Humorless Poems

Vanilla DeVil

(To be sung to the tune of  "Cruella DeVil")
 
Vanilla DeVil, Vanilla DeVil,
If she cannot bore you, 
then nobody will.
With her, you’ll never 
ever have a thrill.
Vanilla, Vanilla
She’s better for you 
than a sleeping pill.
Need sleep? See 
Vanilla  DeVil.

She’s simply plain; 
if she were some ice cream,
she’d never be 
an interesting one.
No caramel swirl. 
No flavor has this girl.
She is the antidote 
for having fun!

A humorless girl, 
such bad company.
She hates to go out, so 
what good is she for?
Avoid her when you have
some time to kill.
Vanilla Vanilla DeVil.

Vanilla DeVil, Vanilla DeVil,
If she cannot bore you, 
then nobody will.
With her, you’ll never 
ever have a thrill.
Vanilla, Vanilla DeVil

Brouhaha

The reunion that caused all of the zany brouhaha
From a family kerfuffle with one humorless raw flaw

It all went down quite swiftly, in a quick split lickety
And ended outside in the hedges most thorn thickety 

A tray of food put cattywampus on the table by papa
Slipped and fell in by our taradiddle called mama

She was always a snip uppity and pinch or two persnickety
Especially toward mad uncle Ed who's getting old and rickety

As she landed on her derriere he let out a great guffaw
We chuckled and chortled but soon saw our big faux paw

She hurled everything at us from cups to fence white pickety 
We dodged and ran fast as we can it was quite a sticky wickety 

Flabbergasted brother Bob signaled to hurry with a caw caw
Grampa ran by gramma and pinched her rump with Ooh la la

She caught us all with a sprightly jump, hop and a skippety 
And threw us in that hedge like a wild flibbertigibbety

This tale may be strewn with yickety yak and blah blah blah
But that's how ma and pa caused all that wacky brouhaha

January 28, 2023
Writing challenge B word poetry contest
Sponsor Constance La France
Theme : Brouhaha

A Life of Uncompleted Jobs

It has been a short - lived career,
Former ones tried on Black Maria;
To soon start bearing A Pariah,
His story the same in Syria,
Which he had judged land of Moriah,
Jesus Christ leaving for Sharia 
Stopped prayers for his Diarrhoea 
A life of uncompleted jobs 
With a strong heart that dully throbs 
Two eyes that wouldn't see the snubs
And a right hand that nostrils rubs
It's a Jimmy Cliff's Foolish Pride,
So the setbacks he'd swept aside
With a radio as tireless
As its system is wireless
Reaching station of the tactless
For the funny and humorless.

When Profound Feels Sacred

My youngest
of three AfricanAmerican adopted sons
has profound nonwhite
nonstraight
nonverbal cerebral palsy.

Profound
in at least not being privileged
or victimized
by internal LeftBrain dominance,
violent micro-aggressions,
zero-sum competitive thinking

Either positively True and Good
or negatively False and Bad,
laughable
or humorless

Sacred indigenous consciousness
feels more Right-Elder brainstem
bodymind nondualistic synergy
friendly energy
which is my son's political blessing
and his capital secularizing
segregating
colonizing
economic disabled curse.

Youngest son communes
with music
more fluidly co-empathic
than linguistic communications

He touches
and sings
and chants
through echoing shouts
and exclamatory barks,
short nonphonetic phrases,
lip smacking,
and belly laughs.

When he cries,
which is seldom,
he cries silently

No vocal cords

Profound inhaling wet gasps
and exhaling sad sacred shakes.

He laughs unconditionally
from his root chakra 
warm unguarded soul
and bicamerally cries
from his buddha
co-empathic eyes.

A Public Preacher of More Money

He tightly sermonized on Harmony,
Neatly anchoring it in More Money:
How none of it unleashes Acrimony
And could crush A Holy Matrimony.
Soon, he alighted on Ceremony
But still built it on More Money:
The Humorless it clothes with The Funny,
A fiesta sweetening like Honey…

A public preacher, then, on More Money,
Now, his listeners fooling with Harmony
Next The Thing titling Ceremony.
More Money Man’s Doubly Assured Harmony,
Even the seeds from Strangled Matrimony,
Keeps tending with Authorized Alimony.

The Whale That Swam the Thames

It was thought the young whale was pregnant
confused as she was and out of her depth.

They waded into the river to help,
floated rubber rafts to buoy her up.
Marine experts posited ways
to keep her breathing in shallow waters.

In dockyard pubs
hard men openly spoke of her plight,
voices low and humorless
as they test-drove new technical jargon.

When she died;
rolling in the pebbly shallows
we threw a tarpaulin over her
as if she were a human cadaver.

We had televised everything,
implemented elaborate plans,
recorded last moments with ripples of hope.
Later we watched the sluggish waves
wash away her long drowning.

~~~~~
https://www.ctvnews.ca/world/young-whale-trapped-in-london-s-river-thames-euthanized-1.5421060

From the Sciences I Pulled Out

From the science I finally pulled out,
After my homework unleashed a shout:
An All-Times The Strangest Graph; 
To our Physics Teacher, “Perfect Chaff…” 

And it made the poor gentleman weep;
Awkwardly try something like a laugh, 
His skin beginning to creep; 
Tried though he to make it cowhide tough… 

For a whole week, a graph was a secret 
But later alerted the A solemn Staff 
For being humorless evidence quite concrete 
I had a target mi, by greater half.

Weeping and Trepidation

Copious tears flowed gently in the dire disaster 
                            but we're not in brutal excess.
Doom occurs precisely in a proper time 
                                when subtlety is humorless.
Fierce passion, o heart, gaily 
                            decorates your soul brightness.
And we are inseparably united 
                                         in our wistful sadness.
However, my conscious mind is 
                        precisely a vacuum-sealed recess.
Who merely performs reliably 
                     exquisite poetry for the curiousness.
Querying anxiously, he has enflamed 
                   the dear heart of eternal nothingness.
Feasibly my vital burning has been 
                                quenched for untold sadness. 


Written: October 14, 2021

Summer Day, 1983

Grotesque
tall
neurons
sprout into the sky
screaming anarchic omniscience

Green
gold
pulses
in
incandescent eruptions

Hot
humorless
jagged
rocks cut through
omniscient anarchy

Embarrassment

Last week, I walked up to a woman,
My arms encircling her un-notified waist,
After stiffly pointing out to some man
His not- funny miscalculations from childish haste…

Only yesterday was trailing after another woman in hilarity
Over her hip-describing shorts
And a not-tall one for a charity, 
My eyes her high-heeled shoes giving teasing shots.

All these: grudge-unleashing embarrassment
And in even kangaroo courts, a harassment;
A boulder-large embarrassment, an embrace by the insane
Sincerely acting one’s old acquaintance,
To surely leave one in palpable pain
A creditor for his money breathing open threats of disturbance.

Embarrassment is that a woman could kill for,
Of her gross belittling, exceedingly sure ;
Some wives proceeding on hunger strike
Until the sadists their husbands join them to dislike.

Squarely, a pitying of self while wallowing in shame,
A never ever feeling the same
With a shovelful of agitation
For the deliberate intimidation,
Sufferers carelessly freeing the lock to Violent Reaction
On the spot, denied the Shock Absorber for humorless action.

The Whale That Swam Up the Thames

It was thought she was pregnant
confused as she was
and out of her depth.
They waded into the river to help.
They floated rubber rafts to buoy her up.
Marine experts posited ways 
to keep her breathing in shallow waters.

In dockyard pubs
hard men openly spoke of her plight,
voices low and humorless
as they test-drove new technical jargon.
When she died;
rolling in the pebbly shallows
we threw a tarpaulin over her
as if she were a human cadaver.
We had done our best, had televised everything,
implemented elaborate plans,
recorded last moments with ripples of hope;
watched the sluggish waves
wash away her long drowning.

Labored Victories

Parental labor days and nights,
memories and contemporary echoing traumas
of declaring Hippocratic Commitment victories,
"No one got much hurt today,"

"Non-violent communication" prevails,
verbally and non-verbally laborious,
locally and globally viral,
monoculturally and multiculturally,
on our best days,

But "not violent" is such a negative
empty
cold
humorless LeftBrain way
to say,
to communicate,
resiliently resonant communion's
articulating
heart-felt possibilities.

We have hope and faith potentialities
for cooperative spirits of life and love,
And more retiring
shadowy natures of competitively incorporated death
and corporate loss,

But only one ZeroZone uniting Holy Nature/Spirit,
not only co-invested in non-violent life and love,
but further committed to solidarity
of resilient uniting life as resonant universal love,

Where Fear-of and Anger-about
past lose/lose competitive trauma
cannot repeat their either/or 
exclusive
devolutionary Names.

Wake Up Happy

Most people in the morning are humorless
They're not ready to tackle the day with exuberance
I'm a different dude
Wake in a happy mood
Every single day wake up with a protuberance>center>

The Edge of Wonder

To the edge of wonder we’ll blithely roam,
Map an enchanted place of passion born, 
In the far reaches of love we’ll find home.

Over gold-dusted peaks we’ll soon have flown, 
Each new sun will beckon with each new morn,  
To the edge of wonder we’ll blithely roam. 

Our minds will ever be by sea breeze blown, 
Words we utter by angels’ smiles adorned, 
In the far reaches of love we’ll find home. 

We’ll dance under skies by shooting stars combed,  
Of humorless hues our dreams shall be shorn,  
To the edge of wonder we’ll blithely roam.  

Grounds we stroll will glimmer with twilight’s chrome,  
We’ll banish every cloud that hangs forlorn, 
In the far reaches of love we’ll find home. 

The gods will bristle at how young we’ve grown,  
Yet from this journey we shall not be torn. 
To the edge of wonder we’ll blithely roam, 
In the far reaches of love we’ll find home.

Horn Scratch Trump Off My List Combined Haiku

Scratch Trump Off My List

Trump's home has become
A catacomb, while on his
Head wears an orange dome.

Trump thinks that he is
Such a sweet thing, and to tears
All of us does bring.

Difficult to deal
With and all of his appeal
Not really for real.

Trump was born with low
Intelligence level and
By wife was told so.

Over himself he
Cannot get and then also 
For neither can we.

In newspaper read
Would you believe found world dead
By Trump were all bled.

While in a brothel
Did decide to write a novel
"Around me world revolves."

Trump will never miss
Has always been humorless
Scratch him off my list.

James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet

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