Q: What kind of boat might a former governor of Texas have used to help illegals get across the Rio Grande?
A: A Rick Perry ferry.
Q: What did the official Vatican CPA discuss with a former Pontiff?
A: Pope Francis' finances.
Q: What is the shudder you feel when you think you've seen a ghost?
A: A phantasm spasm.
Q: What is the best prescription for the nightly news blahs?
A: The David Muir cure.
Q: Who is a columnist who writes about fashion shows?
A: A couture reviewer.
Q: What do you call a really careless guy who accidentally shoots himself?
A: A ballistic statistic.
Q: What do you call a large reptilian predator's temporary replacement?
A: An ad hoc croc.
Q: What is an opera extravaganza in Milan, Italy?
A: A La Scala gala.
Q: How would a waitress explain to a customer why his ham and eggs are green?
A: With a Dr. Seuss excuse.
Q: What was everyone asking when Franz Joseph hadn't been seen for a few days?
A: Where was Papa Haydn hidin'?
I've written about chickens with big fat legs
Told of eating my way through the fridge
My psychiatrist says I'm really quite normal
Though I feel unbalanced, a smidge
I've heard of a place, can't remember where
They can treat an affliction like mine
Problem is though, it means a lobotomy
Sends a quake up and down my spine
Don't wanna be mumbling naughty verses
As I wander the streets in my socks
Or talking about inappropriate subjects
Like armpits, halitosis or snots
One reviewer said I was absolute bonkers
But still sings along with my songs
Seems like she might have the same affliction
Methinks both of our mind's long gone
The bottom line to all this nonsense is
Not much can be done so I'm stuck
Wearing this crown of a silly old jester
And quacking all day like a duck
The shell hangs on a golden string
asymmetric lines curved together
in the valley that roots my neck
a picture inside I keep on holding.
Cheap cloths on a public beach,
the young us playing catch,
a moment in colors of chess,
caught by a since lost lens.
It holds all those stormy nights
I came to sleep by your side,
all the "how was your day"s
of the greening of the leafs.
The cold of the suns that set
shed of that and other salt
and dried, pressured into pulp
holds the bones in a pole.
Me, a flag to the wind of time
tight to it gaze the reviewer,
it is that shell of once upon
my compass to where I've been.
But the tide keeps at my ankles
resigned to rob under my feet
the desert that there stood
steady as the clock's beat.
The day will come it will win
when of this shell I lose grip
and holding on to a gem
won't brace me for the slip.
Because it is your history
the concrete ground
the future is built upon.
I've written about chickens with big fat legs
Told of eating my way through the fridge
My psychiatrist says I'm really quite normal
Though I feel unbalanced, a smidge
I've heard of a place, can't remember where
They can treat an affliction like mine
Problem is though, it means a lobotomy
Sends a quake up and down my spine
Don't wanna be mumbling naughty verses
As I wander the streets in my socks
Or talking about inappropriate subjects
Like armpits, halitosis or snots
One reviewer said I was absolute bonkers
But still sings along with my songs
Seems like she might have the same affliction
Methinks both of our mind's long gone
The bottom line to all this nonsense
Not much can be done so I'm stuck
Wearing this crown of a silly old jester
And quacking all day like a duck
© Jack Ellison 2013
Natural starting -Point
The subject of a poem is the idea or thing that the poem concerning or represents
I review about 15 poem this morning.. and the feeling I got from them, the writer attitude
toward the subject matter.
As a reviewer I cannot praise all the poems that I review. however, I can only encourage them to thrive ... some had a bit or irony , the tone were playful and some of them were some serious submits
Poetry Soup is a wonderful site...
let encourage each other to aim higher..
one love annie L
The Water Witch
By Elton Camp
Perhaps “dowser” is a preferable name,
But the two are actually just the same
Men who had this power weren’t weird
They were respected rather than feared
They sincerely believed they could tell
The very best place to dig or drill a well
And the key to the water witching trick
Was to cut a fresh, forked hickory stick
The tip was pointed up toward the sky
On its turning down the man did rely
The dowser held it as he walked about
That he could find water he didn’t doubt
When it went down toward the ground
He said, “This is the best spot around.
Drill your well on this very spot here,
That you won’t find water never fear.”
There is no way dowsing could be true
With a diving rod, the same I could do
Because I very quickly came to learn
Change the tension. The stick would turn
Water is in the ground most everywhere
It matters little if you drill here or there
Well was dry? On dowser ‘twas rough
His ruse: “You didn’t go deep enough.”
To trust dowsing, there is no reason why
Some people seem to need to believe a lie
I expect that some reviewer will come to say
“You are just so wrong. It works that way.”
I tried balancing a bowl of hot oatmeal on my lap and reading his poems in my tired and
worn, green chair.
On the back cover of a collection, a reviewer wrote “Simic may end a poem with a kiss
or a bludgeon. “
The reader will never know.
Blackjack Fresno Johnny sent me a big box of books of Simic’s poems. The books were sent
in a cardboard box inside of another cardboard box, thoughtfully packed. The address label
read:
To Tom Pitre, Poet.
It is my first affirmation as a poet.
I am always surprised when I read his work. Sometimes I think I have my finger on his
secrets, and then it slips away when I read another one. They are simple. He can write
about an earthworm in the mud, and you will be enchanted.
I seldom ask for things for myself,
selfless.
I forget about the things I must do,
dreamer.
I often think of her each day,
lover.
I plan for the evenings with her,
schemer.
I play with words every single day,
poet.
I read and critique, those others write,
reviewer.
I make mistakes like everyone else,
human.
I choose to make my own way,
doer.
Many are these
and many are not.
But, who would really know it?
If we can only be honest
in the things that we write,
then all must be a poet.