Funny Write Poems | Examples
These Funny Write poems are examples of Write poems about Funny. These are the best examples of Write Funny poems written by international poets.
I sit and write and write and sit
small bird flies down, tiny tidbit
her movements funny, she entertains
a flash of red on a day that rains
It's easier to love, when
the worst case is having a
funny story to retell at bars.
It makes more sense to believe, knowing
truth left untold will never
make it into the final edit.
It's almost too easy to draw blood,
when I tell myself the red is just
footnotes in my forgotten tale—
It's a relief to be forgetful when
I know my mind will kindly
fog the heartwrenching memories...
It sometimes worries me
when blood runs dry on my sleeves
and pain settles into a quiet itch—
that the footnotes will
drown my voice in the margins...
But it makes pain less monstrous
when I live my story
as a seagull skimming through the water.
The question is,
should I listen to my imagination?
Sometimes it can go very wild,
I look for a lion ready to eat me alive.
There are times it can go romantic,
with hearts and love all over the page.
It has a way of bringing up my old memories,
some happy, maybe sad, or funny as can be.
In Playground of Imagination,
I never know what will show up.
Write on paper or computer,
my ink will run away.
Thoughts and feelings,
are set on fire to be told.
Maybe true or maybe false,
words will write the tale.
Write on paper or computer,
what will I have to say?
I never know,
what my mind or muse will come up with.
Maybe funny or maybe sad,
I must play along.
Write on paper or computer,
a true writer must write on.
Oh yes I say,
write on until you are done.
What inspires me are the trees that surround me,
how they green in the Spring, how starlings
become leaves in the Winter, and the melodies
of sparrows, bluebirds and robins tug at my heart.
What inspires me is watching my grandkids,
they’re verve, vigor, and nerve make me float;
me and my muse amused by their mischief,
compassion and funny business.
What inspires me is my belief, my hope, my unwavering,
spirit-filled field of vision. I’m inspired by every whisper,
every word, every mystery, truth of the living God; by
the cross that brings me to my knees, and I find no words
to convey my salvation and relationship in Christ, yet
I do my best, dance around, meditate, pray, trust I
will say something weakly profound.
What inspires me is all around - nature, my family,
silly and serious things, aging, moods, night and day.
I could go on. I write. I write. It is right. Don’t stop me now.
I preach, teach, grieve, fall down, get up. You, dear reader
inspire me. Forms and other writers inspire me. I’m inspired.
Dasher and Dancer yelled midair
and said to Santa, “We can't fly!
Earth satellites have made a snare
of wireless currents in the sky!”
Then Santa answered, “Use plan B-
come down one level in the sky.
Take care and watch! Don't hit a tree
or steeple top as we zoom by!”
So they both did as Santa said,
though still, they'd be a little late;
made headway now with deer and sled
where techno-waves had low-flow rate!
Surreal sonnets found their way
into the cavern of emptiness,
Scrolling through rusting rhymes and concrete couplets,
All in a chaotic cadence of crème de la crème.
This hard-held heart barely softened for the colors in the fading photographs.
What can the mere past do to these strings of stones,
When the dents from adrenaline-filled butterflies
Remain as few frozen water droplets,
Resting on an ocean-wide dinner table,
Questioning what lives and what wilts?
Have these hands abandoned the will to hold the moon?
For the absurd symphonies your worn-out wounds sing
Do not touch the skin of my ears.
Naive senses were the first silk to pay for lost love.
Delusions are funny when they play,
Crystal ball showing doves,
Promising everlasting angelic bells from above.
What difference does it make
When words can only be breathtaking as they float,
Without a beat, without bones?
The malicious necessity behind a heathen and it’s horns,
Making pouring Polaroids out of dreams and thorns.
For beyond a portrait of murky eclipses, there is nothing more,
Just ravenous ravens and stale blue shores.
Crossroads in the desert sands swirls,
an orb whirls around as clouds gather,
lightning bolt violet violently twirls,
roads crack with shotgun thunder.
Visage a pearl cascades as she approaches me,
cut through the dirt she speaks a litany reverie,
“You enjoy your dream, your echo, everything?”
My foot slides back as countenance begin smiling
“I didn’t shake or sign anything, don’t owe a thing”
Rain of black drops, red flower petals float to stop,
her face is red hot, phase, her hand on throat,
neck pop, body flop, she goes to exit and haha.
Body mockery, perversion snapping it all in place,
grotesquerie malediction snickering, wink, nod,
oh my she isn’t happy, torn asunder, plundered.
Macabre poetess back to life, Frankenstein revive,
staring into her eyes, “Legends never truly die”
Read in between the lines buh-bye
“Forgiveness is a funny thing.
It warms the heart and cools
the sting,”
Author: William Arthur Ward
Walking can really help daily stress.
Prayer and meditation, do I bless!
Writing poetry that fills you with pride.
Puts a lift in your step, this I do abide.
Reading a comment, makes your soul fly.
Fear not being ignored, they do come by.
Simply stated, above all, just be pure you.
You’re God’s creation, and no one is like you!
5/3/2024
Ten after four in the AM. I wait for
my daughter’s death with a cup of coffee
at the kitchen table, thinking maybe
tonight’s the night.
She hasn’t been breathing well at all,
all day and tonight I fear just might be
her time.
Her oxygen concentrator is set at ten liters
the highest it’ll go.
Bringing oxygen up the staircase to her bedroom
through a tube to a nasal cannula in her nose.
Now and then it makes a funny squeaking sound
sort-of like a mouse crying out stuck on a glue trap.
I’d much rather write one more poem about those tattoos
she came home with all those years ago that pissed me off
to no end, but.
This is my life now, and like a true democrat, this poet
embraces.
Never let a good crisis go to waste, so I write this poem.
My suitor calls but I let the phone ring
For after all I am writing
It’s not his fault I have a hobby it seems
I do wonder if he will understand
To me poetry is like pottery in hand
And my inner demons demand I dance
We all have some Yin and Yang
No one of us is the very same
With surges of urges to teal tame
I am a romantic yet I ponder
Am I fit to be his girl wonder
For my muse is one of thunder
I don’t know but yet I grow
To find enlightenment I hope
Perhaps this gap will close
Writing is for me a turquoise thing
I can engage stage a dream
For my hand he must be understanding.
The Great American Novel,
Is what I’m working on,
For it shall be a marvel,
To show of dusk and dawn.
Oh, it will tell of wonders,
Of all the good and bad,
The miracles and blunders,
Of happy and the sad.
It shall be an epic tale:
Adventures far and great!
Through hot and cold, rain and hail,
The curves upon the straight.
By now you may be smitten,
Of just have far I’ve got,
On paper what I’ve written,
In truth, is not a lot.
But what I have’s colossal,
And right in front to look,
The Great American Novel,
My title of the book.
My writing gets wavy and I bet it would annoy some perfectionists out there.
I’m annoying but I don’t care right now.
They hate me, so I write about that too.
The tree outside is weird and funny and bouncy.
So I scribble a tree and the tree has a face.
So I look outside again, and the tree is talking to me.
I’m alone and talking to this tree.
I’m in my room and I sleep here sometimes.
But tonight, sleep seems silly and far away.
Stretching out my words.
Ohhh,
Or awww!
Or owww!
Howling in my room.
Until my mom hears my song and opens my door.
She’s angry.
I turn the light low but never off.
And write about that too!
Quote By Poet "The pen is the tongue for many writers."
Welcome to the new twenty-four,
I am laughing on the floor.
Pen you need to change,
tongue you need to rearrange.
No talking just write a lot more.
My pen writes in English
My pen writes in French
Mon stylo écrit en français
My pen writes in Spanish
Mi pluma escribe en español
My pen writes in Italian
La mia penna scrive in italiano
My pen writes in Portuguese
Minha caneta escreve em portugues
My pen writes in Creole
Plim mwen ekri an kreyòl
My pen writes in Latin
Calamum meum latine scribit
Believe me, friends, if you write in these
Romance languages, you’ll be
Happy to enjoy writing. I love these
Languages. I entertain the idea
Of knowing at least one word
Of the other languages of the world
I love words of all languages
Throughout the ages
Leave a few funny comments
I know what you’re going to say, my friends
It’s always a pleasure hearing from you
I love you will all my heart, I love you
Eske nou tout konprann?
Do you all understand?
Copyright © April 2020, Hébert Logerie, all rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.