a nanny goat as a pet !
Taking her home in dad’s VW Beetle car
caused quite a stir ...
‘Susie’ perched precariously on a seat
her horned head poking out of the window!
We deemed Susie
our Caprinae vaccum
she'd attempt to hoover up
anything that came her way -
even dad's underpants
which flew off the line
one blustery day
Oh, what precious memories!
Where Bumbles Bounce Contest
Sponsor - Craig Cornish
NOT a fictional poem
9/4/19
(My thoughts about doing the project without getting the credit)
Without grandiosely postulating
I will offer my opinion.
I don't know whom you're quoting,
I presume he's not a minion.
For he's not the one, I'm thinking
who is doing all the work
just for the love of working
while the credit seeker shirks.
Do the work because you're proud of
doing such a peerless job.
The irony in those cunning words
would make a lawyer sob.
The Lords and Earls took all the gain
while the serfs and vassals strove.
They were thrown a larger slice of bread
and told they worked for love.
Slave labor built the pyramids
and so many things since then.
All of the credit for their work
was assigned to lesser men.
The sneaks have used that line before
up past the time of rockets.
They gladly take the backslaps while
they're filling up their pocets.
It's time we had a turn around
and recongize the shirks.
Any credit that is given
should go to the man who works.
6th place
In a bazaar
spectacular
bizarre
jar
I bought. Strange triangular
cork. Popped. Vapor.
Powerful
Genie named Tatar.
I will dutifully
Fulfill
Your wishes. I am accessible
between the hours of nine am to five pm this isn't
flexible
or changeable.
In a masterful
forcible
voice I said Go to you room until I figure out if
your the incredible.
What Gets My Goat - By Noah Kidding
Though I shy away from drink,
an unexpected case
of DT's finds this ace
of spades (also known as the spadille)
bleating heart liberal,
airing how disgrace
full the Tommyknocker of zee prez
doth aspire with
Desperation toward efface
sing outspoken, knowledgeable,
intelligent, et cetera grace
full Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, sans
The Shining eyes of dragon light,
and self deluded Dreamcatcher
importance bulwark brace
sing, bullying, and spewing
pot shot vitriol toward
said neophyte lace
sing his blather with
spongy bobbing parrot head
of his papa, who hoop fully gets
ousted by Democratic
candidate from place
de resistance on pedestal,
he haughtily perches touting
himself as superior race,
aye pray to dog his trace
as human wrecking ball
expunged and reprehensible
brewed den mean ways vanishes
upon election day
November 3rd, 2020,
and his ilk (henchmen
one and all) in vase
sieve like Kudzu, or
other aggressive choke
king courtesy intolerable, inhospitable,
and ineradicable testy,
pesky, and grumpy folk
especially one bearded
Dudley Doright dressed dude
with gray flecks poke
king the brown grizzle
blindingly shimmering from
"FAKE" filal smoke
and mirrors Junior Firestarter
slicked back hair doo evokes a joke
lame Kujo, albeit
cheap tricks up pa's city
faux Taj Mahal sleeve!