Gags Poems

Blue Cheese and Old Pickles

Don’t ask me again how long.
A good joint could last awhile.
That blue cheese smell gave gags,
  the price for sky-high smiles.

Don’t ask me again how many.
Really, who remembers them all?
Some were fun and young, 
  others old and small.

We all had a shelf life.
No more swinging from the tree.
A grocery bag of memories
 of that wilder side of me.

he considers himself witty

if he was half as witty as he thought
he would be making millions of dollars as a comic
he thinks he is a professional wisecracker
a train of witticisms travels out of his mouth
hitting anyone and everyone in the eye
quips, gags, jokes and jest are his daily tools
his relatives have tired of most of them already

Awaiting the Ebb Tide

She chose to think his sweet talk lies were cute… 
that things he said had value worth pursuit.
that substance would emerge, somewhat astute.

And while his words of love she wants to feel… 
she ambles through their world hoping to heal.
She fears his selfish frost is hard as steel.

These past three years recalled with misty eyes…   
he goads her daily even as she cries;
he begs excuse but sneers with compromise. 

His conversation scars with bogus blame.  
it mocks them both for trust has turned to shame;
it gags her voice, so silence is her game.  

She made a promise, hoping that somehow
her mate would change. She’ll never break her vow.

Paris, July 2024

Again it’s time to set some cars on fire
To smash some windows shouting out obsceneties   
With Paris riots on TV you can’t get tired
Like trashy sequels of the Chaplin’s comedies
The action breaks down into episodes and gags
The crowd goes berserk with animation 
They look quite serious, young lions and old fags
Rugged protesters, conscience of the nation
But don’t be fooled, it’s just the way they live
Traditional amusement, if you like 
With little compensation they forgive 
Until its time to start another strike 
It was dramatic, till the fireworks began
Then water cannons jets endorse the celebration
Its Paris riots, open up your beer can
Sit back and watch the show of exaltation.

The Easter Chick

Chick in the pond
Is from double yolk 
Born Easter morn
He’s a little slow

He couldn’t swim
He barely floats
Oh look at him
The butt of jokes

One day a kid
Was tossing bread
He hit the chick
On his yellow head

Chick wobbles and splash
Gags and chokes
The other chicks laugh
Calling him a dope

Carrot top kid has an idea
Why should the chick nearly drown here
He wants to help chic persevere 
He tosses a toy boat off the pier

So yellow chick
Grabs the toy boat
He rides in it
And leads the row

The other chicks
Now proudly gloat
“Did you see my brother’s boat?”

In the Zone of Twilight Terror

jolted out of 
a fluid fuzzy 
fragmented 
dreamscape
into the sharp
dark ruminating 
ruins of reality

(it is very late in the evening
very early in the morning)

a paralyzed brain 
pleads for mercy in 
  a moribund purgatory
anticipating
  another shock
  another loss
  another step closer to 
     the endgame

cars furtively growl out of 
a deceptively quiet complex
in the gloaming

a gurgling gut
gags on pulsating 
  waves of dread
awaiting
  another arrow of entropy
  another firestorm
  another bolt
     out of the baleful bog

a chorus of singing birds sweetly
taunts the crumpled man
clinging to a rumpled bed

(it is very early in the morning
very late in the evening)

there are no 
answers
only pleas
in the zone 
of 
twilight
terror

She Binds and Gags Herself

she binds her own hands
keeping her true self away from herself
shuts her mouth tighter than a refrigerator door
nothing oozes out, or hints to her feelings

she is as closed as I am eager
I want her to unbind her hands
I want her to open her lips
and speak her heart
but it is not to be

she keeps herself bound and gagged
taking her heart hostage, not allowing it to breathe
revealing nothing of her emotions
closed and terrified, living a half life

this is her choice
no one can unbind her hands
no one can live her truth
or follow her heart
if she is determined to remain bound

Fast Food Fool

Hot peppers and spicy horseradish
   a gut-punch to the solar plexus
 Snake venom with moldy cheese
   not tonight, if you please...

 Tadpole skins and locust larvae
   strains my stomach of iron
 But a bloody Mary eggnog combo
   gags the esophagus of this Hawaiian

 Wonder how I developed my bizarre sense of taste?
   ~ A flush of the toilet for whoever said, 'Haste makes waste'

Strong Winds In This Faraway Land

The ooze ought to bestow fear on its forms.
The torrid heat of July gags your sacred calling.
It holds inside you, humbly inviting storms.
Singing in the gentle light of root caregiving.

Their activity heedfulness is vanishing.
Hanging pixie wings are sharp, yet blurring.
Daffodils, once joyful, are now luckless.
This late gap is bred by the deity endless.

Each one should heed this hidden tone of truth.
Earthly grief openly evokes settled insight.
Eschew sinking sand in blurring tracts, youth.
This area's lands grasp a waning and fading sight.

When we omit our inner tone, we get a breeze.
We've joined a so barren and chaotic apostasy.
Deep murk, sluggish heart, stifled worries ease.
A moving, rolling wind minds us on our life story.

Bear not the soul to untie ruin across each plain.
As the world deems you, you expect likely to rain.
The culminating bashes are quick and hastily thrown.
Each day gains betterment and outgrown.


Written: April 25, 2022

Away From City Life

Lawyer Oliver from New York City
Moved to country farm run down then pretty
Wife Liza, a city girl
Name the year-old pet pig Pearl,
Tossing dishes away, was quite bitty

4/4/2022

On A Lim Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May 

Green Acres

Named for Oliver Wendell Holmes, he makes the rash decision to leave his successful law practice and pursue his lifelong dream of being a farmer, despite having no real-world knowledge or experience, as evidenced by him doing farm chores while wearing a three-piece suit
Lisa Douglas living with her father, the deposed King of Hungary. Pampered by her wealthy family, her skewed world view and domestic ignorance provide fertile ground for recurring gags.

Do Not Walk In the Grass

Don´t walk on the grass

 Do not have thoughts and opinions  
 That is not the official western version of democracy.
Do not tell gags that is funny, it will upset someone
that find it invasive and crude
Humour is not comical especially if irony is involved.
We are living in a woke time and like covid disappear
In the meantime, be careful of what you say.

A Knock At His Door

a knock at his door
  signal of war
he knows no more

arrive at the line
  cigarette kills the time
silence jars his mind

bullets float past his head
  he fancies himself dead
meadow's splattered blood-red

he chokes, gags and he runs
  falls to the ground, done
glorious victory, hard-won

Funny Man

Attention Mr Funny Man 
enlighten us clean pun,
Be the sport with thunder thought
Funny man be fun.

We're waiting on ridiculous...
gags and comedy,
The humourous and numerous 
jest and parody.

Be a fool and do it cool
with wacky be the dope,
Goosey-like, one not bright
C'mon tell a joke.

For we are girls that need some whirls and
happiness in being,
Win us all with comic sprawl
to chase you when your fleeing.

Swim Call

Sick waves tumble guts.
Quick gags stifle lunch.
Motions blurred gray illusion,
Icy spray sea infusion.
Slate fogged sky ahead and back,
Compass swinging out of whack.
Skid, slip, spin, and fall.
Don't panic, swim call.

Where Did They Go

Oh, the one on one days of yesterday,
Of boredom and babies and waiting.
Of school mornings and tagging along,
Brown paper bags, school songs.

The blowing of wind and weather,
Long stockings and hair and lunch bags,
Yellow buses and friends to savor,
Long highways, Texas dust gags.

Oh, Saturday morning quiet and wonder,
Pondering age and foreboding.
From childhood to now to that end of ends,
I stand, speak to my past now going.

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