Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Tags
#jingle
Doggerel The limerick is one of the most common and most popular forms of doggerel. This is one of my favorite limericks: There was a young lady named Bright Who traveled much faster than light. She set out one day, In a relative way, And came back the previous night. ―Arthur Henry Reginald Buller I find it interesting that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick! The limerick above inspired me to pen a rejoinder: Ass-Tronomical by Michael R. Burch Einstein, the frizzy-haired, proved E equals MC squared. Thus, all mass decreases as activity ceases? Not my mass, my *** declared! Woeful Waffles by Michael R. Burch for and after Richard Thomas Moore I think it’s woeful and should be unlawful to eat those awful tofu waffles! These are "subversive" poems of mine, pardon the pun: Bible Libel by Michael R. Burch If God is good, half the Bible is libel. I came up with this epigram after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, and wondering how anyone could call the biblical God "good." What Would Santa Claus Say by Michael R. Burch What would Santa Claus say, I wonder, about Jesus returning to **** and Plunder? For he’ll likely return on Christmas Day to blow the bad little boys away! When He flashes like lightning across the skies and many a homosexual dies, when the harlots and heretics are ripped asunder, what will the Easter Bunny think, I wonder? A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint by Michael R. Burch Santa Claus, for Christmas, please, don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . . just . . . Santa, please, I’m on my knees! . . . please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi! ***** Nilly by Michael R. Burch for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? You made the stallion, you made the filly, and now they sleep in the dark earth, stilly. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? You forced them to run all their days uphilly. They ran till they dropped― life’s a pickle, dilly. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? They say I should worship you! Oh, really! They say I should pray so you’ll not act illy. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? Low-T Hell by Michael R. Burch I’m living in low-T hell ... My get-up has gone: Oh, swell! I need to write checks if I want to have *** and my love life depends on a gel! Originally published by Light Less Heroic Couplets: ****** Most Fowl! by Michael R. Burch ****** most foul!” cried the mouse to the owl. “Friend, I’m no sinner; you’re merely my dinner!” the wise owl replied as the tasty snack died. Animal Limericks by Michael R. Burch Dot Spotted by Michael R. Burch There once was a leopardess, Dot, who indignantly answered: "I’ll not! The gents are impressed with the way that I’m dressed. I wouldn’t change even one spot." Stage Craft-y by Michael R. Burch There once was a dromedary who befriended a crafty canary. Budgie said, "You can’t sing, but now, here’s the thing― just think of the tunes you can carry!" Clyde Lied! by Michael R. Burch There once was a mockingbird, Clyde, who bragged of his prowess, but lied. To his new wife he sighed, "When again, gentle bride?" "Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied. The Pelican't by Michael R. Burch Enough with this pitiful pelican! He’s awkward and stinks! Sense his smellican! His beak's far too big, so he eats like a pig, and his breath reeks of fish, I can tellican! Nonsense Verse about Writing Verse The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...) by Michael R. Burch Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts at “meter,” I crossly concluded I’d use each iamb in lieu of a lamb, bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded. Other Animal Poems by Michael R. Burch Lance-Lot by Michael R. Burch Preposterous bird! Inelegant! Absurd! Until the great & mighty heron brandishes his fearsome sword. honeybee by Michael R. Burch love was a little treble thing― prone to sing and sometimes to sting Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ by Michael R. Burch Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ the bees rise in a dizzy circle of two. Oh, when I’m with you, I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too. Generation Gap by Michael R. Burch A quahog clam, age 405, said, “Hey, it’s great to be alive!” I disagreed, not feeling nifty, babe though I am, just pushing fifty. Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years. The Blobfish by Michael R. Burch You can call me a "blob" with your oversized gob, but what's your excuse, great gargantuan Zeus whose once-chiseled abs are now marbleized flab? But what really alarms me (how I wish you'd abstain) is when you start using that oversized "brain." Consider the planet! Refrain! Door Mouse by Michael R. Burch I’m sure it’s not good for my heart— the way it will jump-start when the mouse scoots the floor (I try to **** it with the door, never fast enough, or fling a haphazard shoe ... always too slow too) in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion absurdly inconvenient for mashin’, till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’, make us both early candidates for heaven. The Humpback by Michael R. Burch The humpback is a gullet equipped with snarky fins. It has a winning smile: and when it SMILES, it wins as miles and miles of herring excite its fearsome grins. So beware, unwary whalers, lest you drown, sans feet and shins! ​ Apologies to España by Michael R. Burch the reign in Trump’s brain falls mainly as mansplain No Star by Michael R. Burch Trump, you're no "star." Putin made you an American Czar. Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen, pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen. tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch As one critic put it, the limerick "is the vehicle of cultivated, unrepressed ****** humor in the English language." But while some experts claim that the only "real" limerick is a ***** one, the form really took off initially, in terms of popularity, as a vehicle for nonsense verse and children's poems. And the limerick has has frequently been used for political purposes. Here are are three muckraking limericks of mine: Baked Alaskan There is a strange yokel so flirty she makes ****** seem icons of purity. With all her winkin’ and blinkin’ Palin seems to be "thinkin’"― "Ah culd save th’ free world ’cause ah’m purty!" Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch from Signs of the Apocalypse all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved Going Rogue in Rouge It'll be hard to polish that apple enough to make her seem palatable. Though she's sweeter than Snapple how can my mind grapple with stupidity so nearly infallible? Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch from Signs of the Apocalypse all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved Pls refudiate “Refudiate” this, miffed, misunderstood Ms!― Shakespeare, you’re not (more like Yoda, but hot). Your grammar’s atrocious; Great Poets would know this. You lack any plan save to flatten Iran like some cute Mini-Me cloned from G. W. B. Admit it, Ms. Palin! Stop your winkin’ and wailin’― only “heroes” like Nero fiddle sparks at Ground Zero. Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch from Signs of the Apocalypse all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved I wrote the last poem above after Sarah Palin compared herself to Shakespeare, who coined new words, rather than admit her mistake when she used "refudiate" in a Tweet rather than "repudiate." The copyright notices above are ironic, as the poems above were written and published before 2012. Nonsense Verse There was an old man from Peru who dreamed he was eating his shoe. He awoke in the night with a terrible fright to discover his dream had come true. ―Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch There once was a mockingbird, Clyde, who bragged of his prowess, but lied. To his new wife he sighed, "When again, gentle bride?" "Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied. ― Michael R. Burch Dear Ed: I don’t understand why you will publish this other guy― when I’m brilliant, devoted, one hell of a poet! Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie! Fie! A pox on your head if you favor this poet who’s dubious, unsavor y, inconsistent in texts, no address (I checked!): since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager! ―"The Better Man" by Michael R. Burch The English are very hospitable, but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable ... or pitiless, rather, and quite in a lather! O bother, they're more than formidable. ―"Of Tetley’s and V-2's," or, "Why Not to Bomb the Brits" by Michael R. Burch Relativity, the theorists’ creed, proves all mass increases with speed. My *** grows when I sit it. Albert Einstein, get with it; equate its deflation, I plead! ― Michael R. Burch 　 Hawking, who makes my head spin, says time may flow backward. I grin, imagining the surprise in my mothers’ eyes when I head for the womb once again! ― Michael R. Burch Hawking’s "Brief History of Time" is such a relief! How sublime that time, in reverse, may un-write this verse and un-spend my last thin dime! ― Michael R. Burch A proper young auditor, white as a sheet, like a ghost in the night, saw his dreams, his career in a **** disappear, and then, strangely Enronic, his wife. ― Michael R. Burch 　 There once was a troglodyte, Mary, whose poots were impressively airy. To her children’s deep shame, their foul condo became the first cave to employ a canary. ― Michael R. Burch There once was a Baptist named Mel who condemned all non-Christians to hell. When he stood before God he felt like a clod to discover His Love couldn’t fail! ― Michael R. Burch Doggerel about Doggerel The Board by Michael R. Burch Accessible rhyme is never good. The penalty is understood― soft titters from dark board rooms where the businessmen paste on their hair and, Walter Mitties, woo the Muse with reprimands of Dr. Seuss. The best book of the age sold two, or three, or four (but not to you), strange copies of the ones before, misreadings that delight the board. They sit and clap; their revenues fall trillions short of Mother Goose. Longer Doggerel When I Was Small, I Grew by Michael R. Burch When I was small, God held me in thrall: Yes, He was my All but my spirit was crushed. As I grew older my passions grew bolder even as Christ grew colder. My distraught mother blushed: what was I thinking, with feral lust stinking? If I saw a girl winking my face, heated, flushed. “Go see the pastor!” Mom screamed. A disaster. I whacked away faster, hellbound, yet nonplused. Whips! Chains! ********** Sweet, sweet, my Elation! With each new sensation, blue blood groinward rushed. Did God disapprove? Was Christ not behooved? At least I was moved by my hellish lust. Happily Never After by Michael R. Burch Happily never after, we lived unmerrily (write it!―like disaster) in Our Kingdom by the See as the man from Porlock’s laughter drowned out love’s threnody. We ditched the red wheelbarrow in slovenly Tennessee and made a picturebook of poems, a postcard for Tse-Tse, a list of resolutions we knew we couldn’t keep, and asylum decorations for the King in his dark sleep. We made it new so often strange newness, wearing old, peeled off, and something rotten gleamed yellow, not like gold:― like carelessness, or cowardice, and redolent of *** We stumbled off, our awkwardness―new Keystone comedy. Huge cloudy symbols blocked the sun; onlookers strained to see. We said We were the only One. Our gaseous Melody had made us Joshuas, and so―the Bible, new-rewrit, with god removed, replaced by Show and Glyphics and Sanskrit, seemed marvelous to Us, although King Ezra said, “It’s Sh-t.” We spent unhappy hours in Our Kingdom of the Pea, drunk on such Awesome Power only Emperors can See. We were Imagists and Vorticists, Projectivists, a Dunce, Anarchists and Antarcticists and anti-Christs, and once We’d made the world Our oyster and stowed away the pearl of Our too-, too-polished wisdom, unanchored of the world, We sailed away to Lilliput, to Our Kingdom by the See and piped the rats to join Us, to live unmerrily hereever and hereafter, in Our Kingdom of the Pea, in the miniature ship Disaster in a jar in Tennessee. The Humpback by Michael R. Burch The humpback is a gullet equipped with snarky fins. It has a winning smile: and when it SMILES, it wins as miles and miles of herring excite its fearsome grins. So beware, unwary whalers, lest you drown, sans feet and shins! Door Mouse by Michael R. Burch I’m sure it’s not good for my heart— the way it will jump-start when the mouse scoots the floor (I try to **** it with the door, never fast enough, or fling a haphazard shoe ... always too slow too) in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion absurdly inconvenient for mashin’, till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’, make us both early candidates for heaven. Ding **** ... by Michael R. Burch for Fliss An impertinent bit of sunlight defeated a goddess, NIGHT. Hooray!, cried the clover, Her reign is over! But she certainly gave us a fright! Be very careful what you pray for! by Michael R. Burch Now that his T’s been depleted the Saint is upset, feeling cheated. His once-fiery lust? Just a chemical bust: no “devil” cast out or defeated. The Flu Fly Flew by Michael R. Burch A fly with the flu foully flew up my nose—thought I’d die—had to sue! Was the small villain fined? An abrupt judge declined my case, since I’d “failed to achoo!” Hell-Bound Hounds by Michael R. Burch We have five dogs and every one’s a sinner! I swear it’s true—they’ll steal each other’s dinner! They’ll **** before they’re married. That’s unlawful! They’ll even ***** in public. Eek, so awful! And when it’s time for treats (don’t gasp!), they’ll beg! They have no pride! They’ll even **** your leg! Our oldest Yorkie murdered dear, sweet Olive, our helpless hamster! None will go to college or work to pay their room and board, or vets! When the Devil says, *** here!” they all yip, “Let’s!” And yet they’re sweet and loyal, so I doubt the Lord will dump them in hell’s dark redoubt . . . which means there’s hope for you, perhaps for me. But as for cats? I say, “Best wait and see.” Menu Venue by Michael R. Burch At the passing of the shark the dolphins cried Hark!; cute cuttlefish sighed, Gee there will be a serener sea to its utmost periphery!; the dogfish barked, so joyously!; pink porpoises piped Whee! excitedly, delightedly. But ... Will there be as much glee when there’s no you and me? Anti-Vegan Manifesto by Michael R. Burch Let us avoid lettuce, sincerely, and also celery! Rising Fall by Michael R. Burch after Keats Seasons of mellow fruitfulness collect at last into mist some brisk wind will dismiss ... Where, indeed, are the showers of April? Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May? But feel no dismay ... It’s time to make hay! I believe the closing line was influenced by this remark J. R. R. Tolkien made about the inspiration for his plucky hobbits: “I've always been impressed that we're here surviving because of the indomitable courage of quite small people against impossible odds: jungles, volcanoes, wild beasts ... they struggle on, almost blindly in a way.” Thus, whatever our apprehensions about the coming winter, when autumn falls and fall rises, it’s time to make hay. How It Goes, Or Doesn’t by Michael R. Burch My face is getting craggier. My pants are getting saggier. My ear-hair’s getting shaggier. My wife is getting naggier. I’m getting old! My memory’s plumb awful. My eyesight is unlawful. I eschew a tofu waffle. My wife’s an Eiffel eyeful. I’m getting old! My temperature is colder. My molars need more solder. Soon I’ll need a boulder-holder. My wife seized up. Unfold her! I’m getting old! A More Likely Plot for “Romeo and Juliet” by Michael R. Burch Wont to croon by the light of the moon on a rickety ladder, mad as a hatter, Romeo crashed to the earth in a swoon, broke his leg, had to beg, repented of falling in love too soon. A nurse, averse to his seductive verse, aware of his madness and familial badness, searched for the stiletto in her purse. Meanwhile, Juliet began to fret that the roguish poet (wouldn’t you know it?) had pledged his “love” because of a bet! A gang of young thugs and loutish lugs had their faces engraved on “wanted” mugs. They were doomed to fail, ended up in jail, became young fascists and cried “Sieg Heil!” No tickets were sold, no tickets were bought, because, in the end, it all came to naught. Exeunt stage left. Apologies to España by Michael R. Burch the reign in Trump’s brain falls mainly as mansplain No Star by Michael R. Burch Trump, you're no "star." Putin made you an American Czar. Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen, pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen. tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch Doggerel about Dogs Dog Daze by Michael R. Burch Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler; he really is one of the best. Sometimes in bed he snuggles my head, though he mostly just plops on my chest. I think Oz was made to love from the first ray of light to the dark, but his great love for me is exceeded (oh gee!) by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark. Oz is the Boss! by Michael R. Burch Oz is the boss! Because? Because ... Because of the wonderful things he does! He barks like a tyrant for treats and a hydrant; his voice far more regal than mere greyhound or beagle; his serfs must obey him or his yipping will slay them! Oz is the boss! Because? Because ... Because of the wonderful things he does! Excoriation of a Treat Slave by Michael R. Burch I am his Highness’s dog at Kew. Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you? ―Alexander Pope We practice our fierce Yapping, for when the treat slaves come they’ll grant Us our desire. (They really are that dumb!) They’ll never catch Us napping― our Ears pricked, keen and sharp. When they step into Our parlor, We’ll leap awake, and Bark. But one is rather doltish; he doesn’t understand the meaning of Our savage, imperial, wild Command. The others are quite docile and bow to Us on cue. We think the dull one wrote a poem about some Dog from Kew who never grasped Our secret, whose mind stayed think, and dark. It’s a question of obedience conveyed by a Lordly Bark. But as for playing fetch, well, that’s another matter. We think the dullard’s also as mad as any hatter and doesn’t grasp his duty to fling Us slobbery ***** which We’d return to him, mincingly, here in Our royal halls. Bed Head, or, the Ballad of Beth and her Fur Babies by Michael R. Burch When Beth and her babies prepare for “good night” sweet rituals of kisses and cuddles commence. First Wickett, the eldest, whose mane has grown light with the wisdom of age and advanced senescence is tucked in, “just right.” Then Mary, the mother, is smothered with kisses in a way that befits such an angelic missus. Then Melody, lambkin, and sweet, soulful Oz and cute, clever Xander all clap their clipped paws and follow sweet Beth to their high nightly roost where they’ll sleep on her head (or, perhaps, her caboose). Keywords/Tags: doggerel, nonsense, light verse, light poetry, humor, silliness, limerick, jingle, jangle, mrbepi
0
Jul 5, 2021
Jul 5, 2021 at 2:01 AM UTC
michael-r-burch
Doggerel II
Doggerel The limerick is one of the most common and most popular forms of doggerel. This is one of my favorite limericks: There was a young lady named Bright Who traveled much faster than light. She set out one day, In a relative way, And came back the previous night. ―Arthur Henry Reginald Buller I find it interesting that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick! The limerick above inspired me to pen a rejoinder: Ass-Tronomical by Michael R. Burch Einstein, the frizzy-haired, proved E equals MC squared. Thus, all mass decreases as activity ceases? Not my mass, my *** declared! Woeful Waffles by Michael R. Burch for and after Richard Thomas Moore I think it’s woeful and should be unlawful to eat those awful tofu waffles! These are "subversive" poems of mine, pardon the pun: Bible Libel by Michael R. Burch If God is good, half the Bible is libel. I came up with this epigram after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, and wondering how anyone could call the biblical God "good." What Would Santa Claus Say by Michael R. Burch What would Santa Claus say, I wonder, about Jesus returning to **** and Plunder? For he’ll likely return on Christmas Day to blow the bad little boys away! When He flashes like lightning across the skies and many a homosexual dies, when the harlots and heretics are ripped asunder, what will the Easter Bunny think, I wonder? A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint by Michael R. Burch Santa Claus, for Christmas, please, don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . . just . . . Santa, please, I’m on my knees! . . . please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi! ***** Nilly by Michael R. Burch for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? You made the stallion, you made the filly, and now they sleep in the dark earth, stilly. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? You forced them to run all their days uphilly. They ran till they dropped― life’s a pickle, dilly. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? They say I should worship you! Oh, really! They say I should pray so you’ll not act illy. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? Low-T Hell by Michael R. Burch I’m living in low-T hell ... My get-up has gone: Oh, swell! I need to write checks if I want to have *** and my love life depends on a gel! Originally published by Light Less Heroic Couplets: ****** Most Fowl! by Michael R. Burch ****** most foul!” cried the mouse to the owl. “Friend, I’m no sinner; you’re merely my dinner!” the wise owl replied as the tasty snack died. Animal Limericks by Michael R. Burch Dot Spotted by Michael R. Burch There once was a leopardess, Dot, who indignantly answered: "I’ll not! The gents are impressed with the way that I’m dressed. I wouldn’t change even one spot." Stage Craft-y by Michael R. Burch There once was a dromedary who befriended a crafty canary. Budgie said, "You can’t sing, but now, here’s the thing― just think of the tunes you can carry!" Clyde Lied! by Michael R. Burch There once was a mockingbird, Clyde, who bragged of his prowess, but lied. To his new wife he sighed, "When again, gentle bride?" "Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied. The Pelican't by Michael R. Burch Enough with this pitiful pelican! He’s awkward and stinks! Sense his smellican! His beak's far too big, so he eats like a pig, and his breath reeks of fish, I can tellican! Nonsense Verse about Writing Verse The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...) by Michael R. Burch Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts at “meter,” I crossly concluded I’d use each iamb in lieu of a lamb, bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded. Other Animal Poems by Michael R. Burch Lance-Lot by Michael R. Burch Preposterous bird! Inelegant! Absurd! Until the great & mighty heron brandishes his fearsome sword. honeybee by Michael R. Burch love was a little treble thing― prone to sing and sometimes to sting Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ by Michael R. Burch Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ the bees rise in a dizzy circle of two. Oh, when I’m with you, I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too. Generation Gap by Michael R. Burch A quahog clam, age 405, said, “Hey, it’s great to be alive!” I disagreed, not feeling nifty, babe though I am, just pushing fifty. Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years. The Blobfish by Michael R. Burch You can call me a "blob" with your oversized gob, but what's your excuse, great gargantuan Zeus whose once-chiseled abs are now marbleized flab? But what really alarms me (how I wish you'd abstain) is when you start using that oversized "brain." Consider the planet! Refrain! Door Mouse by Michael R. Burch I’m sure it’s not good for my heart— the way it will jump-start when the mouse scoots the floor (I try to **** it with the door, never fast enough, or fling a haphazard shoe ... always too slow too) in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion absurdly inconvenient for mashin’, till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’, make us both early candidates for heaven. The Humpback by Michael R. Burch The humpback is a gullet equipped with snarky fins. It has a winning smile: and when it SMILES, it wins as miles and miles of herring excite its fearsome grins. So beware, unwary whalers, lest you drown, sans feet and shins! ​ Apologies to España by Michael R. Burch the reign in Trump’s brain falls mainly as mansplain No Star by Michael R. Burch Trump, you're no "star." Putin made you an American Czar. Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen, pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen. tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch As one critic put it, the limerick "is the vehicle of cultivated, unrepressed ****** humor in the English language." But while some experts claim that the only "real" limerick is a ***** one, the form really took off initially, in terms of popularity, as a vehicle for nonsense verse and children's poems. And the limerick has has frequently been used for political purposes. Here are are three muckraking limericks of mine: Baked Alaskan There is a strange yokel so flirty she makes ****** seem icons of purity. With all her winkin’ and blinkin’ Palin seems to be "thinkin’"― "Ah culd save th’ free world ’cause ah’m purty!" Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch from Signs of the Apocalypse all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved Going Rogue in Rouge It'll be hard to polish that apple enough to make her seem palatable. Though she's sweeter than Snapple how can my mind grapple with stupidity so nearly infallible? Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch from Signs of the Apocalypse all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved Pls refudiate “Refudiate” this, miffed, misunderstood Ms!― Shakespeare, you’re not (more like Yoda, but hot). Your grammar’s atrocious; Great Poets would know this. You lack any plan save to flatten Iran like some cute Mini-Me cloned from G. W. B. Admit it, Ms. Palin! Stop your winkin’ and wailin’― only “heroes” like Nero fiddle sparks at Ground Zero. Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch from Signs of the Apocalypse all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved I wrote the last poem above after Sarah Palin compared herself to Shakespeare, who coined new words, rather than admit her mistake when she used "refudiate" in a Tweet rather than "repudiate." The copyright notices above are ironic, as the poems above were written and published before 2012. Nonsense Verse There was an old man from Peru who dreamed he was eating his shoe. He awoke in the night with a terrible fright to discover his dream had come true. ―Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch There once was a mockingbird, Clyde, who bragged of his prowess, but lied. To his new wife he sighed, "When again, gentle bride?" "Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied. ― Michael R. Burch Dear Ed: I don’t understand why you will publish this other guy― when I’m brilliant, devoted, one hell of a poet! Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie! Fie! A pox on your head if you favor this poet who’s dubious, unsavor y, inconsistent in texts, no address (I checked!): since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager! ―"The Better Man" by Michael R. Burch The English are very hospitable, but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable ... or pitiless, rather, and quite in a lather! O bother, they're more than formidable. ―"Of Tetley’s and V-2's," or, "Why Not to Bomb the Brits" by Michael R. Burch Relativity, the theorists’ creed, proves all mass increases with speed. My *** grows when I sit it. Albert Einstein, get with it; equate its deflation, I plead! ― Michael R. Burch 　 Hawking, who makes my head spin, says time may flow backward. I grin, imagining the surprise in my mothers’ eyes when I head for the womb once again! ― Michael R. Burch Hawking’s "Brief History of Time" is such a relief! How sublime that time, in reverse, may un-write this verse and un-spend my last thin dime! ― Michael R. Burch A proper young auditor, white as a sheet, like a ghost in the night, saw his dreams, his career in a **** disappear, and then, strangely Enronic, his wife. ― Michael R. Burch 　 There once was a troglodyte, Mary, whose poots were impressively airy. To her children’s deep shame, their foul condo became the first cave to employ a canary. ― Michael R. Burch There once was a Baptist named Mel who condemned all non-Christians to hell. When he stood before God he felt like a clod to discover His Love couldn’t fail! ― Michael R. Burch Doggerel about Doggerel The Board by Michael R. Burch Accessible rhyme is never good. The penalty is understood― soft titters from dark board rooms where the businessmen paste on their hair and, Walter Mitties, woo the Muse with reprimands of Dr. Seuss. The best book of the age sold two, or three, or four (but not to you), strange copies of the ones before, misreadings that delight the board. They sit and clap; their revenues fall trillions short of Mother Goose. Longer Doggerel When I Was Small, I Grew by Michael R. Burch When I was small, God held me in thrall: Yes, He was my All but my spirit was crushed. As I grew older my passions grew bolder even as Christ grew colder. My distraught mother blushed: what was I thinking, with feral lust stinking? If I saw a girl winking my face, heated, flushed. “Go see the pastor!” Mom screamed. A disaster. I whacked away faster, hellbound, yet nonplused. Whips! Chains! ********** Sweet, sweet, my Elation! With each new sensation, blue blood groinward rushed. Did God disapprove? Was Christ not behooved? At least I was moved by my hellish lust. Happily Never After by Michael R. Burch Happily never after, we lived unmerrily (write it!―like disaster) in Our Kingdom by the See as the man from Porlock’s laughter drowned out love’s threnody. We ditched the red wheelbarrow in slovenly Tennessee and made a picturebook of poems, a postcard for Tse-Tse, a list of resolutions we knew we couldn’t keep, and asylum decorations for the King in his dark sleep. We made it new so often strange newness, wearing old, peeled off, and something rotten gleamed yellow, not like gold:― like carelessness, or cowardice, and redolent of *** We stumbled off, our awkwardness―new Keystone comedy. Huge cloudy symbols blocked the sun; onlookers strained to see. We said We were the only One. Our gaseous Melody had made us Joshuas, and so―the Bible, new-rewrit, with god removed, replaced by Show and Glyphics and Sanskrit, seemed marvelous to Us, although King Ezra said, “It’s Sh-t.” We spent unhappy hours in Our Kingdom of the Pea, drunk on such Awesome Power only Emperors can See. We were Imagists and Vorticists, Projectivists, a Dunce, Anarchists and Antarcticists and anti-Christs, and once We’d made the world Our oyster and stowed away the pearl of Our too-, too-polished wisdom, unanchored of the world, We sailed away to Lilliput, to Our Kingdom by the See and piped the rats to join Us, to live unmerrily hereever and hereafter, in Our Kingdom of the Pea, in the miniature ship Disaster in a jar in Tennessee. The Humpback by Michael R. Burch The humpback is a gullet equipped with snarky fins. It has a winning smile: and when it SMILES, it wins as miles and miles of herring excite its fearsome grins. So beware, unwary whalers, lest you drown, sans feet and shins! Door Mouse by Michael R. Burch I’m sure it’s not good for my heart— the way it will jump-start when the mouse scoots the floor (I try to **** it with the door, never fast enough, or fling a haphazard shoe ... always too slow too) in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion absurdly inconvenient for mashin’, till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’, make us both early candidates for heaven. Ding **** ... by Michael R. Burch for Fliss An impertinent bit of sunlight defeated a goddess, NIGHT. Hooray!, cried the clover, Her reign is over! But she certainly gave us a fright! Be very careful what you pray for! by Michael R. Burch Now that his T’s been depleted the Saint is upset, feeling cheated. His once-fiery lust? Just a chemical bust: no “devil” cast out or defeated. The Flu Fly Flew by Michael R. Burch A fly with the flu foully flew up my nose—thought I’d die—had to sue! Was the small villain fined? An abrupt judge declined my case, since I’d “failed to achoo!” Hell-Bound Hounds by Michael R. Burch We have five dogs and every one’s a sinner! I swear it’s true—they’ll steal each other’s dinner! They’ll **** before they’re married. That’s unlawful! They’ll even ***** in public. Eek, so awful! And when it’s time for treats (don’t gasp!), they’ll beg! They have no pride! They’ll even **** your leg! Our oldest Yorkie murdered dear, sweet Olive, our helpless hamster! None will go to college or work to pay their room and board, or vets! When the Devil says, *** here!” they all yip, “Let’s!” And yet they’re sweet and loyal, so I doubt the Lord will dump them in hell’s dark redoubt . . . which means there’s hope for you, perhaps for me. But as for cats? I say, “Best wait and see.” Menu Venue by Michael R. Burch At the passing of the shark the dolphins cried Hark!; cute cuttlefish sighed, Gee there will be a serener sea to its utmost periphery!; the dogfish barked, so joyously!; pink porpoises piped Whee! excitedly, delightedly. But ... Will there be as much glee when there’s no you and me? Anti-Vegan Manifesto by Michael R. Burch Let us avoid lettuce, sincerely, and also celery! Rising Fall by Michael R. Burch after Keats Seasons of mellow fruitfulness collect at last into mist some brisk wind will dismiss ... Where, indeed, are the showers of April? Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May? But feel no dismay ... It’s time to make hay! I believe the closing line was influenced by this remark J. R. R. Tolkien made about the inspiration for his plucky hobbits: “I've always been impressed that we're here surviving because of the indomitable courage of quite small people against impossible odds: jungles, volcanoes, wild beasts ... they struggle on, almost blindly in a way.” Thus, whatever our apprehensions about the coming winter, when autumn falls and fall rises, it’s time to make hay. How It Goes, Or Doesn’t by Michael R. Burch My face is getting craggier. My pants are getting saggier. My ear-hair’s getting shaggier. My wife is getting naggier. I’m getting old! My memory’s plumb awful. My eyesight is unlawful. I eschew a tofu waffle. My wife’s an Eiffel eyeful. I’m getting old! My temperature is colder. My molars need more solder. Soon I’ll need a boulder-holder. My wife seized up. Unfold her! I’m getting old! A More Likely Plot for “Romeo and Juliet” by Michael R. Burch Wont to croon by the light of the moon on a rickety ladder, mad as a hatter, Romeo crashed to the earth in a swoon, broke his leg, had to beg, repented of falling in love too soon. A nurse, averse to his seductive verse, aware of his madness and familial badness, searched for the stiletto in her purse. Meanwhile, Juliet began to fret that the roguish poet (wouldn’t you know it?) had pledged his “love” because of a bet! A gang of young thugs and loutish lugs had their faces engraved on “wanted” mugs. They were doomed to fail, ended up in jail, became young fascists and cried “Sieg Heil!” No tickets were sold, no tickets were bought, because, in the end, it all came to naught. Exeunt stage left. Apologies to España by Michael R. Burch the reign in Trump’s brain falls mainly as mansplain No Star by Michael R. Burch Trump, you're no "star." Putin made you an American Czar. Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen, pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen. tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch Doggerel about Dogs Dog Daze by Michael R. Burch Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler; he really is one of the best. Sometimes in bed he snuggles my head, though he mostly just plops on my chest. I think Oz was made to love from the first ray of light to the dark, but his great love for me is exceeded (oh gee!) by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark. Oz is the Boss! by Michael R. Burch Oz is the boss! Because? Because ... Because of the wonderful things he does! He barks like a tyrant for treats and a hydrant; his voice far more regal than mere greyhound or beagle; his serfs must obey him or his yipping will slay them! Oz is the boss! Because? Because ... Because of the wonderful things he does! Excoriation of a Treat Slave by Michael R. Burch I am his Highness’s dog at Kew. Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you? ―Alexander Pope We practice our fierce Yapping, for when the treat slaves come they’ll grant Us our desire. (They really are that dumb!) They’ll never catch Us napping― our Ears pricked, keen and sharp. When they step into Our parlor, We’ll leap awake, and Bark. But one is rather doltish; he doesn’t understand the meaning of Our savage, imperial, wild Command. The others are quite docile and bow to Us on cue. We think the dull one wrote a poem about some Dog from Kew who never grasped Our secret, whose mind stayed think, and dark. It’s a question of obedience conveyed by a Lordly Bark. But as for playing fetch, well, that’s another matter. We think the dullard’s also as mad as any hatter and doesn’t grasp his duty to fling Us slobbery ***** which We’d return to him, mincingly, here in Our royal halls. Bed Head, or, the Ballad of Beth and her Fur Babies by Michael R. Burch When Beth and her babies prepare for “good night” sweet rituals of kisses and cuddles commence. First Wickett, the eldest, whose mane has grown light with the wisdom of age and advanced senescence is tucked in, “just right.” Then Mary, the mother, is smothered with kisses in a way that befits such an angelic missus. Then Melody, lambkin, and sweet, soulful Oz and cute, clever Xander all clap their clipped paws and follow sweet Beth to their high nightly roost where they’ll sleep on her head (or, perhaps, her caboose). Keywords/Tags: doggerel, nonsense, light verse, light poetry, humor, silliness, limerick, jingle, jangle, mrbepi
Continue reading...
620
Doggerel The limerick is one of the most common and most popular forms of doggerel. This is one of my favorite limericks: There was a young lady named Bright Who traveled much faster than light. She set out one day, In a relative way, And came back the previous night. ―Arthur Henry Reginald Buller I find it interesting that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick! The limerick above inspired me to pen a rejoinder: Ass-Tronomical by Michael R. Burch Einstein, the frizzy-haired, proved E equals MC squared. Thus, all mass decreases as activity ceases? Not my mass, my *** declared! These are "subversive" poems of mine, pardon the pun: Bible Libel by Michael R. Burch If God is good, half the Bible is libel. I came up with this epigram after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, and wondering how anyone could call the biblical God "good." What Would Santa Claus Say by Michael R. Burch What would Santa Claus say, I wonder, about Jesus returning to **** and Plunder? For he’ll likely return on Christmas Day to blow the bad little boys away! When He flashes like lightning across the skies and many a homosexual dies, when the harlots and heretics are ripped asunder, what will the Easter Bunny think, I wonder? A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint by Michael R. Burch Santa Claus, for Christmas, please, don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . . just . . . Santa, please, I’m on my knees! . . . please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi! ***** Nilly by Michael R. Burch for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? You made the stallion, you made the filly, and now they sleep in the dark earth, stilly. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? You forced them to run all their days uphilly. They ran till they dropped― life’s a pickle, dilly. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? They say I should worship you! Oh, really! They say I should pray so you’ll not act illy. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? Low-T Hell by Michael R. Burch I’m living in low-T hell ... My get-up has gone: Oh, swell! I need to write checks if I want to have *** and my love life depends on a gel! Originally published by Light Door Mouse by Michael R. Burch I’m sure it’s not good for my heart— the way it will jump-start when the mouse scoots the floor (I try to **** it with the door, never fast enough, or fling a haphazard shoe ... always too slow too) in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion absurdly inconvenient for mashin’, till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’, make us both early candidates for heaven. The Humpback by Michael R. Burch The humpback is a gullet equipped with snarky fins. It has a winning smile: and when it SMILES, it wins as miles and miles of herring excite its fearsome grins. So beware, unwary whalers, lest you drown, sans feet and shins! ​ Apologies to España by Michael R. Burch the reign in Trump’s brain falls mainly as mansplain No Star by Michael R. Burch Trump, you're no "star." Putin made you an American Czar. Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen, pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen. tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch Golden Years? by Michael R. Burch I’m getting old. My legs are cold. My book’s unsold and my wife’s a scold. Now the only gold’s in my teeth. I fold. Less Heroic Couplets: ****** Most Fowl! by Michael R. Burch ****** most foul!” cried the mouse to the owl. “Friend, I’m no sinner; you’re merely my dinner!” the wise owl replied as the tasty snack died. Originally published by Lighten Up Online and in Potcake Chapbook #7 NOTE: In an attempt to demonstrate that not all couplets are heroic, I have created a series of poems called “Less Heroic Couplets.” I believe even poets should abide by truth-in-advertising laws! And I believe such laws should extend to Creators who claim to be loving, wise, merciful, just, etc., while forcing innocent mice to provide owls with late-night snacks. ― Michael R. Burch Animal Limericks Dot Spotted by Michael R. Burch There once was a leopardess, Dot, who indignantly answered: "I’ll not! The gents are impressed with the way that I’m dressed. I wouldn’t change even one spot." Stage Craft-y by Michael R. Burch There once was a dromedary who befriended a crafty canary. Budgie said, "You can’t sing, but now, here’s the thing― just think of the tunes you can carry!" Clyde Lied! by Michael R. Burch There once was a mockingbird, Clyde, who bragged of his prowess, but lied. To his new wife he sighed, "When again, gentle bride?" "Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied. The Pelican't by Michael R. Burch Enough with this pitiful pelican! He’s awkward and stinks! Sense his smellican! His beak's far too big, so he eats like a pig, and his breath reeks of fish, I can tellican! Nonsense Verse about Writing Verse The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...) by Michael R. Burch Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts at “meter,” I crossly concluded I’d use each iamb in lieu of a lamb, bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded. Originally published by Grand Little Things Other Animal Poems Lance-Lot by Michael R. Burch Preposterous bird! Inelegant! Absurd! Until the great & mighty heron brandishes his fearsome sword. honeybee by Michael R. Burch love was a little treble thing― prone to sing and sometimes to sting Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ by Michael R. Burch Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ the bees rise in a dizzy circle of two. Oh, when I’m with you, I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too. Generation Gap by Michael R. Burch A quahog clam, age 405, said, “Hey, it’s great to be alive!” I disagreed, not feeling nifty, babe though I am, just pushing fifty. Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years. Baked Alaskan There is a strange yokel so flirty she makes ****** seem icons of purity. With all her winkin’ and blinkin’ Palin seems to be "thinkin’"― "Ah culd save th’ free world ’cause ah’m purty!" Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch from Signs of the Apocalypse all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved Going Rogue in Rouge It'll be hard to polish that apple enough to make her seem palatable. Though she's sweeter than Snapple how can my mind grapple with stupidity so nearly infallible? Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch from Signs of the Apocalypse all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved Pls refudiate “Refudiate” this, miffed, misunderstood Ms!― Shakespeare, you’re not (more like Yoda, but hot). Your grammar’s atrocious; Great Poets would know this. You lack any plan save to flatten Iran like some cute Mini-Me cloned from G. W. B. Admit it, Ms. Palin! Stop your winkin’ and wailin’― only “heroes” like Nero fiddle sparks at Ground Zero. Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch from Signs of the Apocalypse all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved I wrote the last poem above after Sarah Palin compared herself to Shakespeare, who coined new words, rather than admit her mistake when she used "refudiate" in a Tweet rather than "repudiate." The copyright notices above are ironic, as the poems above were written and published before 2012. Nonsense Verse There was an old man from Peru who dreamed he was eating his shoe. He awoke in the night with a terrible fright to discover his dream had come true. ―Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch There once was a mockingbird, Clyde, who bragged of his prowess, but lied. To his new wife he sighed, "When again, gentle bride?" "Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied. ― Michael R. Burch Dear Ed: I don’t understand why you will publish this other guy― when I’m brilliant, devoted, one hell of a poet! Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie! Fie! A pox on your head if you favor this poet who’s dubious, unsavor y, inconsistent in texts, no address (I checked!): since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager! ―"The Better Man" by Michael R. Burch The English are very hospitable, but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable ... or pitiless, rather, and quite in a lather! O bother, they're more than formidable. ―"Of Tetley’s and V-2's," or, "Why Not to Bomb the Brits" by Michael R. Burch Relativity, the theorists’ creed, says all mass increases with speed. My *** grows when I sit it. Albert Einstein, get with it; equate its deflation, I plead! ― Michael R. Burch 　 Hawking, who makes my head spin, says time may flow backward. I grin, imagining the surprise in my mothers’ eyes when I head for the womb once again! ― Michael R. Burch Hawking’s "Brief History of Time" is such a relief! How sublime that time, in reverse, may un-write this verse and un-spend my last thin dime! ― Michael R. Burch A proper young auditor, white as a sheet, like a ghost in the night, saw his dreams, his career in a **** disappear, and then, strangely Enronic, his wife. ― Michael R. Burch 　 There once was a troglodyte, Mary, whose poots were impressively airy. To her children’s deep shame, their foul condo became the first cave to employ a canary. ― Michael R. Burch There once was a Baptist named Mel who condemned all non-Christians to hell. When he stood before God he felt like a clod to discover His Love couldn’t fail! ― Michael R. Burch The Humpback by Michael R. Burch The humpback is a gullet equipped with snarky fins. It has a winning smile: and when it SMILES, it wins as miles and miles of herring excite its fearsome grins. So beware, unwary whalers, lest you drown, sans feet and shins! Door Mouse by Michael R. Burch I’m sure it’s not good for my heart— the way it will jump-start when the mouse scoots the floor (I try to **** it with the door, never fast enough, or fling a haphazard shoe ... always too slow too) in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion absurdly inconvenient for mashin’, till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’, make us both early candidates for heaven. Ding **** ... by Michael R. Burch for Fliss An impertinent bit of sunlight defeated a goddess, NIGHT. Hooray!, cried the clover, Her reign is over! But she certainly gave us a fright! Be very careful what you pray for! by Michael R. Burch Now that his T’s been depleted the Saint is upset, feeling cheated. His once-fiery lust? Just a chemical bust: no “devil” cast out or defeated. The Flu Fly Flew by Michael R. Burch A fly with the flu foully flew up my nose—thought I’d die—had to sue! Was the small villain fined? An abrupt judge declined my case, since I’d “failed to achoo!” Hell-Bound Hounds by Michael R. Burch We have five dogs and every one’s a sinner! I swear it’s true—they’ll steal each other’s dinner! They’ll **** before they’re married. That’s unlawful! They’ll even ***** in public. Eek, so awful! And when it’s time for treats (don’t gasp!), they’ll beg! They have no pride! They’ll even **** your leg! Our oldest Yorkie murdered dear, sweet Olive, our helpless hamster! None will go to college or work to pay their room and board, or vets! When the Devil says, *** here!” they all yip, “Let’s!” And yet they’re sweet and loyal, so I doubt the Lord will dump them in hell’s dark redoubt . . . which means there’s hope for you, perhaps for me. But as for cats? I say, “Best wait and see.” Menu Venue by Michael R. Burch At the passing of the shark the dolphins cried Hark!; cute cuttlefish sighed, Gee there will be a serener sea to its utmost periphery!; the dogfish barked, so joyously!; pink porpoises piped Whee! excitedly, delightedly. But ... Will there be as much glee when there’s no you and me? Anti-Vegan Manifesto by Michael R. Burch Let us avoid lettuce, sincerely, and also celery! Rising Fall by Michael R. Burch after Keats Seasons of mellow fruitfulness collect at last into mist some brisk wind will dismiss ... Where, indeed, are the showers of April? Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May? But feel no dismay ... It’s time to make hay! I believe the closing line was influenced by this remark J. R. R. Tolkien made about the inspiration for his plucky hobbits: “I've always been impressed that we're here surviving because of the indomitable courage of quite small people against impossible odds: jungles, volcanoes, wild beasts ... they struggle on, almost blindly in a way.” Thus, whatever our apprehensions about the coming winter, when autumn falls and fall rises, it’s time to make hay. How It Goes, Or Doesn’t by Michael R. Burch My face is getting craggier. My pants are getting saggier. My ear-hair’s getting shaggier. My wife is getting naggier. I’m getting old! My memory’s plumb awful. My eyesight is unlawful. I eschew a tofu waffle. My wife’s an Eiffel eyeful. I’m getting old! My temperature is colder. My molars need more solder. Soon I’ll need a boulder-holder. My wife seized up. Unfold her! I’m getting old! A More Likely Plot for “Romeo and Juliet” by Michael R. Burch Wont to croon by the light of the moon on a rickety ladder, mad as a hatter, Romeo crashed to the earth in a swoon, broke his leg, had to beg, repented of falling in love too soon. A nurse, averse to his seductive verse, aware of his madness and familial badness, searched for the stiletto in her purse. Meanwhile, Juliet began to fret that the roguish poet (wouldn’t you know it?) had pledged his “love” because of a bet! A gang of young thugs and loutish lugs had their faces engraved on “wanted” mugs. They were doomed to fail, ended up in jail, became young fascists and cried “Sieg Heil!” No tickets were sold, no tickets were bought, because, in the end, it all came to naught. Exeunt stage left. Apologies to España by Michael R. Burch the reign in Trump’s brain falls mainly as mansplain No Star by Michael R. Burch Trump, you're no "star." Putin made you an American Czar. Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen, pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen. tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch Doggerel about Doggerel The Board by Michael R. Burch Accessible rhyme is never good. The penalty is understood― soft titters from dark board rooms where the businessmen paste on their hair and, Walter Mitties, woo the Muse with reprimands of Dr. Seuss. The best book of the age sold two, or three, or four (but not to you), strange copies of the ones before, misreadings that delight the board. They sit and clap; their revenues fall trillions short of Mother Goose. Longer Doggerel When I Was Small, I Grew by Michael R. Burch When I was small, God held me in thrall: Yes, He was my All but my spirit was crushed. As I grew older my passions grew bolder even as Christ grew colder. My distraught mother blushed: what was I thinking, with feral lust stinking? If I saw a girl winking my face, heated, flushed. “Go see the pastor!” Mom screamed. A disaster. I whacked away faster, hellbound, yet nonplused. Whips! Chains! ********** Sweet, sweet, my Elation! With each new sensation, blue blood groinward rushed. Did God disapprove? Was Christ not behooved? At least I was moved by my hellish lust. Happily Never After by Michael R. Burch Happily never after, we lived unmerrily (write it!―like disaster) in Our Kingdom by the See as the man from Porlock’s laughter drowned out love’s threnody. We ditched the red wheelbarrow in slovenly Tennessee and made a picturebook of poems, a postcard for Tse-Tse, a list of resolutions we knew we couldn’t keep, and asylum decorations for the King in his dark sleep. We made it new so often strange newness, wearing old, peeled off, and something rotten gleamed yellow, not like gold:― like carelessness, or cowardice, and redolent of *** We stumbled off, our awkwardness―new Keystone comedy. Huge cloudy symbols blocked the sun; onlookers strained to see. We said We were the only One. Our gaseous Melody had made us Joshuas, and so―the Bible, new-rewrit, with god removed, replaced by Show and Glyphics and Sanskrit, seemed marvelous to Us, although King Ezra said, “It’s Sh-t.” We spent unhappy hours in Our Kingdom of the Pea, drunk on such Awesome Power only Emperors can See. We were Imagists and Vorticists, Projectivists, a Dunce, Anarchists and Antarcticists and anti-Christs, and once We’d made the world Our oyster and stowed away the pearl of Our too-, too-polished wisdom, unanchored of the world, We sailed away to Lilliput, to Our Kingdom by the See and piped the rats to join Us, to live unmerrily hereever and hereafter, in Our Kingdom of the Pea, in the miniature ship Disaster in a jar in Tennessee. Doggerel about Dogs Dog Daze by Michael R. Burch Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler; he really is one of the best. Sometimes in bed he snuggles my head, though he mostly just plops on my chest. I think Oz was made to love from the first ray of light to the dark, but his great love for me is exceeded (oh gee!) by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark. Oz is the Boss! by Michael R. Burch Oz is the boss! Because? Because ... Because of the wonderful things he does! He barks like a tyrant for treats and a hydrant; his voice far more regal than mere greyhound or beagle; his serfs must obey him or his yipping will slay them! Oz is the boss! Because? Because ... Because of the wonderful things he does! Excoriation of a Treat Slave by Michael R. Burch I am his Highness’s dog at Kew. Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you? ―Alexander Pope We practice our fierce Yapping, for when the treat slaves come they’ll grant Us our desire. (They really are that dumb!) They’ll never catch Us napping― our Ears pricked, keen and sharp. When they step into Our parlor, We’ll leap awake, and Bark. But one is rather doltish; he doesn’t understand the meaning of Our savage, imperial, wild Command. The others are quite docile and bow to Us on cue. We think the dull one wrote a poem about some Dog from Kew who never grasped Our secret, whose mind stayed think, and dark. It’s a question of obedience conveyed by a Lordly Bark. But as for playing fetch, well, that’s another matter. We think the dullard’s also as mad as any hatter and doesn’t grasp his duty to fling Us slobbery ***** which We’d return to him, mincingly, here in Our royal halls. Bed Head, or, the Ballad of Beth and her Fur Babies by Michael R. Burch When Beth and her babies prepare for “good night” sweet rituals of kisses and cuddles commence. First Wickett, the eldest, whose mane has grown light with the wisdom of age and advanced senescence is tucked in, “just right.” Then Mary, the mother, is smothered with kisses in a way that befits such an angelic missus. Then Melody, lambkin, and sweet, soulful Oz and cute, clever Xander all clap their clipped paws and follow sweet Beth to their high nightly roost where they’ll sleep on her head (or, perhaps, her caboose). Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors by Michael R. Burch At six-thirty, feeling flirty, I put on the hurdy-gurdy ... But Ms. Purdy, all alert-y, kicked me where I’m sore and hurty. The moral of my story? To avoid a fate as gory, flirt with gals a bit more whore-y! On the Horns of a Dilemma (I) by Michael R. Burch Love has become preposterous for the over-endowed rhinoceros: when he meets the right miss how the hell can he kiss when his horn is so ***** it lofts her thus? I need an artist or cartoonist to create an image of a male rhino lifting his prospective mate into the air during an abortive kiss. Any takers? On the Horns of a Dilemma (II) by Michael R. Burch Love has become preposterous for the over-endowed rhinoceros: when he meets the right miss how the hell can he kiss when his horn deforms her esophagus? On the Horns of a Dilemma (III) by Michael R. Burch A wino rhino said, “I know! I have a horn I cannot blow! And so, ergo, I’ll watch the lovely spigot flow! The Horns of a Dilemma Solved, if not Solvent by Michael R. Burch A wine-addled rhino debated the prospect of living unmated due to the scorn gals showed for his horn, then lost it to poachers, sedated. Less Heroic Couplets: Word to the Unwise by Michael R. Burch I wanted to be good as gold, but being good, as I’ve been told, requires something, discipline, I simply have no interest in! *** Villanelle of an Opportunist by Michael R. Burch I’m not looking for someone to save. A gal has to do what a gal has to do: I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave. How many highways to hell must I pave with intentions imagined, not true? I’m not looking for someone to save. Fools praise compassion while weaklings rave, but a gal has to do what a gal has to do. I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave. Some praise the Lord but the Devil’s my fave because he has led me to you! I’m not looking for someone to save. In the land of the free and the home of the brave, a gal has to do what a gal has to do. I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave. Every day without meds becomes a close shave and the razor keeps tempting me too. I’m not looking for someone to save: I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave. *** Less Heroic Couplets: Shell Game by Michael R. Burch I saw a turtle squirtle! Before you ask, “How fertile?” The squirt came from its mouth. Why do your thoughts fly south? *** Helen Keller saw more than the stellar- visioned and the televisioned. —Michael R. Burch *** Antsy kids of the world, unite! You don't like facts, so fight! Call them all “haters,” those cool, calm debaters, then your mommies can tuck you in tight. —Michael R. Burch *** Ireland’s Ire has Landed The luck of the Irish has failed: Trump’s landed and cannot be jailed! From Killarney to Derry the natives are very despondent and bombs have been mailed. Donald Trump has alarmed Country Clare: the Irish are crying, “Beware! He won’t pay his tax, his manners are lax, and what the hell’s up with his hair?” The Donald has landed in Doonbeg (Ireland). Why? For a noon beg: he’s running real low on cash, so you know he’ll fit like a freakin’ square peg. The luck of the Irish has faltered. Trump’s there and he cannot be haltered. From Killarney to Derry the natives are very insistent his visa be altered. *** Poets laud Justice’s high principles. Trump just gropes her raw genitals. —Michael R. Burch *** Zip It by Michael R. Burch Trump pulled a stunt, wore his pants back-to-front, and now he’s the **** of bald jokes: “Is he coming, or going?” “Eeek! His diaper is showing!” But it’s all much ado, says Snopes. *** Limerick-Ode to a Much-Eaten *** by Michael R. Burch There wonst wus a president, Trump, whose greatest *** (et) wus his **** It was padded ’n’ shiny, that great orange hiney, but to drain it we’d need a sump pump! *** On the Horns of a Dilemma (I) by Michael R. Burch Love has become preposterous for the over-endowed rhinoceros: when he meets the right miss how the hell can he kiss when his horn deforms her esophagus? On the Horns of a Dilemma (II) by Michael R. Burch Love has become preposterous for the over-endowed rhinoceros: when he meets the right miss how the hell can he kiss when his horn is so ***** it lofts her thus? On the Horns of a Dilemma (III) by Michael R. Burch A wino rhino said, “I know! I have a horn I cannot blow! And so, ergo, I’ll watch the lovely spigot flow! The Horns of a Dilemma Solved, if not Solvent by Michael R. Burch A wine-addled rhino debated the prospect of living unmated due to the cruel scorn gals showed for his horn, but then lost it to poachers, sedated. *** A Possible Explanation for the Madness of March Hares by Michael R. Burch March hares, beware! Spring’s a tease, a flirt! This is yet another late freeze alert. Better comfort your babies; the weather has rabies. *** Voice of (T)reason by Michael R. Burch Love is the highest, the greatest, the grandest! Love has us all and our lovers in thrall! Love, but don’t fall. Love is the coolest, the truest, the Yule-est! Love is sage Andrew’s Marvell-ous ball! Love, but don’t fall. Love is the sweetest, the deepest, the fleetest! Yes, that’s the problem – a pall over all. Love, but don’t fall. *** Final Ballad of the Unhappy Camper by Michael R. Burch I’m low on **** lost my fizz, out of biz. Flabby and ***** morose and mourny, gals’re scorny. Friggin’ Low T Hell! Unable to swell! "More sleep"? Do tell! *** Less Heroic Couplets: Weird Beard by Michael R. Burch for and after Richard Thomas Moore C’mon, admit—love’s truly weird: why does a ****** need a beard? Should making love produce foul poxes? What can we make of such paradoxes? And having made love, what the hell's the point of ending up with a sore, limp joint? Who invented love, which we all pursue like rats in a maze after sniffing glue? *** This is my randy version of a classic limerick originally published by Arthur Henry Reginald Buller in Punch on Dec. 19, 1923. An incestuous physicist, Bright, made love at speeds faster than light. She had *** one day in her relative way, then came on the previous night! There was a young **** star of Ghent whose get-up just got up and went. Too sleepy for *** her fans became ex- subscribers, and no checks were sent. —Michael R. Burch Fair Elle was an eely lover who squiggled beneath the covers ... She was hard to pin down! When I did it, she’d frown, then wouldn’t do none of my druthers! There once was a camel who loved to **** Please get your crude minds out of their slump! He loved to give rides on his huge, lordly lump! —Michael R. Burch I wanted to live like a sheik, in a harem. But I live like a monk without gals ’cause I scare ’em. —Michael R. Burch *** Mouldy Oldie, or, Septuagenarian Ode to Cheese Mould by Michael R. Burch I’m getting old and battling mould — it’s growing on my cheese! My phone’s on hold to report the mould — my life is not a breeze! I pray and pray, "Send help my way — good Lord, I’m on my knees!" But truth be told, it’s oversold — that’s it, I’m done with cheese! *** Wonderworks by Michael R. Burch History’s mysteries abound & astound, found (profound) the whole earth ’round, even if mostly underground. I wrote the poem above after discovering an article about the aptly-named Wonderwerk Cave in an ancient (March 2016) falling-apart issue of Discover that I rescued from my car. The cave in question lies in South Africa’s Northern Cape province, around 300 miles southwest of the “Cradle of Civilization.” Artifacts discovered in the Wonderwerk Cave appear to be even more ancient than the Cradle’s. According to the article, “The density of stone artifacts in the region is staggering.” The use of fire may now date back as far as 1.8 million years. *** The Procrastinator’s Creed by Michael R. Burch It’s always, “Tomorrow, I’ll do it.” Work? I eschew it. I never collect money I’ve loaned and the rest of this poem’s been postponed. *** WHEN MAN IS GONE by Michael R. Burch When man is gone won’t the sun still rise? Will anyone care that he isn’t there? Will the porpoises lack purpose, the marigolds fold? Will the doves and the deer weep bitter tears? Or will life continue, glad to be off his menu? *** That Mella Fella by Michael R. Burch for John Mella, former editor of LIGHT There once was a fella named Mella, who, if you weren’t funny, would tell ya. But he was cool, clever, nice, gave some splendid advice, and if you were good, he would sell ya. *** One for the Thumb! by Michael R. Burch Counting rings, the counters come, marching to the same sad drum: “Your GOAT has two, but ours has four!” “Our GOAT has six, and six is more!” “One for the thumb! Our GOAT’s the best!” But Robert Horry’s not impressed. Jim Loscutoff is trying on the mantle of the GOAT, anon. Frank Ramsey laughs himself to tears: since he won seven in just nine years. Tom Heinsohn, K.C. Jones, Satch Sanders and Hondo all have eight, ring ganders. Sam Jones has rings to fill both hands (that’s ten for all math-challenged fans), won in twelve years, as truth demands. Meanwhile, the only GOAT we know, Bill Russell, has one ... for the toe! *** Mating Calls, or, Purdy Please! by Michael R. Burch 1. Nine-thirty? Feeling flirty (and, indeed, a trifle ***** I decided to ring prudish Eleanor Purdy ... When I rang her to bang her, it seems my words stang her! She hung up the phone, so I banged off, alone. 2 Still dreaming to hold something skirty, I once again rang our reclusive Miss Purdy. She sounded unhappy, called me “daffy” and “sappy,” and that was before the gal heard me! 3. It was early A.M., ’bout two-thirty, when I enquired again with the regal Miss Purdy. With a voice full of hate, she thundered, “It’s LATE!” Was I, perhaps, over-wordy? 4. At 3:42, I was feeling blue, and so I dialed up Miss You-Know-Who, thinking to bed her and quite possibly wed her, but she summoned the cops; now my bail is due! 5. It was probably close to four-thirty the last time I called the miserly Purdy. Although I’m her boarder, the restraining order freezes all assets of that virginity hoarder! 6. It was nearly twelve-thirty when, in need of something skirty, I rang up (to bang up) the reclusive Miss Purty ... She hung up the phone so I banged off, alone. *** Hot Cross Buns by Michael R. Burch Lexi, Lexi, Lexi, so lovely and perplexy, please meet me for a meal spicy and Tex-Mexy. Done with hot fried fritters, bend over, show your knickers; then, as your *** cheeks redden, ignore the public snickers. *** New Year’s Dissolution by Michael R. Burch The year draws to a close ... Who knows where the hell the time goes? I’m up to my nose in ill-fitting clothes! They canceled my shows! My corns grow in rows! And yet I’ll survive ... Perhaps ... I suppose ... So let’s ring the New Year in with tonic and gin and greet the foolish Babe with an even-more-foolish grin! *** Her Whirlwind Life by Michael R. Burch for Tallulah Bankhead “Never slow down or someone’ll catch up. Virgins are boring, give me a **** “Male or female, it really don’t matter. Life is too short to live it in a halter.” Keywords/Tags: doggerel, nonsense, light verse, light poetry, humor, silliness, limerick, jingle, jangle, mrbepi
0
Oct 4, 2020
Oct 4, 2020 at 6:20 AM UTC
michael-r-burch
Doggerel
Doggerel The limerick is one of the most common and most popular forms of doggerel. This is one of my favorite limericks: There was a young lady named Bright Who traveled much faster than light. She set out one day, In a relative way, And came back the previous night. ―Arthur Henry Reginald Buller I find it interesting that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick! The limerick above inspired me to pen a rejoinder: Ass-Tronomical by Michael R. Burch Einstein, the frizzy-haired, proved E equals MC squared. Thus, all mass decreases as activity ceases? Not my mass, my *** declared! These are "subversive" poems of mine, pardon the pun: Bible Libel by Michael R. Burch If God is good, half the Bible is libel. I came up with this epigram after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, and wondering how anyone could call the biblical God "good." What Would Santa Claus Say by Michael R. Burch What would Santa Claus say, I wonder, about Jesus returning to **** and Plunder? For he’ll likely return on Christmas Day to blow the bad little boys away! When He flashes like lightning across the skies and many a homosexual dies, when the harlots and heretics are ripped asunder, what will the Easter Bunny think, I wonder? A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint by Michael R. Burch Santa Claus, for Christmas, please, don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . . just . . . Santa, please, I’m on my knees! . . . please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi! ***** Nilly by Michael R. Burch for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? You made the stallion, you made the filly, and now they sleep in the dark earth, stilly. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? You forced them to run all their days uphilly. They ran till they dropped― life’s a pickle, dilly. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? They say I should worship you! Oh, really! They say I should pray so you’ll not act illy. Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly? Low-T Hell by Michael R. Burch I’m living in low-T hell ... My get-up has gone: Oh, swell! I need to write checks if I want to have *** and my love life depends on a gel! Originally published by Light Door Mouse by Michael R. Burch I’m sure it’s not good for my heart— the way it will jump-start when the mouse scoots the floor (I try to **** it with the door, never fast enough, or fling a haphazard shoe ... always too slow too) in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion absurdly inconvenient for mashin’, till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’, make us both early candidates for heaven. The Humpback by Michael R. Burch The humpback is a gullet equipped with snarky fins. It has a winning smile: and when it SMILES, it wins as miles and miles of herring excite its fearsome grins. So beware, unwary whalers, lest you drown, sans feet and shins! ​ Apologies to España by Michael R. Burch the reign in Trump’s brain falls mainly as mansplain No Star by Michael R. Burch Trump, you're no "star." Putin made you an American Czar. Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen, pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen. tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch Golden Years? by Michael R. Burch I’m getting old. My legs are cold. My book’s unsold and my wife’s a scold. Now the only gold’s in my teeth. I fold. Less Heroic Couplets: ****** Most Fowl! by Michael R. Burch ****** most foul!” cried the mouse to the owl. “Friend, I’m no sinner; you’re merely my dinner!” the wise owl replied as the tasty snack died. Originally published by Lighten Up Online and in Potcake Chapbook #7 NOTE: In an attempt to demonstrate that not all couplets are heroic, I have created a series of poems called “Less Heroic Couplets.” I believe even poets should abide by truth-in-advertising laws! And I believe such laws should extend to Creators who claim to be loving, wise, merciful, just, etc., while forcing innocent mice to provide owls with late-night snacks. ― Michael R. Burch Animal Limericks Dot Spotted by Michael R. Burch There once was a leopardess, Dot, who indignantly answered: "I’ll not! The gents are impressed with the way that I’m dressed. I wouldn’t change even one spot." Stage Craft-y by Michael R. Burch There once was a dromedary who befriended a crafty canary. Budgie said, "You can’t sing, but now, here’s the thing― just think of the tunes you can carry!" Clyde Lied! by Michael R. Burch There once was a mockingbird, Clyde, who bragged of his prowess, but lied. To his new wife he sighed, "When again, gentle bride?" "Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied. The Pelican't by Michael R. Burch Enough with this pitiful pelican! He’s awkward and stinks! Sense his smellican! His beak's far too big, so he eats like a pig, and his breath reeks of fish, I can tellican! Nonsense Verse about Writing Verse The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...) by Michael R. Burch Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts at “meter,” I crossly concluded I’d use each iamb in lieu of a lamb, bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded. Originally published by Grand Little Things Other Animal Poems Lance-Lot by Michael R. Burch Preposterous bird! Inelegant! Absurd! Until the great & mighty heron brandishes his fearsome sword. honeybee by Michael R. Burch love was a little treble thing― prone to sing and sometimes to sting Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ by Michael R. Burch Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ the bees rise in a dizzy circle of two. Oh, when I’m with you, I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too. Generation Gap by Michael R. Burch A quahog clam, age 405, said, “Hey, it’s great to be alive!” I disagreed, not feeling nifty, babe though I am, just pushing fifty. Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years. Baked Alaskan There is a strange yokel so flirty she makes ****** seem icons of purity. With all her winkin’ and blinkin’ Palin seems to be "thinkin’"― "Ah culd save th’ free world ’cause ah’m purty!" Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch from Signs of the Apocalypse all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved Going Rogue in Rouge It'll be hard to polish that apple enough to make her seem palatable. Though she's sweeter than Snapple how can my mind grapple with stupidity so nearly infallible? Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch from Signs of the Apocalypse all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved Pls refudiate “Refudiate” this, miffed, misunderstood Ms!― Shakespeare, you’re not (more like Yoda, but hot). Your grammar’s atrocious; Great Poets would know this. You lack any plan save to flatten Iran like some cute Mini-Me cloned from G. W. B. Admit it, Ms. Palin! Stop your winkin’ and wailin’― only “heroes” like Nero fiddle sparks at Ground Zero. Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch from Signs of the Apocalypse all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved I wrote the last poem above after Sarah Palin compared herself to Shakespeare, who coined new words, rather than admit her mistake when she used "refudiate" in a Tweet rather than "repudiate." The copyright notices above are ironic, as the poems above were written and published before 2012. Nonsense Verse There was an old man from Peru who dreamed he was eating his shoe. He awoke in the night with a terrible fright to discover his dream had come true. ―Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch There once was a mockingbird, Clyde, who bragged of his prowess, but lied. To his new wife he sighed, "When again, gentle bride?" "Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied. ― Michael R. Burch Dear Ed: I don’t understand why you will publish this other guy― when I’m brilliant, devoted, one hell of a poet! Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie! Fie! A pox on your head if you favor this poet who’s dubious, unsavor y, inconsistent in texts, no address (I checked!): since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager! ―"The Better Man" by Michael R. Burch The English are very hospitable, but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable ... or pitiless, rather, and quite in a lather! O bother, they're more than formidable. ―"Of Tetley’s and V-2's," or, "Why Not to Bomb the Brits" by Michael R. Burch Relativity, the theorists’ creed, says all mass increases with speed. My *** grows when I sit it. Albert Einstein, get with it; equate its deflation, I plead! ― Michael R. Burch 　 Hawking, who makes my head spin, says time may flow backward. I grin, imagining the surprise in my mothers’ eyes when I head for the womb once again! ― Michael R. Burch Hawking’s "Brief History of Time" is such a relief! How sublime that time, in reverse, may un-write this verse and un-spend my last thin dime! ― Michael R. Burch A proper young auditor, white as a sheet, like a ghost in the night, saw his dreams, his career in a **** disappear, and then, strangely Enronic, his wife. ― Michael R. Burch 　 There once was a troglodyte, Mary, whose poots were impressively airy. To her children’s deep shame, their foul condo became the first cave to employ a canary. ― Michael R. Burch There once was a Baptist named Mel who condemned all non-Christians to hell. When he stood before God he felt like a clod to discover His Love couldn’t fail! ― Michael R. Burch The Humpback by Michael R. Burch The humpback is a gullet equipped with snarky fins. It has a winning smile: and when it SMILES, it wins as miles and miles of herring excite its fearsome grins. So beware, unwary whalers, lest you drown, sans feet and shins! Door Mouse by Michael R. Burch I’m sure it’s not good for my heart— the way it will jump-start when the mouse scoots the floor (I try to **** it with the door, never fast enough, or fling a haphazard shoe ... always too slow too) in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion absurdly inconvenient for mashin’, till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’, make us both early candidates for heaven. Ding **** ... by Michael R. Burch for Fliss An impertinent bit of sunlight defeated a goddess, NIGHT. Hooray!, cried the clover, Her reign is over! But she certainly gave us a fright! Be very careful what you pray for! by Michael R. Burch Now that his T’s been depleted the Saint is upset, feeling cheated. His once-fiery lust? Just a chemical bust: no “devil” cast out or defeated. The Flu Fly Flew by Michael R. Burch A fly with the flu foully flew up my nose—thought I’d die—had to sue! Was the small villain fined? An abrupt judge declined my case, since I’d “failed to achoo!” Hell-Bound Hounds by Michael R. Burch We have five dogs and every one’s a sinner! I swear it’s true—they’ll steal each other’s dinner! They’ll **** before they’re married. That’s unlawful! They’ll even ***** in public. Eek, so awful! And when it’s time for treats (don’t gasp!), they’ll beg! They have no pride! They’ll even **** your leg! Our oldest Yorkie murdered dear, sweet Olive, our helpless hamster! None will go to college or work to pay their room and board, or vets! When the Devil says, *** here!” they all yip, “Let’s!” And yet they’re sweet and loyal, so I doubt the Lord will dump them in hell’s dark redoubt . . . which means there’s hope for you, perhaps for me. But as for cats? I say, “Best wait and see.” Menu Venue by Michael R. Burch At the passing of the shark the dolphins cried Hark!; cute cuttlefish sighed, Gee there will be a serener sea to its utmost periphery!; the dogfish barked, so joyously!; pink porpoises piped Whee! excitedly, delightedly. But ... Will there be as much glee when there’s no you and me? Anti-Vegan Manifesto by Michael R. Burch Let us avoid lettuce, sincerely, and also celery! Rising Fall by Michael R. Burch after Keats Seasons of mellow fruitfulness collect at last into mist some brisk wind will dismiss ... Where, indeed, are the showers of April? Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May? But feel no dismay ... It’s time to make hay! I believe the closing line was influenced by this remark J. R. R. Tolkien made about the inspiration for his plucky hobbits: “I've always been impressed that we're here surviving because of the indomitable courage of quite small people against impossible odds: jungles, volcanoes, wild beasts ... they struggle on, almost blindly in a way.” Thus, whatever our apprehensions about the coming winter, when autumn falls and fall rises, it’s time to make hay. How It Goes, Or Doesn’t by Michael R. Burch My face is getting craggier. My pants are getting saggier. My ear-hair’s getting shaggier. My wife is getting naggier. I’m getting old! My memory’s plumb awful. My eyesight is unlawful. I eschew a tofu waffle. My wife’s an Eiffel eyeful. I’m getting old! My temperature is colder. My molars need more solder. Soon I’ll need a boulder-holder. My wife seized up. Unfold her! I’m getting old! A More Likely Plot for “Romeo and Juliet” by Michael R. Burch Wont to croon by the light of the moon on a rickety ladder, mad as a hatter, Romeo crashed to the earth in a swoon, broke his leg, had to beg, repented of falling in love too soon. A nurse, averse to his seductive verse, aware of his madness and familial badness, searched for the stiletto in her purse. Meanwhile, Juliet began to fret that the roguish poet (wouldn’t you know it?) had pledged his “love” because of a bet! A gang of young thugs and loutish lugs had their faces engraved on “wanted” mugs. They were doomed to fail, ended up in jail, became young fascists and cried “Sieg Heil!” No tickets were sold, no tickets were bought, because, in the end, it all came to naught. Exeunt stage left. Apologies to España by Michael R. Burch the reign in Trump’s brain falls mainly as mansplain No Star by Michael R. Burch Trump, you're no "star." Putin made you an American Czar. Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen, pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen. tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch Doggerel about Doggerel The Board by Michael R. Burch Accessible rhyme is never good. The penalty is understood― soft titters from dark board rooms where the businessmen paste on their hair and, Walter Mitties, woo the Muse with reprimands of Dr. Seuss. The best book of the age sold two, or three, or four (but not to you), strange copies of the ones before, misreadings that delight the board. They sit and clap; their revenues fall trillions short of Mother Goose. Longer Doggerel When I Was Small, I Grew by Michael R. Burch When I was small, God held me in thrall: Yes, He was my All but my spirit was crushed. As I grew older my passions grew bolder even as Christ grew colder. My distraught mother blushed: what was I thinking, with feral lust stinking? If I saw a girl winking my face, heated, flushed. “Go see the pastor!” Mom screamed. A disaster. I whacked away faster, hellbound, yet nonplused. Whips! Chains! ********** Sweet, sweet, my Elation! With each new sensation, blue blood groinward rushed. Did God disapprove? Was Christ not behooved? At least I was moved by my hellish lust. Happily Never After by Michael R. Burch Happily never after, we lived unmerrily (write it!―like disaster) in Our Kingdom by the See as the man from Porlock’s laughter drowned out love’s threnody. We ditched the red wheelbarrow in slovenly Tennessee and made a picturebook of poems, a postcard for Tse-Tse, a list of resolutions we knew we couldn’t keep, and asylum decorations for the King in his dark sleep. We made it new so often strange newness, wearing old, peeled off, and something rotten gleamed yellow, not like gold:― like carelessness, or cowardice, and redolent of *** We stumbled off, our awkwardness―new Keystone comedy. Huge cloudy symbols blocked the sun; onlookers strained to see. We said We were the only One. Our gaseous Melody had made us Joshuas, and so―the Bible, new-rewrit, with god removed, replaced by Show and Glyphics and Sanskrit, seemed marvelous to Us, although King Ezra said, “It’s Sh-t.” We spent unhappy hours in Our Kingdom of the Pea, drunk on such Awesome Power only Emperors can See. We were Imagists and Vorticists, Projectivists, a Dunce, Anarchists and Antarcticists and anti-Christs, and once We’d made the world Our oyster and stowed away the pearl of Our too-, too-polished wisdom, unanchored of the world, We sailed away to Lilliput, to Our Kingdom by the See and piped the rats to join Us, to live unmerrily hereever and hereafter, in Our Kingdom of the Pea, in the miniature ship Disaster in a jar in Tennessee. Doggerel about Dogs Dog Daze by Michael R. Burch Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler; he really is one of the best. Sometimes in bed he snuggles my head, though he mostly just plops on my chest. I think Oz was made to love from the first ray of light to the dark, but his great love for me is exceeded (oh gee!) by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark. Oz is the Boss! by Michael R. Burch Oz is the boss! Because? Because ... Because of the wonderful things he does! He barks like a tyrant for treats and a hydrant; his voice far more regal than mere greyhound or beagle; his serfs must obey him or his yipping will slay them! Oz is the boss! Because? Because ... Because of the wonderful things he does! Excoriation of a Treat Slave by Michael R. Burch I am his Highness’s dog at Kew. Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you? ―Alexander Pope We practice our fierce Yapping, for when the treat slaves come they’ll grant Us our desire. (They really are that dumb!) They’ll never catch Us napping― our Ears pricked, keen and sharp. When they step into Our parlor, We’ll leap awake, and Bark. But one is rather doltish; he doesn’t understand the meaning of Our savage, imperial, wild Command. The others are quite docile and bow to Us on cue. We think the dull one wrote a poem about some Dog from Kew who never grasped Our secret, whose mind stayed think, and dark. It’s a question of obedience conveyed by a Lordly Bark. But as for playing fetch, well, that’s another matter. We think the dullard’s also as mad as any hatter and doesn’t grasp his duty to fling Us slobbery ***** which We’d return to him, mincingly, here in Our royal halls. Bed Head, or, the Ballad of Beth and her Fur Babies by Michael R. Burch When Beth and her babies prepare for “good night” sweet rituals of kisses and cuddles commence. First Wickett, the eldest, whose mane has grown light with the wisdom of age and advanced senescence is tucked in, “just right.” Then Mary, the mother, is smothered with kisses in a way that befits such an angelic missus. Then Melody, lambkin, and sweet, soulful Oz and cute, clever Xander all clap their clipped paws and follow sweet Beth to their high nightly roost where they’ll sleep on her head (or, perhaps, her caboose). Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors by Michael R. Burch At six-thirty, feeling flirty, I put on the hurdy-gurdy ... But Ms. Purdy, all alert-y, kicked me where I’m sore and hurty. The moral of my story? To avoid a fate as gory, flirt with gals a bit more whore-y! On the Horns of a Dilemma (I) by Michael R. Burch Love has become preposterous for the over-endowed rhinoceros: when he meets the right miss how the hell can he kiss when his horn is so ***** it lofts her thus? I need an artist or cartoonist to create an image of a male rhino lifting his prospective mate into the air during an abortive kiss. Any takers? On the Horns of a Dilemma (II) by Michael R. Burch Love has become preposterous for the over-endowed rhinoceros: when he meets the right miss how the hell can he kiss when his horn deforms her esophagus? On the Horns of a Dilemma (III) by Michael R. Burch A wino rhino said, “I know! I have a horn I cannot blow! And so, ergo, I’ll watch the lovely spigot flow! The Horns of a Dilemma Solved, if not Solvent by Michael R. Burch A wine-addled rhino debated the prospect of living unmated due to the scorn gals showed for his horn, then lost it to poachers, sedated. Less Heroic Couplets: Word to the Unwise by Michael R. Burch I wanted to be good as gold, but being good, as I’ve been told, requires something, discipline, I simply have no interest in! *** Villanelle of an Opportunist by Michael R. Burch I’m not looking for someone to save. A gal has to do what a gal has to do: I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave. How many highways to hell must I pave with intentions imagined, not true? I’m not looking for someone to save. Fools praise compassion while weaklings rave, but a gal has to do what a gal has to do. I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave. Some praise the Lord but the Devil’s my fave because he has led me to you! I’m not looking for someone to save. In the land of the free and the home of the brave, a gal has to do what a gal has to do. I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave. Every day without meds becomes a close shave and the razor keeps tempting me too. I’m not looking for someone to save: I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave. *** Less Heroic Couplets: Shell Game by Michael R. Burch I saw a turtle squirtle! Before you ask, “How fertile?” The squirt came from its mouth. Why do your thoughts fly south? *** Helen Keller saw more than the stellar- visioned and the televisioned. —Michael R. Burch *** Antsy kids of the world, unite! You don't like facts, so fight! Call them all “haters,” those cool, calm debaters, then your mommies can tuck you in tight. —Michael R. Burch *** Ireland’s Ire has Landed The luck of the Irish has failed: Trump’s landed and cannot be jailed! From Killarney to Derry the natives are very despondent and bombs have been mailed. Donald Trump has alarmed Country Clare: the Irish are crying, “Beware! He won’t pay his tax, his manners are lax, and what the hell’s up with his hair?” The Donald has landed in Doonbeg (Ireland). Why? For a noon beg: he’s running real low on cash, so you know he’ll fit like a freakin’ square peg. The luck of the Irish has faltered. Trump’s there and he cannot be haltered. From Killarney to Derry the natives are very insistent his visa be altered. *** Poets laud Justice’s high principles. Trump just gropes her raw genitals. —Michael R. Burch *** Zip It by Michael R. Burch Trump pulled a stunt, wore his pants back-to-front, and now he’s the **** of bald jokes: “Is he coming, or going?” “Eeek! His diaper is showing!” But it’s all much ado, says Snopes. *** Limerick-Ode to a Much-Eaten *** by Michael R. Burch There wonst wus a president, Trump, whose greatest *** (et) wus his **** It was padded ’n’ shiny, that great orange hiney, but to drain it we’d need a sump pump! *** On the Horns of a Dilemma (I) by Michael R. Burch Love has become preposterous for the over-endowed rhinoceros: when he meets the right miss how the hell can he kiss when his horn deforms her esophagus? On the Horns of a Dilemma (II) by Michael R. Burch Love has become preposterous for the over-endowed rhinoceros: when he meets the right miss how the hell can he kiss when his horn is so ***** it lofts her thus? On the Horns of a Dilemma (III) by Michael R. Burch A wino rhino said, “I know! I have a horn I cannot blow! And so, ergo, I’ll watch the lovely spigot flow! The Horns of a Dilemma Solved, if not Solvent by Michael R. Burch A wine-addled rhino debated the prospect of living unmated due to the cruel scorn gals showed for his horn, but then lost it to poachers, sedated. *** A Possible Explanation for the Madness of March Hares by Michael R. Burch March hares, beware! Spring’s a tease, a flirt! This is yet another late freeze alert. Better comfort your babies; the weather has rabies. *** Voice of (T)reason by Michael R. Burch Love is the highest, the greatest, the grandest! Love has us all and our lovers in thrall! Love, but don’t fall. Love is the coolest, the truest, the Yule-est! Love is sage Andrew’s Marvell-ous ball! Love, but don’t fall. Love is the sweetest, the deepest, the fleetest! Yes, that’s the problem – a pall over all. Love, but don’t fall. *** Final Ballad of the Unhappy Camper by Michael R. Burch I’m low on **** lost my fizz, out of biz. Flabby and ***** morose and mourny, gals’re scorny. Friggin’ Low T Hell! Unable to swell! "More sleep"? Do tell! *** Less Heroic Couplets: Weird Beard by Michael R. Burch for and after Richard Thomas Moore C’mon, admit—love’s truly weird: why does a ****** need a beard? Should making love produce foul poxes? What can we make of such paradoxes? And having made love, what the hell's the point of ending up with a sore, limp joint? Who invented love, which we all pursue like rats in a maze after sniffing glue? *** This is my randy version of a classic limerick originally published by Arthur Henry Reginald Buller in Punch on Dec. 19, 1923. An incestuous physicist, Bright, made love at speeds faster than light. She had *** one day in her relative way, then came on the previous night! There was a young **** star of Ghent whose get-up just got up and went. Too sleepy for *** her fans became ex- subscribers, and no checks were sent. —Michael R. Burch Fair Elle was an eely lover who squiggled beneath the covers ... She was hard to pin down! When I did it, she’d frown, then wouldn’t do none of my druthers! There once was a camel who loved to **** Please get your crude minds out of their slump! He loved to give rides on his huge, lordly lump! —Michael R. Burch I wanted to live like a sheik, in a harem. But I live like a monk without gals ’cause I scare ’em. —Michael R. Burch *** Mouldy Oldie, or, Septuagenarian Ode to Cheese Mould by Michael R. Burch I’m getting old and battling mould — it’s growing on my cheese! My phone’s on hold to report the mould — my life is not a breeze! I pray and pray, "Send help my way — good Lord, I’m on my knees!" But truth be told, it’s oversold — that’s it, I’m done with cheese! *** Wonderworks by Michael R. Burch History’s mysteries abound & astound, found (profound) the whole earth ’round, even if mostly underground. I wrote the poem above after discovering an article about the aptly-named Wonderwerk Cave in an ancient (March 2016) falling-apart issue of Discover that I rescued from my car. The cave in question lies in South Africa’s Northern Cape province, around 300 miles southwest of the “Cradle of Civilization.” Artifacts discovered in the Wonderwerk Cave appear to be even more ancient than the Cradle’s. According to the article, “The density of stone artifacts in the region is staggering.” The use of fire may now date back as far as 1.8 million years. *** The Procrastinator’s Creed by Michael R. Burch It’s always, “Tomorrow, I’ll do it.” Work? I eschew it. I never collect money I’ve loaned and the rest of this poem’s been postponed. *** WHEN MAN IS GONE by Michael R. Burch When man is gone won’t the sun still rise? Will anyone care that he isn’t there? Will the porpoises lack purpose, the marigolds fold? Will the doves and the deer weep bitter tears? Or will life continue, glad to be off his menu? *** That Mella Fella by Michael R. Burch for John Mella, former editor of LIGHT There once was a fella named Mella, who, if you weren’t funny, would tell ya. But he was cool, clever, nice, gave some splendid advice, and if you were good, he would sell ya. *** One for the Thumb! by Michael R. Burch Counting rings, the counters come, marching to the same sad drum: “Your GOAT has two, but ours has four!” “Our GOAT has six, and six is more!” “One for the thumb! Our GOAT’s the best!” But Robert Horry’s not impressed. Jim Loscutoff is trying on the mantle of the GOAT, anon. Frank Ramsey laughs himself to tears: since he won seven in just nine years. Tom Heinsohn, K.C. Jones, Satch Sanders and Hondo all have eight, ring ganders. Sam Jones has rings to fill both hands (that’s ten for all math-challenged fans), won in twelve years, as truth demands. Meanwhile, the only GOAT we know, Bill Russell, has one ... for the toe! *** Mating Calls, or, Purdy Please! by Michael R. Burch 1. Nine-thirty? Feeling flirty (and, indeed, a trifle ***** I decided to ring prudish Eleanor Purdy ... When I rang her to bang her, it seems my words stang her! She hung up the phone, so I banged off, alone. 2 Still dreaming to hold something skirty, I once again rang our reclusive Miss Purdy. She sounded unhappy, called me “daffy” and “sappy,” and that was before the gal heard me! 3. It was early A.M., ’bout two-thirty, when I enquired again with the regal Miss Purdy. With a voice full of hate, she thundered, “It’s LATE!” Was I, perhaps, over-wordy? 4. At 3:42, I was feeling blue, and so I dialed up Miss You-Know-Who, thinking to bed her and quite possibly wed her, but she summoned the cops; now my bail is due! 5. It was probably close to four-thirty the last time I called the miserly Purdy. Although I’m her boarder, the restraining order freezes all assets of that virginity hoarder! 6. It was nearly twelve-thirty when, in need of something skirty, I rang up (to bang up) the reclusive Miss Purty ... She hung up the phone so I banged off, alone. *** Hot Cross Buns by Michael R. Burch Lexi, Lexi, Lexi, so lovely and perplexy, please meet me for a meal spicy and Tex-Mexy. Done with hot fried fritters, bend over, show your knickers; then, as your *** cheeks redden, ignore the public snickers. *** New Year’s Dissolution by Michael R. Burch The year draws to a close ... Who knows where the hell the time goes? I’m up to my nose in ill-fitting clothes! They canceled my shows! My corns grow in rows! And yet I’ll survive ... Perhaps ... I suppose ... So let’s ring the New Year in with tonic and gin and greet the foolish Babe with an even-more-foolish grin! *** Her Whirlwind Life by Michael R. Burch for Tallulah Bankhead “Never slow down or someone’ll catch up. Virgins are boring, give me a **** “Male or female, it really don’t matter. Life is too short to live it in a halter.” Keywords/Tags: doggerel, nonsense, light verse, light poetry, humor, silliness, limerick, jingle, jangle, mrbepi
Continue reading...
1002
Your name became the jingle I hated from the moment heard Then found myself singing it The following morning So catchy beneath my lips It tangled into muscle memory Too weak to loosen the grip Of horrendous rhythm Now laughter brews from concern That it will never leave my mind Thankfully I've prepared for these occasions Firstly, find distractions As to Stuffing my mouth Clouding my mind But it only stunts My new nature To repeat the sweet ring Your name gives my heart I cannot part from the joy It brings to me like The coolest toy I begged for But what I know now all too well is that toy Will become an afterthought Collect dust on the tallest shelf I'll never bother reaching And I'll move on to the next catchy jingle Let it marinate in my diaphragm And allow it to eat me up entirely Leaving me hollow Only left with bits and pieces of all The names I sang To keep me company **** I wish I never heard any Of those **** Jingles
0
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 6:01 PM UTC
Jimbojumbopoetry
Jingles
Your name became the jingle I hated from the moment heard Then found myself singing it The following morning So catchy beneath my lips It tangled into muscle memory Too weak to loosen the grip Of horrendous rhythm Now laughter brews from concern That it will never leave my mind Thankfully I've prepared for these occasions Firstly, find distractions As to Stuffing my mouth Clouding my mind But it only stunts My new nature To repeat the sweet ring Your name gives my heart I cannot part from the joy It brings to me like The coolest toy I begged for But what I know now all too well is that toy Will become an afterthought Collect dust on the tallest shelf I'll never bother reaching And I'll move on to the next catchy jingle Let it marinate in my diaphragm And allow it to eat me up entirely Leaving me hollow Only left with bits and pieces of all The names I sang To keep me company **** I wish I never heard any Of those **** Jingles
Continue reading...
37
Adam touches down in heaven upon the high. But his highwater mark wasn’t solely one way. He could hear the jingle upon the high resonates beneath the ground! He could see the cloud forms on the top and rains down to the ground. Bow down on the earth and rise high. Lo, the golden spiral too, curves downward before spiking high up.
0
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC
shofi-ahmed
Adam's Double Whammy
Adam touches down in heaven upon the high. But his highwater mark wasn’t solely one way. He could hear the jingle upon the high resonates beneath the ground! He could see the cloud forms on the top and rains down to the ground. Bow down on the earth and rise high. Lo, the golden spiral too, curves downward before spiking high up.
Continue reading...
15
It's Christmas time in Oz as well, Does seem like Jingle Hell, But, I still hear those Christmas bells, Joyous reflection time to tell, The magic of Christmas is near, The world is waiting, my dears, For the Messiah to appear......
0
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 1:09 AM UTC
julie-grenness
Jingle Bell Hell!
It's Christmas time in Oz as well, Does seem like Jingle Hell, But, I still hear those Christmas bells, Joyous reflection time to tell, The magic of Christmas is near, The world is waiting, my dears, For the Messiah to appear......
Continue reading...
7
your tastebuds won't divorce the tangy zest of Giuseppe's sauce the fulsome tomato flavour you'll always want to savour Giuseppe's sauce is so yum yum Giuseppe's makes the palate hum hum
0
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 10:51 PM UTC
ElizabethSquires
Giuseppe's Sauce
your tastebuds won't divorce the tangy zest of Giuseppe's sauce the fulsome tomato flavour you'll always want to savour Giuseppe's sauce is so yum yum Giuseppe's makes the palate hum hum
Continue reading...
16
I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I've got a Dr. Pepper n' box o' fries, A favorite friend sittin' with me 'by-my-side'... I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! Did you hear about the hot new grilled dog? It's somethin,' that, I'll be eating at the mall! Like poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! Next time you feel you really need a bite, Go ahead get a Burger King in your sight! And pop one up a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! Like poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King!
0
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
david-john-mowers
B.K. Jingle
I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I've got a Dr. Pepper n' box o' fries, A favorite friend sittin' with me 'by-my-side'... I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! Did you hear about the hot new grilled dog? It's somethin,' that, I'll be eating at the mall! Like poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! Next time you feel you really need a bite, Go ahead get a Burger King in your sight! And pop one up a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! Like poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King! I'm poppin' on a wing-ding, Whopper; Burger King!
Continue reading...
22
I tried to write a sonnet once But only wrote twelve lines. With number I am ever the dunce, Make errors of all kinds. Ten syllables is what’s required Repeated fourteen times. It makes me oh so very tired, Before I find those rhymes. And now I need a turning point, A solution to the problem. It’s time for me to rock this joint From Cleethorpes up to Rotherham. It looks contrived does each old poem, So back to the drawing board I am going. Paul Butters
0
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
paul-butters
Writing Sonnets
I tried to write a sonnet once But only wrote twelve lines. With number I am ever the dunce, Make errors of all kinds. Ten syllables is what’s required Repeated fourteen times. It makes me oh so very tired, Before I find those rhymes. And now I need a turning point, A solution to the problem. It’s time for me to rock this joint From Cleethorpes up to Rotherham. It looks contrived does each old poem, So back to the drawing board I am going. Paul Butters
Continue reading...
15
A young lady, she reminded me of you when you were younger, she was seeking an adventure. She wanted to have a little fun, no harm.  Her name was Emmi. Although she was looking for something new and exciting, she never saw it coming, the poor girl. She ventured towards the outskirts of the forest her mother has always told her to avoid, no matter the circumstances, which of course only fed her desire to discover what the trees hid from her prying eyes. A small jingle rang through the mellow breeze, which startled Emmi, for no one was around, or so she thought. After traveling a few more paces, She heard again, this time more clear. Now, Emmi could see the trees more clearly from where she was standing, just a few more paces from the inconspicuous woods. Once again the jingle sounded, but this time, it lasted. Jing-jing-jingle, jing-jing-jingle. jing-jing-jingle, jing-jing-jingle. Down from the leafy and full trees above, gracefully flying, almost dancing blue and yellow bird about the size of the finches that are common in Emmi’s town. The strange bird stops mid-air a few feet from Emmi’s face, obviously intrigued by her, after a moment or two, floats closer to her and ***** its head to one side and studies her. The bird has long wings that look like a beta fish’s fins; flowing and fantastical. It has lucid purple eyes, and a plush yellow underbelly. What’s most striking are the three prominent appendages that have medallion shaped bells at their ends, across the top and bottom of the bird that match the color of the side they are on. While hovering, the bird sways slightly back and forth, which makes the bells jingle.There are also some black lines that cup the creatures face, which comes to the point of a small sharp black beak. Its tail feathers were stretched out and tapered off to a slender blue foot with small orange talons. The bird zoomed over Emmi’s head and made a U-Turn, and stopped at the tree line, waiting for Emmi to follow. Overwhelmed with joy, Emmi trailed after her new discovery. She followed the bright jing-jing-jingle of the bird through the dim woods, oblivious of the eyes that weren't far behind. Sometime passed, and the bird was still fluttering on and Emmi was still on its trail, and developing second thoughts. Light begun to filter through the leaves, and Emmi located a light up ahead indicating a break in the trees. The jing-jing-jingling was her only guide through the forest, so when it disappeared, she felt panic shiver up her spine. Blinded by fear, she ran towards the mysterious light, the pine needles crunching behind her, and low branches move out of her way, without out her pushing them to the side…. and with every crunch she makes, another echos behind her, and a few more echo the echo. Emmi raced out of the forest, and into light. She found freedom, but it didn’t last for long. Emmi found a clearing, and merely trapped herself. Whatever was making the echoing crunches behind her did not appear, at least not at first. The forest was silent besides a breeze ruffling the leaves and pines, and Emmi’s racing heart. Suddenly a loud crack rings through the clearing, like lightning striking a tree, and Emmi freezes . The ground beneath her starts to move, making her legs tremble. Ever so slowly, Emmi turns to see a once dead tree, it’s wood splintered, creating the appearance of a wild grimace, its roots snaking between the dirt and grass, and it’s branches towering over Emmi’s head. Her jaw dropped and was about to let out a blood-curdling scream, but all was silent.
0
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
ShuckFacedGirl
Jingle (a short story)
A young lady, she reminded me of you when you were younger, she was seeking an adventure. She wanted to have a little fun, no harm.  Her name was Emmi. Although she was looking for something new and exciting, she never saw it coming, the poor girl. She ventured towards the outskirts of the forest her mother has always told her to avoid, no matter the circumstances, which of course only fed her desire to discover what the trees hid from her prying eyes. A small jingle rang through the mellow breeze, which startled Emmi, for no one was around, or so she thought. After traveling a few more paces, She heard again, this time more clear. Now, Emmi could see the trees more clearly from where she was standing, just a few more paces from the inconspicuous woods. Once again the jingle sounded, but this time, it lasted. Jing-jing-jingle, jing-jing-jingle. jing-jing-jingle, jing-jing-jingle. Down from the leafy and full trees above, gracefully flying, almost dancing blue and yellow bird about the size of the finches that are common in Emmi’s town. The strange bird stops mid-air a few feet from Emmi’s face, obviously intrigued by her, after a moment or two, floats closer to her and ***** its head to one side and studies her. The bird has long wings that look like a beta fish’s fins; flowing and fantastical. It has lucid purple eyes, and a plush yellow underbelly. What’s most striking are the three prominent appendages that have medallion shaped bells at their ends, across the top and bottom of the bird that match the color of the side they are on. While hovering, the bird sways slightly back and forth, which makes the bells jingle.There are also some black lines that cup the creatures face, which comes to the point of a small sharp black beak. Its tail feathers were stretched out and tapered off to a slender blue foot with small orange talons. The bird zoomed over Emmi’s head and made a U-Turn, and stopped at the tree line, waiting for Emmi to follow. Overwhelmed with joy, Emmi trailed after her new discovery. She followed the bright jing-jing-jingle of the bird through the dim woods, oblivious of the eyes that weren't far behind. Sometime passed, and the bird was still fluttering on and Emmi was still on its trail, and developing second thoughts. Light begun to filter through the leaves, and Emmi located a light up ahead indicating a break in the trees. The jing-jing-jingling was her only guide through the forest, so when it disappeared, she felt panic shiver up her spine. Blinded by fear, she ran towards the mysterious light, the pine needles crunching behind her, and low branches move out of her way, without out her pushing them to the side…. and with every crunch she makes, another echos behind her, and a few more echo the echo. Emmi raced out of the forest, and into light. She found freedom, but it didn’t last for long. Emmi found a clearing, and merely trapped herself. Whatever was making the echoing crunches behind her did not appear, at least not at first. The forest was silent besides a breeze ruffling the leaves and pines, and Emmi’s racing heart. Suddenly a loud crack rings through the clearing, like lightning striking a tree, and Emmi freezes . The ground beneath her starts to move, making her legs tremble. Ever so slowly, Emmi turns to see a once dead tree, it’s wood splintered, creating the appearance of a wild grimace, its roots snaking between the dirt and grass, and it’s branches towering over Emmi’s head. Her jaw dropped and was about to let out a blood-curdling scream, but all was silent.
Continue reading...
6