Roaming in the corridor,
The fairy chuckled,
Mesmerized by the beauty of her own dress,
She grew self-assured in her little fairy school.
The multi-colored tutu,
inlaid with wild flowers;
Rivaled her silver sandals,
Which gleamed like her sparkling wings behind.
Then came the final day,
Bidding farewell to her tiny realm,
She moved ahead.
With sadness and excitement intertwined,
She decided to work through,
Until she became the best.
The moment she stepped into the real world,
She realized,
The tutu she wore was nowhere near the fairy gowns.
The praise and love she once received had faded into lies.
Maybe the tutu she wore was the best tutu, but not the best gown.
Carrying the weight of sudden change,
She still chose to enhance her tutu’s grace.
She rushed to the fashion store and cheerfully exclaimed:
"Get me the Cancan underskirt, fabric and shimmery pearls packed!"
The seller shot her an irksome look,
and Demanded fifty golden bricks.
The helpless fairy turned hopeless,
For she could have earned those bricks—
Only if she had a fluffy gown dress.
BACK TO SCHOOL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In August, young Sam felt quite cool,
with a backpack, he headed to school.
He packed up some peanuts,
and a few silly musical cuts,
in his lunchbox then thought, “Aren’t I a jewel?!”
His classmates all chuckled and cheered,
as he whispered, “I’m ready, don’t fear!”
With a pencil in paw,
he scribbled with awe,
“Math’s nuts! Let’s eat lunch, I declare!”
The teacher, the scholarly Miss Owl, hooted,
“Pay attention, Sam, or to office you’ll be booted.”
But he daydreamed of the oak trees,
and the buzzing of sweet honeybees,
while plotting his next acorn loot.
Good Sense Of Humour Blunts The Sharp Blades Of Reality Poetry
Contest //Sponsored by: Natasha L. Scragg
( 2nd Place )
Written: August 5, 2025
When life threw me a curveball,
I stumbled—then chuckled mid-fall.
Lumped knees, not pride, I wore like bent,
because sneering is something I've seen.
In chemo rooms and vestibules,
I frenzied dry jokes on aseptic walls.
Doctors simpered, nurses would beam—
a punch-line where the fear had been.
When agony thumped hard and sleep grew thin,
I let the silly light writhe in.
A meme, a whirl , a silly song—
made aching days feel less so long.
No, humour incurable or patch,
But it's the ally, not made to part.
It doesn't silence, hurt or truth,
but let me smirk with my aching tooth.
So here's my laugh, though life gushes beneath,
it's how I rise, not how I lament!
A randy, young couple out by the bay
decided to have a roll in the hay.
She pondered, in the moonlight,
"Aren't the stars pretty tonight?",
and he chuckled "I'm in no place to say!"
They sat at a table, weathered and wide,
Under cottonwood branches, side by side.
The July sun filtered through leaves like lace,
Softening time, and softening space.
Years had passed—some sharp, some kind—
Each carried stories, heavy with time.
But here they were, two hearts grown old,
Still warm, still curious, still untold.
She smiled at him through lines of grace,
Brushing hair from her wind-swept face.
“Tell me,” she said, with a quiet sigh,
“Why did we break up? Please tell me why.”
He blinked, then chuckled, slow and low,
“I honestly… don’t even know.
Maybe fear, or maybe pride,
Or just the ache of growing wide.”
He spoke of work, of quiet nights,
She spoke of love, of wrongs and rights.
But in the hush between each thought,
A closeness bloomed they never sought.
“Coffee dates sometime?” she asked at last,
Letting the moment not rush past.
“Maybe supper too,” he said, eyes bright,
“Some evening when the stars feel right.”
And nothing more was planned that day,
Except to let the past give way.
To something small, and sweet, and true—
A second chance beneath the blue.
Scott W.
ANGIE Tuesday kept singing
You are UNDER MY THUMB
YOU CAN'T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT
Her sister RUBY TUESDAY
Tended to WILD HORSES
With three HONKY TONK WOMEN
It was a normal morning
Until Bill, better known
TUMBLIN DICE rode home at speed
Bill had rode with a great news-
The ROLLING STONES band was
visiting Neighboring town
All folks rushed out and out
Town was empty in jiffy
Like someone had PAINT IT BLACK
Bill chuckled, rested real nice
For once in all calmness
Without Angie or her song
As metaphors go, this one is a gem,
A tale of an eagle and goose
Engaged in behavior we cannot condemn;
Their nature allows no excuse.
It happened in Canada, witnesses say;
The eagle (a bald one) attacked
And those who observed this amazing display
Were so shocked they could barely react.
For the Canada goose, who was feisty and brave,
Fought for twenty long minutes and won,
Since the eagle decided he might as well cave
When he realized that he’d been outdone.
The political world must have chuckled a bit
(Well, I’m sure all Canadians did),
Though Republicans, lacking in virtue and wit,
Will, retweeting this story, forbid.
The frog hoped around
Looking for a wife
He had nothing to offer
So, he offered his life
To a beautiful queen sitting
On a lime green Lilypad
Once she saw him her eyes lit up
Before he arrived, she was very sad
The frog shouted marry me my love
Suddenly a star shined brightly from above
She chuckled then smiled
Saying we both feel love
SIMPLY YEATS
My verse under Yeats’ carved door
he merrily chuckled at white
envelope, sketched butterfly
said he preferred to receive
verses this way rather
than reading them across
post-modern websites
He invited me to tea
we simply savoured small
cheese squares, crumbly
scones watching a squirrel
chomp a cheerful chestnut
lost and found
What word can describe
fleeting images of poets
graduated, yet living on ?
Vacant ….a vacancy
that awaits a word
wandering ethereal
manifesting ____
a lover expecting his
Beloved with cherries
a shadow across
poetic dreams
drenched in pomegranate juice
the sand stone wished to be granite
yet a figment of imagination
eluded the tomb and it was over
eternally gone final impermanent
the children wept crocodile tears
but ancestors knew about snake bites
betrayal unforgiveness treachery deception
inscribed were false words
and only time would tell
if his wishes were granted
shaded under a fig tree
his begging bowl was empty
not one grain of rice graced death robes
yet saffron scents veiled his demise
as fruit of his loins shattered the earth
shadows danced a requiem
cacophony from split tongues
inscribed the message in blood
as vultures gathered
and songbirds went silent
yet wise jacaranda petals
found resting places in grooves
where the chisel had been
no eye for a blind eye
crack in the orb
universe spinning still
he chuckled from inside the grave
serene in lightness peaceful in mind
surreal quietude chirped at the dawn
of new beginnings
his dead heart full of undying passion
etched in a gem stone
the jewel lived on forever
a rough diamond without polish
true to himself
The Whistlepig Jig
I sat upon my porch one day
my pennywhistle for to play.
When out stepped Mr. Whistle-pig,
I thought to dance a jig.
“I left the comfort of my den,”
says he,”to satisfy my yen. I hear
this high-pitched trilling noise,
emanating from your little toy.”
“This is no little toy”, says I,
“so what do you imply?”
“I do not like this sound,
that pulled me out from underground.”
“Too bad” says I and played on still,
I will not quit until you‘ve had your fill.”
He chuckled in his ground hog way, and
said he, “I intend now to stay,
to laugh at you while you play.”
I took umbrage at his cheek
and said he had no right to speak.
With careful aim I raised my whistle
and flung it at him like a missile.
He caught it with his little paws
and placed its reed in his jaws.
As he played, he grinned a grin,
for we both now know
that he is the real musician.
Both roads, they misled,
cloaked in the form of fate,
as if one choice could somehow surpass the other.
The leaves appeared pristine, but isn’t that the trick?
Paths aren’t formed by feet,
but by the burden of all we bear.
So I chuckled and roamed through,
crushing the underbrush that had the nerve to remain neutral.
There, I saw nothing special in the middle,
only my own shadow outstretched—
proof enough that I was here.
It's awfully untrendy
to be slender, long and bendy
but it helps to have reach
when seeking the peach,
chuckled Sebastian to Wendy
Robert Sherriff - Australian - Poet -Author - Singer - Actor - American Historian – Photographer- Dedicated TO Jarryd Health Peter Les Sherriff
Golf Humor Story
As I sauntered along the lush, green golf course fairways, the player ahead slowed to meet me. With a grin, I inquired, "How's your game shaping up today?"
Turning back, he met my gaze with a hint of exhaustion and replied, "A piece of advice - never spar with your spouse before hitting the greens." He smiled wryly, "Especially if she's a better golfer than you! I'm still trying to recover from the 'hole' situation."
He chuckled softly, "Believe me, my game is not reflecting its true potential out there."
Feel free to share this humorous tale with your golfing friends or on social platforms! It's a story that all golfers, from beginners to pros, can relate to. Sometimes, a touch of fun is all it takes to navigate those challenging rounds with a smile.
Eager enchanted chair wore a ghost cover of white
Stay right there! Ordered the witch named Might.
The chair sat in its place, and the goblin chuckled.
Might swirled her wand, and the goblin buckled.
Black cat laughed, and was turned into a frog.
With one flick of the wand, he landed upside down on a log.
This delighted the chair that used to be a ghost.
But he dared not react, for he was scared of his host.
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