"rummy" poems
My tummy needs a yummy,
Like a plummy tasty gummy.
I'm in a slummy feeling crummy,
Give me something in my tummy.
Please don't treat me like a scummy,
And don't look at me like a dummy.
I don't want to drink a rummy,
But a yummy in my tummy.
Mommy can I get a yummy,
I don't want to starve my tommy.
Please offer me some plummy tasty gummy.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
You were born on a cusp.
friends on the other side
couldn't decide,
Scorpio or Libra.
You yourself,
as constant as the tides.
A tenth sign ram
was blessed to cross
your lovely path
and the ram learned:
Short curly hair
pinned back reveal
asiatic eyes.
As you pass by and by
Time and time hearts race
Chicken salad sandwich,
its moist mayonnaise
is never as delicious
without a pickle.
Grubhub.
No, Scrubhub.
Too content to leave the room.
Yummy Rummy,
food in our tummy.
forever.
Broth, cheese and wine.
Mushrooms and time.
If ever I tasted love,
it was shared with me,
in a recipe.
Sound opinion in scores.
Royal, like the Tenenbaums.
Bill Murray fantastic.
Pink Moon over and over and over.
Divide that by nine.
And now I know,
almost as well as you,
how good Goodfellas is,
even after the tenth time.
Early morning awakenings or
snooze again and again and again.
Paralyzed in a dream or
awoken with a scream,
we tried a routine:
Once parts of a team,
a memory faster than it seemed.
Ran for miles.
A boy and girl in the hall,
amongst the boys and girls
in the hall.
Digital regulars in ecstasy.
Wake next to you a daydreamer.
So, when life gets hard,
and you're feeling down,
don't be so glum,
ignore your doubts,
don't feel left out,
I'll be there for you,
when you need me to.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 5:48 PM UTC
There are three versions of this poem. only one of them is available on the internet. This first version is from the New Yorker in a 1941 issue. It is the earliest version and the one that is quoted all over the internet.
To My Valentine
by Ogden Nash (1902-1971)
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.
I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.
As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oaths,
That's how you're loved by me.
The next version is the lyric of a song from the Broadway musical "One Touch of Venus" (1943) by Ogden Nash, J S Perelman and Kurt Weill. Nash wrote this lyric. It is not on the internet that I could find. I got it from the sheet music.
HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.
As a sailor's sweetheart hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a wife detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than a hangnail hurts.
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a grapefruit squirts.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a bride would resent a blessed event,
That's how you are loved by me.
More than a waitress hates to wait ,
Or a lioness hates the zoo,
Or a batter dislikes those called third strikes,
That's how much I love you.
As much as a lifeguard hates to swim,
Or a writer hates to read,
As Hays office frowns on low cut gowns,
That's how much you I need.
I love you more than a hive can itch,
And more than a chilblain chills.
I yearn for you in an ivy clad igloo,
As a liver yearns for pills.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a dachshund abhors revolving doors,
That's how you are loved by me.
The third is from the book "Marriage Lines: notes of a student husband" It was published in 1964 and contains a revised version of the poem with a much different ending. This too is not on the internet. I got it from the book.
TO MY VALENTINE
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or an odalisque hates the Sultan's mates,
That's how much I love you.
I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.
As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you truer than a toper loves a brewer,
And more than a hangnail irks.
I love you more than a bronco bucks,
Or a Yale man cheers the Blue.
Ask not what is this thing called love;
It's what I'm in with you.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
I don't speak spaceman she said with a grin.
When into the craft she went.
Was parked on the grass at the rear of her tent.
There met an alien ugly as sin.
Invited her in to join him for gin.
Or maybe a game of rummy.
Neither one could understand.
Non-verbal communication ensued.
They had a hug and laid on the rug.
When sipping their gin.
The two of them,
The alien invader, ugly as sin.
And maiden fair who chucked her hand in.
By ladylivvi1
© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
We write endlessly
about the sensuous things in life,
it's tit-for-tat,
some rat-a-tat-tat,
for us
that's where it's at.
It ain't like chess,
gin rummy
or even go fish,
it's the real hot-deal
in penmanship.
We're restless souls,
dreaming & wishing,
confessing & bleeding
our ruptured-hearts out
in erotic-like
steamy-words.
Hell no,
we ain't terse,
we're just darned
loose with the sexy-verses....
read them & believe it,
kindred spirits!
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
Board games, card games
your games, my games,
I can't get enough.
Checkers, Chess, Stratego,
Battleship, Clue and Risk
require such strategy
and a taste of boldness.
For Twister and the Slip-n-Slide,
you need flexibility and dare.
Monopoly, Ultimate Frisbee
and Slaughter Ball all require
a good amount of aggression,
where Senet, Operation and Connect Four
only need clever patience.
For Jenga and Topple,
you need the skill of a gymnast.
Rummy, Gin, Go Fish, Blackjack and
War, you need only an opponent.
Now, go play!
Written By:
Andrew D. Robertson
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
I remember it so clearly,
The dark oak of the table,
The smell of her cigarette smoke.
We would sit every night and play
500 Rummy.
Then she started to get weaker.
I would watch in horror
As my grandmother’s hands shook
With every set she put down.
The oak table turned to the
Bland plastic of the one in the hospital
And her cigarettes were replaced with
An IV and an oxygen tank.
The next night
I sat in the living room,
Glaring at the empty table
And the unopened pack of cards.
They mocked me.
I dressed in black today,
When everyone tossed dirt
I tossed an Ace of Spades
And an old Zippo.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 5:56 PM UTC
"They're selling postcards of the hanging" Bob Dylan
Frolicking in the Hague festooned
as if some monarch's golden jubilee
not a room left empty in all the land
queues for miles to get a ringside seat
at what is billed as The Trial of Man
as W, **** and Rummy sit chained
to the bionic calves of barstools while
Condo Lisa bears witness atop a piano
ferreted throughout the conurbation
breadlines and circuitous routes
recalling the Nicaraguan case
low on the radar of short-term
the disunited states of disarray
vetoes its own trial's outcome
and it is business as usual
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
Plant a fertile garden in summer & harvest all of the fruits and vegetables.
PIckle all of the vegetables.
preserve all of the fruits-leave some
Apples for pie.
Place pickles and preserves in the darkness of the root cellar.
Order How to ****** a Farmhand in 10 Days from the book catalogue.
Order the Art of War also just in case
Invite Handsome Jimmy Pike from the neighbouring farm over for pie.
Get Uncle Abe to cover the dirt floor with planks.
As Mama always said a frozen dirt floor is just for the dirt poor.
Bake Pie. Place on windowsill.
Waft the smell
Of hot pie over toward the woodpile where Uncle Abe is chopping wood.
Invite Jimmy to play Gin Rummy the evening when Uncle Abe is mysteriously ill of a stomach complaint and sleeping in the barn.
Show Jimmy Uncle Abe's tongue and groove method of log cabin construction.
Ask Jimmy to show me the **** and pass method of using unmilled logs to **** up against each other without notching.
Spike Jimmy's tea with ***
Show Jimmy the root cellar.
**** up against Jimmy with notching.
WITH LOTS OF NOTCHING.
Fall pregnant.
Tell Uncle Abe and have a shotgun wedding.
Bake another special pie.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 6:28 PM UTC
You broke my heart, and you didn't even know why, I refused to tell you, because, I thought you should see, a glimpse, of what my perspective, could, would be. But you didn't, and I grew distance, I love feircely, but you hurt me. When I cried for help you straight up, didn't show up, and abandoned me. You hurt me, you are my sister, and let a great man, block you, of your sight to see, your best friend, was in her greatest time of need; you are selfish you see, your happiness and sense of wonderness, blinded your understanding, that I just wanted a place to land, some kind of familiar ground, to have a shoulder, to cry on, and lie down,
I love you, but no words, right now, suite you,
And I have been so close to you
I need a chance to be on my own,
Play rummy, and carry on
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 5:27 AM UTC
He goes to the basement, without a word he flys
To grab a sufficent sourse of numbness
To write freely and speak not so clearly
But to engage of times of the unknown and times of Modern times
The weather tide, the things of our demise
And the music rides, and the glass clinks
Goodbye to on time
hello to sweet dreams highs
Rummy is a card game
*** isn't for the hard weak
It's not win to fame when you're
Slugging back ***
It's not fun, it gags and try's to overthrow your reflexes
To misconcept your reasons
Why *** is for pirates and not for mere kitchen writers
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 5:30 AM UTC
Of all of the days to sleep in this late
Why did I have to choose today
The revolution we'd been planing along
I'm sure was already underway
I grabbed my bag, thank goodness already packed
And headed for the door
I ran out so fast my dog was aghast
My feet barely touching the floor
When I arrived at the park
I saw none of my friends
There were old ladies knitting shawls
Old men playing rummy and gin
I was already there
So I refused to go home
The revolution got canceled
And I wasn't informed
So I stood up on my soapbox
And yelled listen to me
All the old folks gathered round
As I gave the greatest of speech
I talked of how long
We'd been beat down by the man
As I went point by point
Of my intricate plan
There came weakened shouts
From a few in the crowd
While the hearing impaired
Wondered what all the fuss was about
We all moved to the street
With luck a Boy Scout happened by
To help all the old ladies across
But only one at a time
We surrounded Dairy Queen first
Because they have ice cream soft serve
Which goes down so smooth
When your wearing dentures
Next we did a flash mob
In the local Right-Aid
There were old women swinging purses
And old men waving canes
They all slowly shuffled down
The adult diaper aisle
Where they stripped the shelves clean
With raspy giggles and wrinkly smiles
Things were running so smoothly
According to revolutionary plans
We were creating social havoc
And sticking it BAD to the man
In the middle of the craze
My cell phone it rang
It was my radical friends
Wondering where I have been
I'm a tad bit embarrassed
That's the least I can say
In my mad rush to arrive
I went to the wrong park today
So I snuck out the back of Rite-Aid
As the swat team arrived
If I had a conscience I'd feel bad
In leaving my new old friends behind
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
Remember the last time we sat together?
I was boxing up the last of my things,
And you turned to me with that condescending scowl.
I could tell you were thinking of something poisonous to say,
Then you spat out,
With the only passionate tone ever to come from your lips:
“Mary, you romanticize everything,
Like that time we ate Ramen for a week.
You slurped a noodle and nodded around the room,
Then babbled on about how we were starving for our dreams.
Well I have news for you,
We were starving because you were late again.
And I couldn’t find my ******* tie,
Remember?
We found it a week later,
Under the bed, next to my bowl,
And then played gin rummy for the last few hits,
How’s that for a dream?”
I continued to pack but you kept staring at me,
Like a creature you have never lived or slept with,
I don’t know if it’s true, but I think you hated me for my innocence,
I do know that I began to resent you for snatching it away,
I wish I never went to that concert on 8th and McClair,
Or asked you to not look at my ID,
So I could drink another *** and coke.
I was a different person then, I wrote about the color green,
And its connotation to nature and eyes.
Now I find myself in a room with stained sheets, bourbon, and Bukowski.
Just so you know,
I never thought we were starving for our dreams.
It just sounded pretty out of my mouth,
Like something nice someone says when a relative dies.
I was just trying to take away the blow,
Of knowing that everything was not how we planned.
Then again maybe you were right,
Maybe I do romanticize things.
Because I still have your Rolling Stones albums under my bed,
And “Let Me Down Slow” helps me sleep when the silence hits.
But at least I have soul, and heart, and butterflies,
All that mushy stuff you hate.
The way your eyes went dull would scare me.
So how are you now?
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 1:37 AM UTC
*Piano music on Friday nights
German Chocolate cake for dessert ,
Candle light
Sugary , Plum wine with Cherry -
tobacco in a favorite pipe
Faraway lightning in Alabama skies
Pecan brittle , Storybooks , Fairytales
Gin Rummy , carrying young'uns to bed
The final smoke from the front porch rail -
in the company of a million stars
Trying to work a bit of magic on a red guitar
Time is a rambler indeed , a loner , impatient -
locking eyes with no one
One last song as the wind precedes the storm -
once more
Settle in for another day
A night then a few more years
So forth and so on* .....
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 12:53 AM UTC
In the small kitchen,
A toddler sits near the window,
Laughing at the older woman across
The pile of cards at the table’s center.
The girl is older now,
Pink hair and heavy makeup
Playing a game of rummy with her
Grandmother, who looks at her with only pride.
The older woman’s hair is streaked with gray,
The girl has traded her colored hair
For black and her makeup is simple.
She has moved on to playing Poker.
The table is a mess of wedding magazines and notebooks,
The girl holds one of the magazines in her left
Hand, diamond glistening as her grandmother
Smiles to herself from behind a notebook.
The grandmother wears a lavender dress
As she fixes the girls veil.
The girl is fussing with the bouquets
Of flowers that cover the table.
The old woman sits alone at the
Table in front of a computer,
The girl is chatting excitedly,
Palm trees visible in the background.
They both sit at the table
More serious than ever as the
Girl’s hand rests on her bulging stomach.
She wears a suit while she sits
By the window, a pink car seat
Rests on the table in front of her.
The grandmother is small and shaking
With every hand she puts down.
The girl has cut her hair shorter than ever,
The same color as that of the little girl
Sitting on her lap and toying with cards.
The girl sits alone at the table,
Her eyes red and puffy from crying,
Knuckles white from clutching her cell phone
And a crib rests next to the chair.
The table is covered in flowers and gifts.
It’s surrounded by sobbing people in black.
The girl does not cry as she fixes her daughter’s
Hair by the window.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
Maybe memory is a crossword puzzle: seven hollow
squares for his favorite baseball team, ink-bruised
from the chamomile spilled by Vaseline marinated,
jello-jiggle fingers (like the cherry cup on his tray—
grapes brain-shriveled & bobbing on the meniscus). Memory,
choking off, tight: a casual turtleneck
strangling—well-intentioned yarn knit round his jugular,
but maybe if it loved him it’d slacken. The nurse says
You have a visitor, & his dark-lipped smile looks like an Oreo
shell missing its cream. He wants
to play rummy & I wonder how that swiss-cheese
cortex, that grey walnut graveyard, can remember:
Queen of Hearts is ten points, Susan. My name’s not
important: for once the word isn’t alphabet-soup-snarled
as it thrums from his chayote-crumpled mouth.
He always cheats & never wins, but he shuffles
the deck anyways: muscle memory, he winks,
tea-defeated & varicose-gnarled hands
jitterbugging over the Queen of Hearts.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
In the early 21st century this is when time
really started to go backwards and the attack on the constitution laid the foundation for the TeA pArTY,
and other corporate fascists. Too much to the right our
nation starts" GOOSE STEPPING".
And Uncle Sam sat on a very narrow
conservative wall.
And the King of heartless ( Bush ) ordered,
" OFF WITH YOUR HEAD" without just cause to a sandy
world of black-gold.
And all three nations were written up as
the Axis of "Jabberwockey".
And Wonderland's scared caterpillar colored red, orange,and so on, sat upon an imagined poison mushroom cloud.
And Tweedly Dee; Teedly Rummy,
gave quick cheap armor ( of course to fight some of the Jabberwockey) from a quickened "Rummy Dummy",
the slam dunker.
And the MAD HATER of people went
DUCK -YOUR -HEAD oil haunting
And "Cheshire Cat smiles ( Bush again ) was taken
at phony opts.
And we majority of Alices tried
making sense of this new "Wonderland" as Constitutional,
law backers were considered bad-and in mirror reversable-
so too International Law backers.
And good was this unconstitutional
main war-knight (Bush again ) always WORD bumbling,
war stumbling, falling and failing off his Trojan horse.
And still us Alices are in this-now current-perpetual
land of MIRRORED-IMAGE-REVERSAL.
Tune in next time for our great escape
from this forcefully adopted land of horrid wonder.
Maybe if we tapped our shoes three times...Oops wrong tale.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
rubbing my rummy red eyes
against the harsh hard light of morning
last nights laughs and loves gone cold and bitter
staining the satin sheets we shared.
i woke up alone
wondering
if you were really ever there
if anything really happened
or if the drink finally seeped into my head
and conjured up a wild night
leaving me
laughing alone in the dark
naming the shadows and whispering sweet
garbled nothings
to no one.
i would like to believe my own
imagination would be kinder
but i know differently.
straining the grindings out of day old coffee
i wonder where you have gone to
what your doing and
where you are....
but i know the danger and the
foolishness of such thoughts
so i toss them away along with the
dead soldiers
of last nights wild war
sweeping up the leavings
helping along the hobbling thoughts
that last night was a dream
and you were never there at all.
May 19, 2012
May 19, 2012 at 3:09 AM UTC
the Lord is sore
I can tell because he no longer lingers at the table after dinner,
and falsely claims the wine is tasteless
('tepid as the red sea in december' as he puts it)
no more rummy either (he never answered me
about the four-card problem)
instead he retires to his room,
half yawning half talking he utters,
"oh, I think I should like to haaaay dowmmmn"
or
"I'm afraid its all downstream for me... nighty nigh you sons of
Beeehhhhhnjamins"
I say he is smitten with boughs and therefore withered
its probably just old age, he doesn't realize it but he's getting on
"Holy Mount Vesuvius!" comes a scream from his room "not since the
Land of Egypt."
"what is it, what is wrong my Lord?" I implore
"my crown," he stammers, "my crown of flowers is fading"
"I'll look into it in the morning O' Great Lord of Right Judgment"
I say offhandedly, hoping for no rebuke
"what's that you say?"
"I say in the morning, for morning, by morning; we shall not be vexed by it now"
hoping some old carnage will soothe him
"be not mockers" he quips
"I love you Lord" I say turning off the lamp near his bed
"I love you too my Kadesh"
"to thee o' Lord, I shut the door"
he waves me off.
a city, once great, falls
and vanishes,
a ruin-mound now stands
occupied by consumption
one time when we were alone
he asked me to sit in front of him
he asked me to stare in his eyes
what could this old man want now, I thought
"just look at me"
so I stared into his eyes
and so deeply did I fall
into peace
until tears rended a river.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 8:36 PM UTC
Breath of life!
Breathing you know between it all typically a good thing!
Sometimes one must just do, be.
Do not count your sufferings more than you'd count chicks before their hatching..!
Rhythms as hearts are often drummy, drum like, beat, beat, skip, hop, scotch or fill a pineapple with *** *** rummy!
Play the hands you've got.
When between it's more oft a laying down, up put of soul.
So I'm not counting breaths,
Not playing drummish
Looking for something beyond dummish;
Well heck no, hell yes
I have obviously thrived well beyond perhaps what feels oft;
too oft enough a ghosting amount of so many too and another recently's hallowed stalkings
Whereby conversationally be but a dance per chance of the ocean's breezerly
Riding her rhythms
Whereby there's no greater set;
set, ups, of the consolation's..
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 9:54 PM UTC
Jenny wanted to play her hand
in the big game,
she was a risk taker,
bought lipstick early
& wore them designer jeans to ****
Her blouses revealed
too much of a good thing
& before long
all the boys held her aces.
Face have face called her out
& she played
her entire deck before twenty.
They say traces of her still linger,
but most of her suitors
have gone back
to gin rummy
or gone fishing.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 5:42 AM UTC
Alison and I walked together in cold European December
Seeking a modest dose of culture & enlightenment
in some grand dead palace where we could pass judgment
on the decadence of queens and puddlejump around
from surrealist paintings to Mexican food to picking up
Evi at the airport. We found the time.
We'd gone out on the first night and been the only two
speaking English at the bar, until we were interrupted
by a hot Australian bartender who joined us and agreed
to play Country Roads to our delight. We lost the time.
It wasn't lost on either of us how foreign it had become
to be with each other like that, and happy I hope:
We were instantly caught up as I kept bumping into her
intentionally, and shouting "Entschuldigung!" because
it was the only word I knew. We'd lost no time.
She told me about her piano search and looking after
the Ambassador and hobnobbing with former presidents
and dignitaries with all the uptight flair of the affairs
of state, and her own shining searching lost loneliness
that has come to mirror my own. We knew the time.
On the last night we stayed up playing checkers and rummy
and chess until she could win, sipping wine as we ignored
the gardens and museums that surrounded us, and taunted
each other about how we were ready to party all night
if only the other hadn't grown so old. We still had time.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
I'm my own worst enemy
The village idiot is what my mom used to call me
I admit she was right
I beat myself up all day and night
I have bad luck trip over my own feet
Go crazy then act nice
I can't follow my own advice
I'm a genius idiot possess the IQ
Of a crash test dummy
Drink too much ***** then yell like a dumb *** rummy
The girls avoid me except when I go to the wonderful Philippines
I too fat for blue jeans
I wish I looked good like when I was skinny
I live alone in a empty field
Burning bridges faster than I can build
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC