Deep within the city park
stood Barnaby, a highly
grumpy, semi- sentient apple
tree.
He absolutely despised
when children approached
with fawning, goofy faces to
steal his fruit.
Whenever kids giggled and
reached up, Barnaby would
furiously shake his wooden
branches.
THWACK! A barrage of ripe,
juicy red apples went flying
like heat- seeking missiles.
He pelted the screaming kids
right on their bottoms, chuckling
a low, creaky laugh.
The children thought it was a
hilarious game and ran through
the park intentionally.
They made ridiculous,
exaggerated kissy- faces just
to trigger the tree's flying fruit
defense.
Barnaby snorted woodchips,
launching a rapid- fire green
Granny Smith straight at a
nose.
The park echoed with loud,
joyful snorts as apples
bounced harmlessly off
targeted bellies.
The grumpy tree finally
smiled, realizing his thrown
treats made everyone incredibly
happy.
Cornbelt residents rise with the sun,
Seeking geometry in soybeans.
Space aliens zoomed through the galaxy,
Just to crease someone’s corn flakes.
Intelligent life from distant stars
Avoids the formal radio waves.
They use advanced crop wrinkles
To converse with good ol’ Mother Earth.
Galactic wayfarers don’t stop at NASA,
They etch their figures in farrow.
A communication from outer space,
Which could be wiped away by a combine.
Two small-town farmers named Dave and Roy,
Armed with flashlights and sheets of plywood,
Chuckling quietly into their beers,
Designing an entirely new universe.
UFO investigators tote their gear,
Science-ing the folded wheat.
Either the universe is trying to talk to us,
Or the bar kicked them out too early.
Chuckling Nelson Mandela
carried a chequered umbrella
almost thirty years on Robben Island, a prison
he ascended to a powerful Presidency, wearing a red ribbon !
________________________
[Poet’s Note : President Mandela actually did occasionally wear a small red ribbon on his lapel, during his Office, indicating support for AIDS sufferers, at the time when the disease was at its peak, worldwide]
_____________________
Placed 2nd : Clerihew Contest
Sponsored : Tania Kitchin
May 26
I fail, miserably.
Tonight, it was
the mad dash
to the grocery store.
I had just run 6 miles
in the 80-degree dying day
and I smelt like it.
I looked like an extra
from a bad horror movie,
or an escapee
from the local asylum.
My hair was loose
and wild, a half-made
nest for the robins,
no doubt.
My makeup had
rearranged itself
in odd places
across my face.
I just needed coke,
chips, and who knows
what else.
No one was looking at me
and I wasn't looking at them,
until...
"Miss Jen!"
Ahh!
I've been spotted!
I spoke in mumbles
and the usual
babbling nonsense
and sculked away
after I met
the whole, unimpressed
family.
I managed a joke,
horrible and trying,
yet there was
mutual understanding
in all our fake chuckling.
I was wearing my black
bike shorts, Panama Rocks
tee shirt, pink sneakers,
and I smelt to high heaven.
I grabbed a jar of triple
succotash, as if
intentionally.
Earlier, I was well kept
and wearing a ladylike dress
to a friend's birthday party.
Then, I had it together.
Who can maintain
that level of normality
for a whole day?
I'm not going
to the grocery store
tomorrow.
A thousand simple things make me smile...
The sleeping form of a precious newborn,
A child's drawing in his own artistic style,
Pastel shades of the sky in the early morn,
Fairytales written about a magical unicorn.
I am amused by hair with corkscrew curls
on heads of adorable little, giggling girls.
By puppies tripping over their own feet,
Watching moonlight's glow as night unfurls,
And a surprise kiss that's incredibly sweet.
Someone falling should never make me laugh,
But quickly, I'm chuckling out of control
Then sincerely apologize for my social gaffe.
I wildly cheer when my team scores a goal.
I've heard that 'Laughter is good for the soul.'
In a spontaneous moment of outdoor fun,
I've jumped into a deep snowdrift at full run,
I find great pleasure in setting myself free
to share the taste of cotton candy, finespun...
Life is sweet when I make no excuse for being me
**********
[ Standard Contest : Write a Beautiful Shadorma
Sponsor: Constance la France
Placing : Second ]
_______________
“Actually, if you don’t dip into the Soup, you might not meet Shakespeare and he won’t be able to taste your verses.” Poet
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This soup tastes
like a fancy hat
bewitching
alluring
beauties and beasts swirling heat
pulchritudinous
Slick smooth soup
papyrus inky
taste chuckling
lyrical
luscious sages engaging
scripting evolving
Nourishes
Shakespeare’s ladle dips
readers gape
poets stirring
dramatically press keys
flourish stanzas bold
I like to eat pickles and rhyme.
And tackle gravity from time to time.
A plateful or wishes and strawberries.
Are all the day carries.
Delicious chips which crunch like old pipes underground.
That give us a chuckling sound.
I like to eat pickles that rhyme.
As I hurt with slime.
Try to make a poem sandwich.
Whatever that means to a light switch.
Fall asleep because of dust.
Wake up due to picture frame rust.
I can’t make a poem make sense.
So I take the poem for a rinse.
He goes into the bath I made on a whim.
His chances of escape are slim.
Because it’s poisonous starch in this water.
I did it for the writing fodder.
I have enough to write about these days.
While carving out a pickle haze.
I rest better
knowing he was here
and that he’ll come back
you know how a puppy jumps
for joy at reunion with its master?
Though he is not my master,
that’s me,
waiting at the door
all senses armed
ready to explode with joy.
Wanting the moment
when he walks through the door
smiles, and hugs me
like he wants to squeeze me flat.
“Do you think about me as much as I think about you?”
He asked, loosening his hold so I could breathe.
“Probably not,” I lied.
“Savageery,” he said, chuckling.
.
.
A Song for this:
I Can't Help Loving That Man by Björk
the
ubiquitous
reflective
eyes
scanning
throughout
the
Serengeti Plains
of
the
wild spotted
hyena
laughing
giggling
chuckling
while
feasting
and
crushing
the
bones
of
the
daunted
prey
Too tempting, the new fallen snow.
Twilight’s twinkling, curious glow.
First the pines chuckled and slid;
down the hill slow then too fast.
The houses’ windows agape,
twisted and tugged, then luged.
Swish..swoosh..swish
Kids in the homes applauded;
Cardinals in mints, blues, greens
fluttered about, catching manna
on their tongues; different is good.
brr…mmm..howl
Eventually, the trees and houses
had to lug their heaviness up the hill,
but they had so much fun, they did
it again and again. Families joined in,
in the delightful twilight, kept secrets
shh…shh…hush
of their magical night. Grandkids believed
it was just fantastical stories, but one night
they hear a ruckus, feel the foundations
rocking, rolling, chuckling, carousing; pines
sliding like frosting down a cake. Delicious.
ahh…ohh…wee
Be careful, the secret’s past from tree
to tree, house to house. The stoic unmoved,
but some are considering moving down hill.
The row of hydro flasks standing proud on seminar desks,
The red splat outside the door of our flat made
Coz they wouldn't let me put my pressure cooker into venting mode in the kitchen.
Venting mode is what my flatmates are switched to coz of my mess one day,
But the next they are chuckling
'Bout how I mopped without getting the crud off the floor.
It is knocking on each others' doors with our fists when sober,
Flopping in when drunk.
It is thinking, wow, since my flatmate won't date me,
Her boyf must be a real hunk.
University is the range of washing up liquid colours
And the cluster of tomatoey scran in the freezer,
But also Groundhog Day with linguistics lecturers asking us
What we call a bread roll and how we say ‘bath’.
When will I wash it all off?
War prowls not in nations ,
but along threads we cannot see,
stirred by men afraid of being small.
They hide behind heavy drapes…
Blind to the dust they leave behind.
Egos puff up and snap with each word,
sparks falling into fields,
that never asked for fire.
Voices puff themselves up like proud birds,
words flicker over dry tinder--
pauses yawning wide for disaster.
Ego, restless as a fidgeting child,
tugs at the world until it tips and leans, laughing,
chuckling as cities lose their balance,
holding on tighter
until Hope folds in on itself and retreats into shadow.
And still they feed it,
men who drape themselves in wrath like armor,
bowing to Force as if it held a crown.
Victory casts a faint , weary smile
while the World leans aside,
guarding its secrets in silence.
The Selfish Egos of War
Sponsored by: Craig Cornish
Contest Judged: 1/11/2026 6:54:00 AM
( 1st Place )
Written: 11/29/2025 (Don Mueang)
Eating ice cubes off the floor.
Feeling something on the shore.
As if there’s a vacation in my hand.
Like chunks of avocado in the sand.
Chewing on blobs and other plant-like things.
A voice as the doorbell rings.
Chuckling, and rumbling doorbell sounds.
There’s some sort of magic that abounds.
Chomping down on the floorboards.
Holding onto invisible cords.
Which are actually chunks of skin falling down.
And one falls on my head like a crown.
Eating ice cubes off the floor and the doorbell rings.
Like a vacuum cleaner that likes clear, icy things.
Dangling from overhead.
Are monsters pretending to be hanging houseplants instead.
Like a monstrous cube, or rolling ball.
It was me who took the fall.
With marbles growing and splintering too.
Chunks are blue.
Blobs, chunks, and things.
Chewing sounds and the doorbell rings.
Invisible vacation howling.
The crashing sounds of scowling.
There was an ice cube, fell to the ground.
Dissolved with a hissing sound.
No one believes at all.
Maybe I’ll grow more marbles next fall!
I sit
Between my future and my past
Entrapped
Within an ever-present moment
Destiny
Whispering her riddles to me
History
Chuckling in the background
Am I
The center of this moment
The why
Awaiting the when
Of a never-ending dream
An echo
Searching for a voice
Has my moment passed
As I sat
Waiting for it
Or is it waiting
For me
To recognize it
As my moment
Walking slowly in utter dark wholly stripped and laid bare
Tears running down my face and a tightening in the air
Heart screaming a deafening silent desperate prayer
Carrying the broken pieces of a life full of ware
Abruptly piercing the sea of black was a beam of light
Silhouetting a tall bearded man who was twice my height
Piercing flame-filled yet loving tender eyes burning so bright
The Son of God had appeared before me all dressed in white
Laying the pieces at his feet eyes swelling turning pink
Barely uttering "I'm broken" as I felt my soul shrink
Chuckling the Son of God grabbed all the fragments with a wink
Little one you are not broken this is not what you think
Purposely placing pieces on the floor with flair and glee
Forming a vibrant mosaic of color and of me
Completing his masterpiece he motioned to come and see
With a loving embrace he whispered "Nothing but beauty!"
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