A Few Humorous Poems

Riches
“Worry not for worldly wealth,” the priest said,
“for your riches lay beyond Heaven’s Gate.”
The priest then counted his flock, head by head,
and, pleased, sent around the collection plate.

Puppetry
The ventriloquist had not half the skill
to throw his voice from a wooden throat,
so he chose to work on Capitol Hill
as a lobbyist, becoming the GOAT.

Get Bent
A contortionist of world-wide renown
was giving a performance much lauded
when she suddenly stopped and then stepped down
from the bright stage as the crowd applauded.
Waiting till the audience fell quiet,
she pointed to a man among the crowd,
directing the spotlight till he was lit—
an embarrassed man to whom she now bowed.
She said, “Here’s a man who twists more than me,
more than anything, even a serpent,
as he lies on the phone so easily.”
The man tried to speak, but she said, “Get bent.”

Much In Common
They adored him as a Rock god of sex
in the Seventies, his groupie harem
birthing the next generation, (Gen X),
who also shared his favor among them.

Take To Flight, February

Go! Leave! Take to flight, February,
for you linger overlong
with such a darksome mood, chill and airy
that sings too mournful a song.

The shortest among monthly brethren,
but not short enough, forsooth,
as we wait for the Spring to set in
and you cling by nail and tooth.

It’s true they stole from you a few days
to add to their collection,
but no one wants you here anyways,
and would rather you had none.

You are the Georgia of Winter days,
the state I hate driving through
on my way to the Gulf’s golden bays—
Florida without the view.

We are all tired of this bleak Winter
and its cold dark solemn hours
so we’ll be in the garden center,
looking at the Spring flowers.

Ode To The Skunk

Thou foul beast! O skunk, where art thou at?
Black and white malodorous polecat!
Do not— oh please—take me by surprise
when by dark I seek with cautious eyes
to know where thou lurketh in the night,
thine cloud lingering as doth a blight,
for if I do not heed the wise nose
then heed how futile the water hose!
Not even saints may abide that smell
that be worse than the sulphur of Hell
as it clingeth like sin to the skin
although we scrub again and again.
What devilry beneath that proud tail!
And what a fallout! What a trail
that follows it like a stain on air
warning us all—beware, fool, beware!
Nor can we trust fruit of the nightshade
to cleanse one’s soul of the fetor made;
‘twould be best simply to eat the leaf
and thus pass beyond such earthly grief.
Oft feared more greatly than grizzly’s growls
and worse, by far, than the wolf pack’s howls
and yet how adorable that beast
with its brown eyes, soft fur— cute at least
in eyes that look past its rank odor,
for in the eye of the beholder
beauty be found, and the will to love
what is shunned both below and above…
O god! Where is it? Where’d it go?
Ach! It has sprayed me! Oh no! Oh no!!!

Bringing Me Down

It was the most forlorn of towns
where all its people had depression
and shared only their frequent frowns
and their latest therapy session.
They moaned and groaned about each thing
that pained them a little here and there,
acting as if no suffering
was as awful as their own to bear.
They made sport of it, in a way,
trying to outdo each other’s sorrow,
and if they did not moan most that day
they would always moan more tomorrow.
But there was one man in the town
who only liked to crack funny jokes:
Barnaby, the comedy clown
who tried to help all these mirthless folks.
Barnaby always did his best
to get a laugh from his neighbors,
pulling toys from his purple vest
or juggling a bunch of sharp sabers.
One day, however, they found him
hanging dead from a thick, knotted rope,
swaying from the oak’s creaking limb
like a man given up on all hope.
Every townsfolk wondered why
Barnaby had chosen to leave this world,
thinking him too jolly to die
by his own hand with a rope unfurled.
Then they found the angry letter
in his pocket, next to his flower,
and it read, “Things won’t get better
so long as I live here one more hour.
I’m tired of the endless whining
about life, misery, and whatnot,
and I think it quite a fine thing
to end this life quickly and just rot.
You have all been bringing me down
for more years than I should have let you
and I will not be a sad clown;
no Pierrot, so melancholic and blue.”
The townsfolk thought of his last words,
taking umbrage at his swaying shade
as it hung above, with the birds
and the mocking song their voices made.
They left Barnaby up to rot,
thinking that was what he had wanted,
and when they bemoaned their sad lot
they looked at once to him, undaunted.
“We have all been bringing him down,”
they said, smirking at some private joke,
“so we ought to honor the clown
and let him sway above us sad folk.”
Hence, they kept Barnaby aloft
and trembled to see him through the years
as he lost his skin and flesh, oft
grinning at them and their endless tears.

Carried Away With Oneself

The townsfolk worried when the river would crest,
knowing it would flood their precious farmlands
and ruin crops before the Summer harvest,
all so fearful it was out of their hands—
that is, all except Donnie, the local fool
who lived in a white house all fading fast
and didn’t know how to discern a plain mule
from a jackass, or from a looking glass.
Anyhow, Donnie had it in his dense head
that he would save the town from the great flood.
“Give me all your buckets,” Donnie loudly said,
“and I will reduce that river to mud.”
Townsfolk thought this a hell of a hoot, all right,
and so they gave him every bucket,
and so Donnie took them to pail, day and night,
at the river, walking far to chuck it
away from the river, out toward the swamp,
where he fancied he made a difference,
even as the locals would laugh and would stomp
to see him so taken with such nonsense.
By and by, the river crested and then ebbed
as the floodwaters flowed farther on South
to the tributaries, watersheds, all webbed
until the river ran dry at the mouth.
The townsfolk were amazed to see such a thing
and praised Donnie for his supposed feat.
“If you are so grateful,” he said, “make me king!”
The townsfolk all knelt down to kiss his feet.
Thereafter Donnie saw to the floodwaters
whenever the rains fell in a torrent,
and he had much to eat, and many daughters
from the townsfolk, though it was abhorrent.
Each year the river rose, Donnie would bear it
with buckets, scooping it by the liters
as proof of his practice and pledge and merit
as the river rose, or fell, by meters.
But then came a year with such heavy rains
that they feared a forty-day flood was nigh
while the river swelled and broke over the plains,
the current swift, the whitewater crest high.
“Donnie! King! Save us!” they all cried out in woe.
Donnie scoffed at the river, wide and vast.
“I’ll right it,” he said, his orange cheeks aglow.
“You just wait and you’ll see! I’ll fix it fast!”
And so he took up his bucket, and his crown,
and he went to the rabid riverside
where he dipped his big, greedy buckets down
into that roaring, racing river tide.
For days he bailed at the river, growing tired,
yet the river only swelled larger still,
the farmlands and the town becoming but mired
in the bloat of that Leviathan swill.
“You are a fraud!” the townsfolk said to their king,
but he never lost faith, too much the fool
to ever doubt himself in any one thing
as he sought to solidify his rule.
And so Donnie worked at his usual pace,
which is to say, slow…lazy…no swifter
than the Hare when sleeping in the fabled race
against the tortoise, that steady drifter.
But the river was both the tortoise and hare,
for it ran swift while staying in its bed,
or else moved steadily outward, here and there;
whichever way its swelling excess led.
And Donnie waded out in the deep, thinking
he needed to get to the river’s heart
to pail out the most, although he was sinking
to his neck—yet still thinking himself smart.
“You won’t ever beat me, river,” Donnie yelled,
choking on whitewater as it tumbled
like the frothy fury of millions that swelled
until Donnie tripped and gagged and fumbled.
And, at a blink, Donnie was swallowed from sight
beneath the currents he thought he mastered—
his crown and buckets were found the next night:
the river will always have the last word.

Not So Super

Since Superman can travel to space,
why does he linger with the human race?
Is it to protect us from Darkseid
that Kal-El will remain here to abide
being among up-jumped simians
rather than with the New Olympians?
Perhaps it’s sentiment he feels still
after growing up in peaceful Smallville,
or perhaps he’s afraid Lois Lane
will find another beau, maybe Bruce Wayne;
perhaps all aliens revile him
for bestiality, though the same phylum,
family, and genus, ostensibly,
he’s not the same species; he just can’t be
since he was born of Krypton, not earth,
though greatly humanoid, so there is worth
in the suspicion that his mother
laid not with Jor-El, but another—
a human with more dominant genes
expressed in his anatomical means
because the Kryptonian descent
cannot be just like ours, or so recent
since they are so much more advanced
in tech, in culture, their bodies enhanced
by the super AI, Braniac
who condemned them, I guess, the maniac…
But the point of this is just to ask
why Supes stays on earth, and so, to that task,
we must think beyond our small planet
to space and all the big things that span it.
Such a small world for such a big man!
You’d think he would travel more since he can,
but maybe he is not really so tough
when he’s compared to scaled-up cosmic stuff
such as Lobo, that bully who may
give Supes an atomic wedgie each day
if Clark leaves his earthbound comfort zone
and tries to be a Space Scout on his own.
Who knows? Not me— Supes is not real
or else I would not mock the Man of Steel.

Game Of Thrones TV Character Critique Haikus

Arya
Edgelord supreme, you
killed many men, but died of
cringy dialogue.

Varys
Veritas varies,
but the truth heard in the flame
meant nothing at all.

Jon Snow
Dead from betrayal
by the inept screenwriters—
remained dead plot-wise.

Daenerys
I thought you would change
to a villain with time, but
also with reason.

Sansa
“The smartest person”
literally no-one says—
entitled yas-queen.

Tyrion
You lost half your nose
in your nosediving plot arc,
and half of your brain.

Bran
The Three-Eyed Raven
saw all, and did not one thing
except bait and switch.

Bronn
Shortchanging others
as the most frequent sellout,
now master of coin.

The Night King
Your hand shatters steel
and downs dragons, yet cannot
pierce Stark plot armor.

Cersei
All season in the
Red Keep—or in the red wine?
Just window dressing.

Jaime
Who would have thought that
the Kingslayer would be killed
by Lord Hightower?

Dothraki
Snuffed out all at once
in the dark, then stoked larger
in ashes later.

Grey Worm
Failing to avenge
his queen in court, he must have
no brains and no balls.

Euron
Having twice the eyes
he has in the books, he still
lacks half the vision.

GOT Story Arcs For Seasons 5-8
The Mummer’s Dragon
lost its stage curtain wings while
Winter came and went.

D&D
Hodor, Hodor, Hold
the door, Hodor, Hodor, Holed
up their own asses.

Wizard Eyebrows (A Tangleroot Farce)

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When my queen tells me I must trim
my eyebrows till neat and prim,
I say, “Why should I, anyhow,
when it is my wizard’s brow?”

Then she urges me with decree
to sheer them, like bush or tree,
and at such times I must remind
why brows are not kept in kind.

I say, “Each conductor of mine
is a transistor ley line,
and they channel such vast power
as within Merlin’s tower.”

“Cosmic energies they focus
like a coiled karma locus,
or an altar to gods quite old
whose fires have not wavered cold.”

“My queen, would you deprive your court
of the powers of the sort
in measure like Gandalf the White,
shaving his beard ‘fore the fight?”

“Moreover, I must proudly state
that my brows intimidate
ogres, witches, fairies, and trolls,
dragons, goblins and lost souls.”

“Nor do only such foul creatures
fall to my feathered features,
but knights and ladies, lords and kings
are swayed by the winged things.”

“By means of mien wisely strengthened
with wondrous brows quite lengthened
and aspect accented so strong,
I enchant ere I look long.”

And so saying, I flap my brows
to overrule my queen’s vows—
to ensorcell her womanhood
abed, as lovers would.

Alas, my charms affect her not,
such is my unlucky lot,
angering her upon her throne
so that night I slept alone.

Funeral Crasher

The young man flew like Shakespeare’s Ariel
from woman to woman, with great flair,
himself more center-stage at the burial
than the man for whom they had gathered there.

He wore his tears like badges of honor
as he reminisced vaguely about the dead,
talking to each woman, and prevailing upon her
to embrace him, support him, bosom to head.

The coup de gras was the dirge that he sang
as if to conjure from air a chorus of sylphs
in accompaniment, yet his lovely voice rang
not for sorrow or pain, but for the MILF’s.

For he knew the flow of sorrow’s tears
was as good a lubricant for the ruse of Love
as any seduction by charms or beers
and so he sang smoothly, sweet as a dove.

Alas, while he sang without any shame
and with a talent that was duly silver-voiced,
he also sang proudly the wrong man’s name
and immediately dried up all that was moist.

Realizing his deceit, the mourners rebelled,
cutting short his golden-throated verses
and taking him by his arms, whereby held,
he was tied up and put into one of the hearses.

The funeral director said he would see justice done
and so drove the funeral crasher far away
until the hours flew by, and down came the sun
at the coffin-like darkening of the day.

The director was a pale man with a narrow face,
neither young or old, but seemingly ageless,
and he had an accent which nobody could place,
his hair slicked back and his eyes sagacious.

At length they came to a graveyard on a hill
far from the city, in the moonlit countryside
where many people had gathered until
the hilltop was crowded, all around a bride.

The nary-do-well was untied and brought out
and taken to the bride that awaited him there—
a paper-pale woman with her lips in a pout
of fangs, her eyes unblinking with an undead stare.

The funeral director grinned, his fangs agleam,
and he said, “You celebrate Death as we all do—
as an occasion for Love, an advantageous scheme
whereby joy is had while others only rue.

“Thus you will join us in our blood-linked clan
and live eternally, wed to my niece, Natalia,
thriving in shadows, feeding upon Man,
from now and forever a vampire, nox fatalia.”

The young man was brought before the bride,
and she pulled him close to her fetid face,
and no matter how much the young man tried
he could not free himself from her embrace.

As her lips parted, however, and her fangs flashed,
there arose a warcry as men flanked the hill,
their guns firing while their silver swords slashed
at the guests that had gathered in the dewy chill.

The young man was agog with confusion and fright
as a stake entered the bride that held him to her,
Natalia withering unto dust beneath the moonlight—
he ran as fast as he could, slipping in cow manure.

A vampire hunter approached, looming while astride
a horse as pale as Death, the moon at his back.
“I’m not a vampire!” the young man cried and cried,
but the hunter granted the rake no slack.

The young man tried to flee, but slipped once again,
falling as the hunter dismounted his ominous horse
and raised a hammer and stake, aiming to pin
him to the darksome earth without remorse.

Awaking as the stake struck his heart,
the young man found himself at the black gate
to the graveyard where he had plied his art
to women in mourning— the hour now late.

It had been a dream, but his neck still ached
where the mourners had tossed him out on his head;
standing up, he realized it was not good to be staked
out at funerals— a dating app might work better instead.

Apophenia

Tin-foil hats
to protect your brains
deep fryer vats
for drive-thru lanes,
AM radio talk
on the commute,
spooks that all walk
along your route,
fluoride water fountains,
vapor trails overhead,
melting ice mountains
and nanites in your bed,
a face on Mars
that watches the earth,
eugenic candy bars
to control rates of birth,
high fructose corn syrups
that fatten the “sheeple”,
lithotomy stirrups
while they get a peep-full.
Merit badges of
a conspiracy trend
which hate and love
and idiocy lend,
proudly worn,
from idiocy born,
and proudly displayed,
American-made.
Flat Earthers
and a chandelier moon,
Obama Birthers
denying the monsoon.
Shit-throwing baboons,
science-denying loons,
they
say,
“Dull the edge
of Occam’s Razor,”
as they wedge and hedge,
each a fraternity hazer.
No, ostracize
those thinking
contrariwise
without blinking
in the glaring stare-down
of conspiracy wars,
the Lizard Crown
and the alien spores,
each conflicted sect
never of an accord,
each president-elect
of the Secret Board.
Free-for-all
online chats,
slippery snowball
nefarious fat-cats.
Beware chemtrails
that socially engineer
to change males into females
and straight men queer,
or so one conspiracy entails
built on their greatest fear:
that the speaker might be gay,
falling out of the closet someday.
It is thus
a lot of fuss,
out-and-out
about
mass sensiogenic illness
in the heartland from this
opioid pill mess
and yet it would be remiss
of us to not mention Soros
the leader of the Cabal,
that snake, Ouroborus,
the herald of the Zionist Call.
Trench warfare
from the pews
against those who declare
opposing views.
When your candidate starts to lose
just blame a “Cabal of Jews”,
but don’t forget the “Deep State”,
the shadow government
made of all the people you hate,
but none from your favored tent.
How nice it must be
to be one of the Good Guys
in your head, free
from ever thinking otherwise.
And when you ask for proof
they say “prove me wrong”,
but that is not the way to Truth—
denial sure is strong.
Burden of proof means nothing
to such riveted brains,
bolted and ironclad with bluffing,
taking great pains
against commonsense
and contrary evidence
people who like
to ride a tin-foil bike
in the emergency lane,
thinking themselves sane.
I say, “You fly to the moon at night
speak to little Boy Blue,”
and they say, “I am right
because you can’t prove it untrue.”
But can you prove that the sun
is not made of unicorn glitter?
Or that the earth is not on the run
from a cosmic bull (shitter)?
They take the pieces
of a puzzle in disarray
and, like a cryptid species
that is whatever they say,
gluing the parts
however they wish,
like Post-Modern Arts
a pollo loco dish,
forcing all to fit a narrative
preconceived in their heads,
rather than following the imperative
of reasoning, logic, their meds
untouched, uneaten,
the Man
thus beaten.
Look here,
see clear:
the only false flag
operations
are politicians who brag
about their lapel pins.
Humans are natural pattern seekers
and see what’s often not there,
happening by like streakers
bare in the cold, shriveling air,
thrilled by the thought
of a network of nasties
that has bought
figurehead patsies.
They look for
conspiracy games,
and what’s more
a card deck of names,
but mostly there is only chance
and happenstance.
We are social animals, too,
and are programmed to see Man
in everything,
even out of the clear blue
of a toilet bowl ring.
From random occurrence
of act or event or feature,
whether it be gods, fairies,
or whatever other humanoid creature
that strikes our fancy; it varies
according to our brainwave currents.
That is not to say
that conspiracies do not exist,
whether it be those who we obey
as autocrat, dictator, capitalist,
communist, lord, senator—
they are all in a labyrinth,
as are we,
and Necessity is the Minotaur
and we wish to be free,
but civilization, in fact,
is a kind
of conspiracy, a compact
with which we bind
each other, and how we behave
as we all conspire,
each a slave
to the mire.
Everything confirms the script,
even when cliche plot points don’t pan out;
all reason and sense is stripped
so a true believer can forever shout
without sense
of embarrassment
forever hence,
abstaining only on Lent.
And while you like to think
you are the one that is waking,
you only drift away and sink
into the pillow of your own making—
many pillows in a padded room
wherein you tell yourself tales
of aliens and lizard men and doom
or Hollywood, if all else fails.