Ode to a spray bottle of CLR

Ghastly smells under soap bar,
nasty under the seat not ajar,
the gross look of tile film noir
forces me–I just want to go–aargh.

But then I take down my jar
to spray all those stains so bizarre.
Then I can say au revoir.
For my bathroom is an objet d’art!

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later to laughter

later
is close to
after
and merged together is
laughter
but if you ask me
later
about where this is going
after
I’ll deny it or break down in
laughter.
A disguise, really, until much, much
later
when I may fall asleep
after
some wine and have dreams of
laughter.

But can that mean
later
that I haven’t come
after
enough evidence of
laughter?

Could be but, as we all know,
later
when I’ve calmed down
after
the cocktail hour I will descend, anyway, into
laughter.

Yeti the Small

Yeti the lemming
searched the buds bursting
out
for her prefferred colour of spring
and sat, chin high,
motionless
upon a proffered rock to do so.

Much happens in an arctic minute
if she had a seasonal friend, fowl and
migratory,
that friend might have offered that
much more happens in a New York minute
but none were available that early.

But as minute became hour became day became
time drifting upon time to form
weeks
the snow caked her short-ffurred self
and other lemmings, lemming acquaintances really and not BFF’s by any means,
would nod sagely saying ‘That’s it! That’s how she got that name.

But Yeti the Small
and Cold finally shivered once and passed
out
and Dr. Lemming using a reeff knot
dragged her back to his Whole Clinic,
electrolyted, warmed and revivaled her (not in that order) over a 3-week convolescence.

And so it was that Yeti the lemming
missed Spring entirely by waiting too
attentive
for she deffered all attempts at the norm
to care for herself in the process
for one can be too patient and too impatient and then become a patient.

But a lesson was learned here
and Yeti the slightly-more-wise
capitalized
and became a profficient Nurse to Doctor Lemming
for patience has its virtues in health care
and in being paid in seeds.

The molar of our story, that’s too tooth in cheek,
The morel of our story, no that’s wrong too even if I am a fun guy,
Hmmmmmmmm.
The remora, no. The ffemoral, No. Darn it all to sock heaven.
Wait. I’ve got it: the moral of our story is that
hope for a Yeti springs eternal!

There’s An Elk in the yard eating greenery

Why all this contemporary foolery?
Who benefits from an anniversary
with chickens and fecal matter rubbery?
And come on–who did that musically beanery perfumery???
Seriously: you need help proctologistery.

Heck, really, the tomfoolery lasts from toast buttery
until far into a moonlit corroboree.
It can result in calls for the constabulary
who must be appeased by all means elocutionary.

Well, if we must analyze ourselves deconstructionistary,
in theory,
with all appeals to psychiatry
luminary and without flummery
or slippery frippery
we might note that laughter ending blubbery
or shuddery teary
and sometimes in the shrubbery
should have some cause, albeit fishy, and beneficiary.

For mercenary buffoonery,
drollery cajolery,
celebratory jokery,
unsavoury gesticulatory,
and obfuscatory charlatanry
must, must, MUST have some root explanatory.

Can you answer my weary query?

Oh dearie
dearie
dearie
you can’t, can you? As, canny humbuggery,
you must have used saran’s stretchy functionary
to cover up my toiletry
as part of your diversionary itinerary.

Oh such a sad cautionary
to be, yet again, such a dupery.

lego my eggnog please

there is no l in eggnog
no n in lego
but all the others are shared

and rid of the l and n (and duplicates)
we’re left with only an ego
intact

mere coincidence?

i think not

consider:

it is possible

to float lego upon eggnog
to drink eggnog from lego
(and verily, for connoisseurs) to construct a lego mug within which to swill eggnog
to philosophize that if you nog eggs then you must lego of them at some point
—and left long enough
to lego another lego can be forever cemented with drying eggnog

why haven’t the conspiracy theorists noticed?
clearly there is a conspiracy afoot
to quash the lego/eggnog conspiracy theory itself
by them

i’ll not let go
exactly
gone is my
gregariousness
i’ll watch you
as
i play with my lego
sip my eggnog
i’ll watch you
too

Twelvetide Silliness coming: run for the hills!

I think I’ve recovered from the April Silly poems ordeal and am planning a December flight of folly when I’m off work and more inclined to wax poetical. So I thought the Twelve Days of Christmas would be an appropriate venue for some more silly poetry. That would involve a daily dose from December 25th to January 5th. People are often too filled with Christmas turkey, ham and/or sweets to run away effectively so it’s a great time for poetical torture (think Vogon poetry).

If anyone has any suggestions for topics I would be glad to consider those ideas for that dirty dozen and I would certainly give credit where it is due although you might not wish to provide your actual name for fear of armed mobs and other, possibly more subtle, retaliation for encouraging me.

01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12

L

It is in the laughing
that families find their soul
surely
the tears bind
the emergencies group
the trauma unites
but
the gut shaking guffaws
endless tearful giggles welling up unwarranted
chuckles more grin than sound
snorts, not so dry,
join us more.

And like other life matters
you learn this best
by absence.

As laughter drains away from the home
the light dims
proximity lessens
anger leaps up.
Disaster all around.

So always err on the side
of laughter
and continue
reading Silly Poems with Terry