This poem based on a joke on eggs (!) is dedicated to Timothy, a fellow-poet here at HP….I was reminded of that joke about eggs by Timothy’s comment on my recent poem: “Corax versus Tisias”.
Timothy: “This is great, Raj, another humourous poem with a good meaning, if you are an Egg or a Crow, lol! Keep them coming!!!!~<3<3:):)☺♂♀♥♠♣♦◘☻◙•○.O♫” …
Well, here’s another humorous poem, Timothy – and dedicated to you…
Dad, the Kid, and the Girl Next Door
“Dad,” says 6-year-old Tim
back from the neighbour’s
“Sandra next door and I’ve decided
to get married”
Dad laughs…What do these kids know? he thinks…
I’ll humour him, just kid along
with this precocious child of mine
“But you’re too young, Tim,”
“That’s OK,” says Tim
“Sandra doesn’t mind I’m a year
younger than she”
“Oh,” says Dad
“but marriage is such
a huge responsibility”
“Yeah,” says Tim quick and sharp
“Haven’t you seen my school reports?
Teacher always says I’m hugely responsible;
it’s the same on Sandra’s card”
Dad’s smile weakens
“Well, what will the two of you
do for money?”
“Oh, we’ve worked that one out
We get $20 a week in pocket money
between us and we reckon we’ll take
on extra jobs:
I can mow our lawn;
and she’ll wash dishes at her home
Beside we’ll save a lot of money
since we don’t at all eat out
and lodging is free -
a week here and the next at Sandra’s”
Now Dad has lost his smile
These kids have thought of everything,
he thinks. I’ve got to do better –
come up with an objection that’ll strike fear
“Have you thought, Tim,” says wise old Dad
“about babies? Married people make babies –
what you going to do about that?”
“Simple,” says Tim the kid, cool and unperturbed
“We’ve googled all that:
Every time Sandra lays an egg
I’ll crush it under foot!”
Dad sighs with relief…
Fall has started.
Students pile into their desks
as teacher begins the lesson,
with 32 apple gifts in her bottom drawer.
Wake up in the morning.
Walk down the stairs.
Grab an apple
among the bananas and
Sitting under a tree, dreaming,
disturbed by a falling fruit.
The apple that knocked your head.
The apple that discovered gravity.
Lovers entwined in each others’ arms.
“I love you,” says one.
“I love you more,” says the other.
“You are the apple of my eye,” says the first.
The second smiles.
Kids running rampant,
touch football and tag.
Trading card games while eating lunch.
Lunch? PB&J;, a banana,
and Mott’s Apple Juice.
One of the largest computer companies: Apple.
The Beatles music company: Apple.
Apples are the foundation of everything.
The Disney hotel room was tan all over.
Even my 6-year-old brain remembers that.
The green sheen of the apple skin was
more appealing than the tan, for sure.
Apples, apple juice, applesauce, apple pie,
apple cider, candied apples, Redd’s apple ale.
So many choices.
So many variations.
None quite as good as the first one listed.
The red on her lips matched the fruit’s skin
as she bit down into the juicy apple.
Within minutes she was down to its core
Apply applesauce to the aforementioned area.
This isn’t a game, HeadOn.
It is just alliteration.
The stanzas in this poem
couldn’t be more different
than apples and oranges.
Mi corazón se dispara a mi garganta
cuando yo te veo. Siento mi nuez de Adán se endurece.
Tus labios, rojos como manzanas,
se ven tan dulces.
Te extraño, Red. Y, finalmente,
This poem brought to you by:
Mott’s Apple Juice, Redd’s Apple Ale,
The Beatles’ Apple, Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak’s Apple
Sir Isaac Newton’s Apple, Adam’s Apple,
God’s apple, my apple, your apple, he/she/it apple,
It apple bit the apple.
The core of this poem, much like the core of an apple.
This poem brought to you by:
My 15” Macbook Pro Apple laptop.
And the author, moi. From my heart. From my brain.
This poem brought to you by apples.
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In her leggings,
and her striped
Cape Cod dress,
we meet Kim.
She’s in possession
of ankles the circumference
of Kennedy half-dollars,
a wasp’s nest of black curls
piled on her head,
she’s a straight line
from shoulder to heel.
She’s a real catch, Kim is,
and she knows it.
She has no idea that
she looks like a peacock
dipped in motor oil,
she’s giving ol’ Josh
the goldfish eye.
We’re all here to see The Freight Train,
The Rabbit Killer, but Kim’s hoping
Kim’s looking to get her
bunny stuffed, she
don’t care much about who
does the stuffing,
but she’s hoping for Mr. Clark,
he’s her mark, no doubt.
Now, Josh bought Kim
a beer, but was asked to
leave the cap on,
He looks at me, confused.
“It’s so you can’t Rufie her.
She wants to fuck you, but
she wants it to be her idea.”
so does Kim.
As the evening proceeds,
and we’ve all done
“The Freight Train Boogie”
it’s become increasingly
obvious to Kim that Josh
is not agreeable to buttering
her biscuits, she moves,
which is to say stumbles,
around the room.
Every so often she’ll climb onto
the lap of some guy she’s known,
biblically or otherwise, before.
Sam, Bob, Steve, Ralph, or Charlie,
it hardly matters.
Earlier, she’d told us about
the 6-year-old twins,
the teenaged daughter
at home, ex-husband,
boyfriend, whatever, in jail.
The Freight Train moves ever
onward, but I’ve seen too
much of ol’ Kimmy’s show,
now depressed, it’s time
when I fold aeroplanes for you
with neat creases
on thick white papers,
paint three-petal flowers on them
with yellow wax crayons
I stole from my 6-year-old cousin,
fly them to you from the corner of my balcony
so that it flies straight at you
cutting through the cold breeze
and naked trees;
pick them up from the ground after their
with distracted eyes,
throw them back on the ground,
stamp them with your black boots,
and walk past them
as if my paper planes had sunk the twin towers.