Long Mincemeat Poems
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The merry widow’s marvelous mincemeat melody
Was gradually heard around three by the old oak tree
Honestly said Bert, the bumblebee, is this the Grand Prix?
Miraculously, there was a royal red revelry
A chickadee landed on the right knee of Diana Dee
Making her a friend in furious practicality
Old oak tree receded into the loving forest canopy
Forming a deliberate, desired universal solid symmetry
Would you like a chewy chickpea Lee asked widow and me.
I heard hyena-like laughter from Leroy, the red-butted monkey
Rolling them in warm tortillas is the chef’s secret recipe
Flamboyant frog huffed away, jingling her copper jewelry
The rest of us stared, which we do on Wednesdays, habitually
Being yourself and making no apology is the key said monkey
The faeries made themselves tinier, they were in fact now wee
Lovely monorhyme in progress, guessed my observant cousin Vee
I must agree said my boss, the pompous persnickety Mr. McGee
The rhymes are rather delightful, and frankly, there are plenty.
She was a force to be reckoned with, outgoing, delightfully assertive, powerful, well-respected.
Her business was human resources.
She was the company expert. We could not have functioned without her.
She matched people to careers as smoothly as seven minute icing goes onto a cake.
She had a reputation as the go-to-person for any and every relationship dilemma we could throw her way, and we threw them all to her.
She caught them and laughed, making mincemeat of them.
She was loving and caring, a brick in the company.
She kept things together.
She kept the peace,
She kept dendrite records that made the paper ones look feeble.
She would do anything to help you, and with the most positive attitude in the world.
She enthusiastically restored hope in people who felt helpless.
She taught people how to be resilient.
She never burdened us with her problems.
She did not talk about herself.
She left them at home.
With her gun,
And her
Bullets
And her
Plans.
A woman
Alone.
Not even
A cat.
She thought we could easily replace her,
But she was dead wrong.
Passing of the New Year
We could have had champagne and not Buck’s fizz, but then we aren’t in showbiz. We glorify and harness God’s creation in full spirit, praising his glory. The passing of the year, nothing to fear, his goodwill to mankind, it is without deploration, acutely aware of the labour ahead-January blues, that first Monday does lamentedly lurk, far from jovial or jaunty as work is around the cruel corner. Unadorned is now the room but the fire still ablaze where the cat does lethargically laze. Snow did disrupt December endeavour and to avoid the roads, we’d be more than clever-force winds doesn’t hinder the odd ocean swimmer-madness to those who take hot wine from the beach’s cafe with views of breaking waves which battle the surfers. Many a woman is all too aware that more mincemeat won’t make a tactical nighttime dancer trimmer. A fanciful occasion for many albeit far from a duchess, but prone to impress to celebrate the New Year is without much persuasion.
Nay, despite failing to make the grade,
this bluesy well red, duff mute
average white band hit,
hard knock school alumnus
jack of all trades master of none bumped along
pot hole cratered steep pitch
while riding the bus
bullies skewered kosher me all, cannibalized
carte blanche timid ego
brandishing exacto knife
threatening jugular, cuss
sing maniacally pulling out all stops
going headstrong for this doofuss
Embracing premonition making me mincemeat
vis a vis via, Atilla the Hun plus
Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore
after diet of worms
as hors d'oeuvre hug guess
if given a choice, would prefer Loch Ness
monster, or the whale that swallowed Jonah,
either t'would be a quite im press
heave feted feat, versus being poached,
roasted, skewered burnt alive
perhaps sautéed to feed additionally,
the Gothic (Jacks sin) five
the latter adorned with
Bandolier prototype, whence they would jive
to Vandals mess sigh ya,
these last yet another contra band
to play on command, or risk not being
he gee beegee bing a live
all thee above iterated blather spluttered
as punishment against revive
ving human sacrifice by pence hoove lee donning
a new jersey wordlessly trumpeting, and strive
ving assiduously as a one man lobbyist,
and aye willingly negotiate
to take more'n one wive
even though that would be big o' me decor,
thus a last minute reprieve given
without axing por favor
and black keys handed over
to Holy Roman Empire in hoar
rubble ruins (over the Weeknd), thus brutish nasty,
and short tempered surprisingly
(boot not prematurely) ejaculating bon jour
foo fighters actually (grand
aery an nah - did a three sixty)
feting me guest of hun or,
boosting self esteem, the first time
since being a kid in a candy store
which poetic digression
did make quite a dee tour,
and bringing detente amidst marauding
village people hoop reef furred war.
Babes in Pieland, my favorite Disney movie of all time.
Annette and Tommy, Dream Girl and Dream of mine.
Those gypsies, the music, the dancing, and those scary trees!
Babes in Pieland, a kick, a whirl, a spin, and a breeze!
Apple, cherry, lemon meringue, and sweet mincemeat too.
Let’s give them a push down the old snoggle-whoo-whoo.
Sh! Here comes Tommy and Annette in a blue Corvette.
I smell pie – peach, raspberry, key lime, and chocolate.
Pieland, Pieland, Good Old Fashioned Pie Land!
We Love the way that you smile at us.
We like your trees, though they look like they cuss.
Pieland, Pieland, Good Old Fashioned Pie Land.
Written 11-16-2018 Contest: Punny Holiday Pies Contest
Sponsor: Michelle Faulkner
Mysterious Mumbo micron meanders most monochrome mornings
Merry Mickey monster makes mentionable mackerel marmalade
Michigans maleficent mayor maimed Mrs.Maryjane May Marlow
Mumbling meager monarch mumbles making Muncie memorable
Minute minions marched missing marshmallow marsh
Montana mistresses mixed millions, mincing megaphones
Marvelous misguided monkeys mimed minutemen,
Milly mistakenly met misogynist men making mincemeat
Marty’s munchable muffins mysteriously melted
Mystical memories mischievously met Merry Mickey
Missouri's mania maybe mystifying many Minnesotans
Moppish meanies mislaid miniscule Mississippi maps
Sourpuss People
Sourpuss people are the opposite of sweet
And can turn a sunny day into mincemeat.
Their smiles are forced and bitterly insincere,
Revealing no sense of humour or good cheer.
They sneer and wink and chatter behind your back
And rain on your parade every chance they get,
Complaining and griping about this and that
While arguing with nothing good to extract.
Their cold hearts are mean because they seek power
And bully others like they’re chopped liver.
And though it’s wrong to get mad and retaliate,
Sometimes lines are drawn when there’s no other way.
It’s incorrect behaviour to fight with them
Because others might not see the difference.
Alabaster annoyance
Blatantly breathes bulbous brightness
Cadaverous comedy caring
Daintily during delicate delivery
Exciting elderly enigma.
Furious fiery feeler
Gregariously greets
High-handed hustler
Ignoring imaginative immediates
Jauntily jeering judiciously.
Kangaroo kisses kibitzes
Leaving luxurious loners
Merrily masticating mincemeat.
Never-do-wells needing knowledge
Ostentatiously officiate on orange orangutans.
Precariously polite Pomeranians
Quietly quiz querulous quoters
Reposing rapidly ruining
Still sassy strenuous strikers
Turning toward Tuesday tournaments.
Understandably unprecedented underlings
Vindicate vicious vagrants
While wishing waxy widows would
‘xpect ‘xciting ‘xacting ‘xtras.
Youngish yellow yowls yipping
Zipping zany zebras’ zealous zero zone.
lacksidasical larry leaps lovingly through the air
making mincemeat marauders truly want to care
nine nefarious nigglebuns are trying not to stare
outrageously outstandingly outrunning marathon mare
providing pristine plots to princely priestly pree
quizzing quality quails wondering why I am free
resident ruffians reaching residual responsibility
stressing strenuous starlight studies under thee
tricky trustworthy triple treats tripping up and down the bay
understanding understudy underlings trying to have their say
visualizing various viillains we often meet along the way
‘xoecting ‘xact ‘xasperating ‘xersizes to save the day
zany zigzagging zealots zipping into the fray
Montague Middleton’s matronly mother made marvellous munchy meringues
Montague Middleton’s most massive midriff made many a menu mistake
Montague Middleton met many maidens; Mother made mincemeat of most
Montague Middleton’s mother maintained, “Men mustn’t marry Miss ‘Fake’.”
Montague Middleton met Molly Milton, many men ‘met’ Molly more
Montague Middleton married Melissa; so many mad moans Molly made
Montague Middleton’s most massive mansion made more modest mansions mundane
Montague Middleton moved Molly in, making Molly both mistress and maid
Montague Middleton’s missus made many mouthwatering munchies
Montague Middleton’s missus made Monty’s mouth moisten most days
Montague Middleton’s missus met Molly, mentioning marital meddling
Montague Middleton’s mischievous mistress mocked Melissa’s malaise
So:
Montague Middleton murdered his missus
Montague Middleton married his mistress
But:
Montague Middleton made a mistake
For Montague Middleton’s mistress
Can’t bake