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A turkey, even if basted,
Too long in the oven is wasted.  
But gravy revives
When roasting deprives.  
It’s gotten so juicy, just taste it!
Another pome on Thanksgiving foods.
I once loved a boy whom lacked any grace,
But rare beauty would blossom on his face.
His thoughts seemed so profound,
Till I looked around—
And found we were worlds out of place.
Trying a limerick. He likes soft rock, I like indie rock, it will never work out.
Kalliope Aug 4
There once was a bee
who was blown out to sea
by a disastrous gust of wind,
And though she was scared-
for beach life, unprepared-
the Patrón tasted better than gin.
She doesn't even miss honey.
Your demons don’t play well with mine,
They bite and they bruise and entwine.
Yours weaponize tears,
Mine whisper, come near.
The chaos is purely divine.

We drift toward escape, dark and slow,
They bloom with our secrets and grow.
Yours pull at my seams;
Mine knot in your dreams.
A dance only demons could know.
Light limericks inspired by the psychological tension of Anne Sexton's work, who frequently explored intimacy’s darker shades.
Matt Jul 14
A snowman stood tall in the yard,
His scarf and his hat were both starred,
The children would play,
On that cold, festive day,
As Christmas arrived unbarred

The carolers sang with delight,
Their voices rang out through the night,
With joy in the air,
And warmth everywhere,
It was truly a magical sight.

The trees sparkled under the glow,
The world wrapped in winter’s soft snow,
The kids ran and cheered,
The season appeared,
And the fire in the hearth burned low.

But the sun rose more sharply each day,
The cold slowly started to sway,
He felt in his frame,
A loss he could name,
As the chill slipped away with the gray.

He knew his time was nearly through,
As the world changed from white to blue,
With a soft, final sigh,
He whispered, “Goodbye,”
And accepted the warm winds that grew.
I usually don't rhyme in my poems, but when I do, it is usually to signify bliss, or happiness. This poem is a limerick, which is something I haven't dabbled in much, but I really enjoyed writing it.
Chris Tyler Jul 7
Write a limerick with antechamber
Came the dare from a girl I adore
It is sloppy at best
And a quite sober jest
But at least it can't be any lamer
Robert Jun 4
Deep within Virginia's desolate wood, stands a hobble shack, where no shack should be stood. Its roof tattered and door cracked and crinkled, and in it lives old man hue with all his wrinkles. Some say he's old, by old I mean a hundred and two, but for me I know it's not true. Many say he's ornery, but to me he's been nothing but kind, you could say hes a dear friend of mine. See I've spent many days with old man hue, and if one thing for certain, if one thing is true. Is that in the hobble shack which stood true, was the closest thing to a father, that old man hue.
MetaVerse May 27
There once was a bigfoot whose feet
Were shamefully small and petite,
     So he wore some big shoes,
     But the obvious ruse
Was a silly attempt at deceit.
If buses rattle over streets
At least you jounce on comfy seats.  
Imagine a divan
Made from a frying pan
Or griddles cushioned by felt sheets.
MetaVerse May 18
There once was a rosy tomato
Who fell for a russet potato,
     And coming together
     In unusual weather,
They created a baby topato.
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