Tag: Humor


I need some words, man
I need ’em real bad.
I’m days without a poem
I’ll take what you have

They don’t need to rhyme
Some near rhymes are fine
or a watered down limerick
to help ease my tortured mind

You gotta’ help me, friend
I’m dying, near the end
Toss a couple verse my way
and I’ll pay you back again

The Alliterati (or Carl’s Day)

Carlton C. Cruckshank
cracked open a cold can
of caramel colored
and chugged it
like a champ
then chastised
all the chumps
too chicken to
challenge him
for his cherished
cola crown but
Chief Constable Conroy
told him to
chill as he was
causing consternation
among the children
and Carl, chafing
at being chided,
carefully clasped
his cola chalice
and carried it
to the county
of Chitwood –
because he could

The End

Strolling Through a Friday Mind

Standing over six feet three
and one-hundred 95 pounds
I’m all elbows
in the shower
Hard to know what
I’ll knock down
Bent wings jutting
out like a raptor
riding a thermal
sans elegance
and grace
But I can
place the beans
on the top shelf
and peer over most
everyone else
at the mall
so a banged up shower
is a small
price to pay
And what is it with
the long introductions
to poetry books anyway?
I came
to read
the poetry not
about what it means
That’s for me
to glean
The literary equivalent
to banging my elbows
before I get clean

Guest Writer From Paris – “Red Wine”

The Eiffel Tower
in my mind
attracts no
tourists so my
leap from the top
and the messy
landing will go
save by passing
squirrels, (ever
my tormentors eating
up my bird seed and
tomatoes), come
to snicker at my
demise and
Sting will
probably sing
at my tribute
because he sings
at every tribute
that pretentious fuck
Lauded far above
his talent, a bad
penny that keeps
turning up
but I guess I’d be
flattered all the same
in my mind where I
never really died anyway
and I’ll take a car
down the Champ de Mars
for an espresso
after the service
in my funeral
shined shoes
and frozen
perfect hair

Of Fish and Cattle

We used to fish
there, under a
short bridge spanning
a silver sliver of the
cow pasture, an oddly
monikered river
to be sure but
chubs and
horny heads
galore could be
wrangled ashore
most any afternoon
between bites of
prepackaged 7-11
ham and cheese
I have to
hand it to the
cows, though,
such crafty beasts,
not one bovine ever
nibbled my line

Paradise Lost (apologies to Milton)

I am there
on an old map
of the world amid the
yellowed parchment’s
crumbling continents
but you can’t see me –
mystery that I am –
far away in the East
in the deep
beyond the legend
“Here There Be Dragons”
and if I stay there
I fancy
I’ll live
in the fresh
sea air,
swimming with
giant turtles . . .

But someone must take
out the dogs to pee

Surely I’ll be seen
and once confirmed alive
larger forces will insist
I age and die

How easily grand plans
dissolve in the glaring
light of life!

Yet I am
to swim
with the

no bake messiah recipe

It pays to be a god
you’re dead,
and the recipe
to make that kind
of bread
can be read
in any
book –
just follow
these simple steps!

By rule
be led

be led
and you

if you’re
clever and can
cobble enough
that believe your
well blended

then you

like past masters
of the godly
will be paid

slice and serve


He’s the foreman,
crimson hardhat
nose like a
and a knack
for extracting
bugs from
the knottiest
You’ve probably
seen him,
up in the