You men, having come from the martial Mars,
Us women from fetchingly cute Venus,
Do for long engage in a game of spars
And there’s li’le change in this mutual status.
For, feigning love no more than carnal sex,
Man’s for long sharpened his pyrrhic war axe,
To get loved whilst the fair sex has paid tax,
Praise be, pretender that no genius lacks!
Conjugal life centres round, what else, sex,
If we believe what an expert sayeth,
Fains if there be freedom from sex or tax,
Cometh liberation only at death!
So then, there's un-spelt avowal of truce,
Abundant surges still conjugal juice!
_____________
Expert sayeth: Havelock Ellis and others on the subject of sex
Sonnets (Tongue-in-cheek) | 01.08.05 |
Joyous morning awakened me today and I salute the sun
Over fried eggs and caffeine delight, to stories of
Yesterday’s, long gone.
One day I’ll awaken to
Find a glorious sunrise baking
This old earth as it basks in the light
Of Brother Sun’s great yawning
Dare we interrupt sky’s dawning
And revel in her many fetchingly spun, prismatic
Yarns...oh...yes, we must!
It’s cotton sleeves and naked shoulders, since
the balmy southern evening’s close and warm.
“Aida” underneath the stars tonight!
Bassoons and oboes, eager to perform,
are practising brief runs. The moon is huge
against umbrella pines, and tiny bats
are flickering, silent in the smooth mauve sky.
Italian stewards, nature’s diplomats,
escort the pretty women to their seats.
Expensive perfume lingers in the air.
Coquettish earrings glitter fetchingly,
their wearers feigning sang froid (but aware!)
These Roman nights! Life is so gracious here.
To live like this – who’d ever want to die?
Ars longa, vita brevis. Raise a beer.
Tonight, Rome is eternal. So am I.
I’m spending a quiet evening
this Christmas – just by myself;
I’ll light a solitary candle,
Sit snugly by the fire,
And dwell upon my life.
No one is coming over
and I have to go nowhere,
I have bought no gifts and
have nothing to sip or savor.
But wait ...
Who now knocks at the door?
Who, I wonder,
would venture out in this
frosty Christmas night?
As I open the door
I see on my doorstep
A wicker basket with
warm loaves of bread,
And a jug of wine
fetchingly laid!
There is no one in sight,
Hush all around and quiet,
But then ...
through this dark
and foggy night,
I see
A solitary star aglow
and footprints in the snow!
~Who is knocking at my door contest by Tammy Reams
Models on a runway
Look like skeletons in clothes.
Skinniness is what’s expected
At the fashion shows.
So mannequins reflect that trend
And thus are thinly shaped,
Conforming to how we expect
To see their outfits draped.
But not in Venezuela
Where the mannequins have grown,
Presenting bigger boobs and butts
Than those before had known.
The shoppers want voluptuous
So factories complied
And Dolly Parton look-alikes
Are what they now provide.
The stores report that sales are up
Since all the clothing racked
Is fetchingly displayed up front
On mannequins so stacked!
All the poets I invited.
"Mull over Beauty". I asked.
To their waiting inkpots they hied.
On their prolific imagination they relied.
The senses they all becomingly exploited.
Awe- inspiring tropes they invented.
Fetchingly, tuneful rhymes they produced.
Pompously, their musical verses they chanted
"Stop it! Stop it!" I shouted, discontented.
None of their odes, my feelings, awakened
To the curtain I walked and the 'beauty' I unveiled
Speechless,they all stood,totally affected.
When they talked, they hardly babbled.
Their muse, they furiously cursed.
The soul-stirring poet I praised.
The lord who your beauty he molded.
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