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!
is close to
and merged together is
but if you ask me
about where this is going
I’ll deny it or break down in
A disguise, really, until much, much
when I may fall asleep
some wine and have dreams of
But can that mean
that I haven’t come
enough evidence of
Could be but, as we all know,
when I’ve calmed down
the cocktail hour I will descend, anyway, into
Yeti the lemming
searched the buds bursting
for her prefferred colour of spring
and sat, chin high,
upon a proffered rock to do so.
Much happens in an arctic minute
if she had a seasonal friend, fowl and
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
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
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
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
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,
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!
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,
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,
and obfuscatory charlatanry
must, must, MUST have some root explanatory.
Can you answer my weary query?
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.
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
i think not
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
i’ll not let go
gone is my
i’ll watch you
i play with my lego
sip my eggnog
i’ll watch you
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
It is in the laughing
that families find their soul
the tears bind
the emergencies group
the trauma unites
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
As laughter drains away from the home
the light dims
anger leaps up.
Disaster all around.
So always err on the side
reading Silly Poems with Terry