Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these ‘it might have been’—John Greenleaf Whittier
without deep regret
apologetic parrot ~
squawks m
i n d racked a
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Categories:
greenleaf, psychological,
Form: Senryu
In my youth I was completely engrossed,
By poetry along the byways nailed to a post!
It wasn't composed by John Greenleaf Whittier;
No, the authors were much more wittier!
I speak of Burma Shave signs once all the craze,
But can only be found in museums nowadays.
I don't claim to own the wit of Nast or Nash,
But here are some I might've composed if I may be so brash!
If its a kiss from yer gal you crave
But the stubble on yer mug she hates
Better grab yerself a can of Burma Shave!
When ol' Sarge says you're grown' too much stubble
And threatens to nix yer weekend pass
Slather yer mug with Burma Shave on the double!
When you were interviewed for a host of jobs
But weren't hired because of yer stubble
Smother yer mug with Burma Shave in gobs!
When you insist on takin' her out to dine
But she says no caressin' yer 5-o'clock shadow
Mow yer mug usin' Burma Shave and all will be fine!
If it's yer handsome mug you want to save
Plain ol' Lifebuoy soap won't do the job
Use plenty of good ol' foamy Burma Shave!
Let me tell you fellers about the latest rave
If you want to impress your sweetie pie
Use smooth and creamy Burma Shave!
Categories:
greenleaf, humorous, nostalgia, poetry,
Form: Rhyme
Here's a salute to Poet Ogden Nash,
Who was notable for being quite brash!
He was much more wittier
Than John Greenleaf Whittier,
Concocting reams of clever balderdash!
Categories:
greenleaf, humorous, poets,
Form: Limerick
Emma Riesgo
1897-1919
Alas, I was just a simple soul.
Born second in the corner house,
Over on old Washington Street,
Just a short stroll,
From the college there,
My mother labored for 9 hours
In the sweating shadows,
Upstairs there,
In my dead grandmother’s bed,
And out I slunk wet and slippery,
Gasping but not suffocating.
When Mr White brought me here,
My, but the ride was bumpy!
Up Greenleaf Avenue I rode,
In Mr. White’s old horse-drawn hearse,
Past the Carnegie Library,
And all those stones there,
Past the Greenleaf Hotel,
And its broad veranda there,
Then left the hearse tentatively turned,
Onto flowery old Broadway Street,
Past the double-towered school there,
On pleasant Pickering Street,
Past the fences and the dusty walls,
Past the granite tombstones
Of this bleak locale.
My friends, life was just a blink of the eye for me.
Just a simple soul,
Who found love at last,
In the cold dusty embrace
Of these old walnut trees here.
Categories:
greenleaf, death,
Form: Epitaph