Humors Poems

Laughter

Cackles, snickers, chortles and squeals ease life's weight.
Laughter can completely reset our composure.
Humors random salves of mirth can ease feeling states.
Past times of paled poise were health fueled by laughs ardor. 
 
Laughter can completely reset our composure.
Acute giggles often cause worthwhile tummy bunched aches.
Past times of paled poise were health fueled by laughs ardor. 
Bonding laugh episodes can mold sweet memory shapes.

Acute giggles often cause worthwhile tummy bunched aches.
Laughs can floor lay us to mirth quake over and over.
Bonding laugh episodes can mold sweet memory shapes.
Laughing steers peace of mind like a kind chauffeur.

Laughs can floor lay us to mirth quake over and over.
Humors random salves of mirth can ease feeling states.
Laughing steers peace of mind like a kind chauffeur.
Cackles, snickers, chortles and squeals ease life's weight.

A Good Sense Of Humour Blunts The Sharp Blades

A good sense of humour blunts the sharp blades
Lifting a heavy heart, making our burden fades
Permanent or temporary, it’s facial muscles' relaxant aid
Bringing joy and laughter, keep it as a precious jade!

Humour is anti-stress, a powerful medicine in life
A priceless cream to cure our cuts from trial’s knife
When some difficult circumstances come rife
Exchange humour with someone to cope, forget any strife.

Humour only interferes… alleviating boredoms
Strengthens neurons, gives us brilliance and wisdom
As facial muscles stretch from smiles, we can overcome
Some problems pass while sense of humour is our chum. 

When our sense of humor weakens or runs-out
Ask AI’s help, watch reels, takes things light, don’t pout
Our own facial expressions can even make some humors sprout
To keep the world laughing, always be ready like a scout!

Holiday Humors

There once was a snowman named Clyde, 
Who melted and nearly just died! 
With a scarf and a hat, 
He looked rather flat, 
Now he chills in the fridge, safe inside. 

A reindeer named Fred took the sleigh, 
He thought, “I’ll take it my way!” 
But up in the sky, 
He went way too high, 
Now he’s stuck in a tree ’til next May. 

A turkey once tried to disguise, 
As a chef, with ambition and ties! 
With a pan and a pot, 
He gave it a shot, 
Now he’s roasted, despite all his lies.

Rumor sleuth

In the land of glitz and glitter.
Visionaires film moving pictures.
Acting out their fantasies.
Through love ,war, or tragedy.

Who got hot between the sheets.
To rhapsody's elusive beat.
As a plot began to steam
Audacity, almost Obscene. 

Humors truth, alloyed themes.
Viewers rule, Android dreams.
Rumor sleuths, Tabloid screams.
Future jewels on a silver screen.

I talk to God

             "  I talk to God"
         
        Although he already knows: what I'm about to say.
       He humors me of course at all times.
            I talk to God,
     Knowingly know that free Will was given from the beginning of creation and time.
         I talk to God,
     For opening up; his loving and forgiving arms to me.
        I talk to God,
      And he has  and will always welcome my company.
      Even when I'm complaining.
        I talk to God,

Not a Dry Eye in the House

  We could do wheelies in the halls again
     No, no. They'd confine us to our rooms for weeks

  Yeah... Uh, we could pretend we're comatose
      Nah. They'll switch up our medicines

   Yeah. That would be brutal 
       How about another 'Best Glazed-Over Eyeball-Rolling' contest
    
    Bingo. Sounds like a winner. Gimme ten minutes to put my eyeballs
    back in their sockets       
       Sure thing. And don't forget the aqueous humors this time...

Bonnie

Bonnie and Clyde,
Pick a side,
Well, I know a better Bonnie, my friend,
Shes like a whole another trend,
Quiet as a mouse,
But evil as a haunted house,
Not really but her humors good,
Tough as wood,
But as soft as a marshmallow,
I have never heard her bellow,
I would just like to say, she's amazing,
And so, Kind,
She often forgets things.
So, she's not the one to remind,
But overall, she's the best,
And will pass any test.

Passion

Passion
Indulge not the rose-pink screen
 That bars fingers of flame
To shade the untouched cheek and give no character a name.
Imprison all humors
To which inspires faint motion
Ever wonder,
 Nor pluck or praise a notion.
Stand away forgive none nor despise
And turn not the other cheek
 But hold all beyond the eyes.
In all these
 Colour of nuance lightly spray
Without thought or empty chalice
 Holder of the way
Yet the tints and tinge strokes and stain
Hide not the portrait of the brain.

Debonair Raccoon

Debonair raccoon had his pick of women of course.
He found them in the barn, cuddling next to the horse.
He liked them Rubenesque, reddish and round.
They gravitated him sleek and slick, marriage-bound.

The horse got jealous when Debonair took them away.
He liked female racoons. Many of them “made his day”.
They were eager to please, and their sense of humors were keen.
He thought when Debonair took them from him, he was being mean.

Raver

he’s a raver, deep from marrow, born
who screams at moons to curse the morn
and though his flesh is bloodless, torn
he woos the beast inside him
for night alone won’t hide him

he creeps the nettles, scratched and red
to find the temptress for his bed
but with the madness in his head
those angels - dark and ruddy
find all their wings, now bloody

oh, once this manic’s dreams were pure
of maidens, graced with grace, demure
their loins, quite worth a birthing’s cure
but he drowned all such humors
his passions, turned to tumors

those virtues, pure, were sacrificed
for panicked potions - poisoned, iced
no hellion’s draught had e’er sufficed
to scald his veins through rapture
death’s tonic, claimed for capture

but there beneath a gold doubloon
the grip of dripping deviled moon
that man left all his senses strewn -
hopes hanging on a door-hinge
with high-priced bitter orange

there are no versions of the truth
no happy end, this saddened sleuth
what waste, the years of wondrous youth
those scores of bugles, blaring
changed to a dirge, despairing
bright eyes, a-dead and staring …

bright eyes … now dead.


( Painting by Achille Chiarello )

Before the Blacktop Ends

Before The Blacktop Ends
David J Walker

The world wends 
	And extends 
A mile or two before
The blacktop ends 
It ends in dust 

	It ends in rust
Transcends the trust of 
Casuistic treasures

It measures miles 
It humors trials 
And tempers time 
And fills the files
	With pleasures
	Only pleasures

And clings to things
	Familiar
Before the blacktop ends

Flying School For Witches

We are flying upside down and slightly sideways
Witches with attitude until the end of their days.
Sure, we sometimes end up in pots and other places
But we have a terrific time when we fly into spaces.

We are older now, and some of us have lost part of our mind.
The empathy makes it special, and most of us try to be kind.
We have opened this school for the ones who ride a short bus.
And for others, our main driving teacher is old Mrs. Cuss.

I ran into a truck the other day and the driver got out and laughed.
He was driving toward the zoo, and out stuck a rather ugly giraffe.
We all have great sense of humors at this flying school I started.
We might have dementia, and we’re old, but we are truly kind-hearted.

The Mortar and the Pestles

The women bending and pounding in rhythm 
was a vibrant bucolic sight. The long wooden 
pestles were powered by the human current.

While grinding raw rice, 
they stopped to rest, and 
to crack jokes, which were 
embellished with erotic 

connotations, and were worthier than today’s 
TV humors. They made turmeric and coriander
powder, when their delightful nasal tunes vibrated 

through the powdering 
thunder. Chili particles 
provoked their nostrils.
Sneezing was soothing. 

They crushed herbs and roots, medicinal wonders. 
Their minds, too, were muscular. The mortar and 
the pestles have been discarded in a nook of the 

present. The modern 
ladies prefers to powder 
packets, albeit adulterated  
or preserved in poison.


First published in The Literary Hatchet (issue #28).

Florence and Duno Brown

I have recognized many old ladies, but I know two of them.
They were Florence and Duno, both crackerjacks.
Their sense of humors rose in the sky and went to Jupiter.

I saw lots of old ladies with lavender hair and lavender dresses at church.
They sat with their half way hose sticking out below the knee.
It was a funny sight, but we dared not snicker.

I had no idea old ladies could be funny until I met Florence.
Which is why I gave Duno a chance. Florence was a story teller.
Duno was a comedienne. They got me over my fear of old ladies.

Now I am the old lady, sitting with burgundy hair,
Trying to not giggle at silly stuff,
But not at church.

Change of Heart

How fickle are the humors of the heart,
capricious and of alternating hue,
a masked chameleon of cunning art;
transmuting colours often hid from view.

11.10.20


An excerpt from my poem ' Colours of the heart'

Rithimus Divisa Poetry Contest
sponsored by Gregory Barden

• Short Humors Poems
• Famous Humors Poems
• Best Humors Poems
• Read Humors Poems
• Long Humors Poems
• Humors Quotes