No one’s shouted “Uno”
In what seems like years.
No one’s held my colorful cards
And laughed and spilled their beers.
No one’s read house rules
Or over my manual pored,
And while I am a card game
I’m starting to get bored.
Category Archives: Poems
How Board Games Are Made
Filed under Poems
Stay-at-home Offspring
Don’t think that I’m a layabout,
A lazy waste of space.
Just see me as a checker
Who never leaves his space,
As a successful “Sorry” token
Who finally made it home,
Or a monopoly piece in jail
Because it costs too much to roam.
I that this 38-year-old
Doesn’t want to leave.
I just think I’m most valuable
At home, deterring thieves.
And while I don’t have money
It’s unfair to scoff
‘Cause any day my Etsy store
Is going to take off!
Filed under Poems
are u the 1 4 me?!!!!!!!
I now u. U now me.
The guy hoo txts illiterately.
I liv evryware, C 2 C.
I mite hav a colledge dugree.
U mite think im sociutys dregs
Cuz u found me on that list of craigs,
But u havent had a date since 2003,
So ill get to now u, and u’ll now me.
Filed under Poems
David and Goliath, AKA How “Kid Rock” Lost His Home: The World’s Shortest Epic (TM)
David got a little rock
In his vacuum cleaner
And used it to make his name.
Goliath got a little rock
In his cleaner as well,
And Arkansas was never the same.
Filed under Poems
The Funny Bone (Danger: Puns)
It was the annual pickup game
At the Summer Camp for bones,
And the kids paid rapt attention
To a spine named Mr. Jones.
“I’d like to introduce you,”
They heard Mr. Jones declare,
“To a new bone. His name’s humerus.”
Applause caressed the air.
“So are you funny?” Ulna asked,
Always one for the obvious question.
Humerus told the only joke he knew
About a small intestine.
Radius laughed politely
But the jawbone din’t move,
And the ribs agreed that joking
Did not his personality behoove.
And so the game began,
And balls were thrown and kicked,
And when it came to choosing teams
Humerus was the last bone to be picked.
It turned out that poor Humerus
Came off as much too smarmy,
So he hired some local muscle
And left to join the army.
Filed under Poems
Orange is the Old Black
It’s hard to write a poem
About the color orange
Without the introduction
Of the convenient rhyme of “door hinge.”
But orange is not a color
So much as a happy time
When it shines with gold as a sunset
Over fields of orange and lime.
Orange is every childhood
When you bought the collared shirt
In a pumpkin shade with a purple sweater
As you rolled amidst the dirt.
But as you ran between the Autumn trees
With the citrus sun burning your feet
And your fashion clashing, you realized
Being a kid is pretty neat.
Filed under Poems
Prophecy, Inc.
Sometime after the time of stress
When the world seems like a mess
An average person will appear
To speak of things the world will hear.
He or she will sound to some
Quite well informed; to others, dumb.
Thus are the words of Earth and Sky.
That’ll be $50. Thanks, buh-bye.
When the Music Left the Elevator
The melody took to the sky
Carrying passengers as it soared.
It sang with all its passionate grace,
Yet the busy humans snored.
Later, the song descended.
Its calming chord still blares
Throughout the box for people
Uninclined to take the stairs.
The saxophones and drum set
Make monotony so sweetly
But the elevator’s patrons
Tune out its song completely.
So the melody went sideways
To where the unsmelled flowers go
And lived its quiet style of life
Under the uncounted stars aglow.
And those that rode that metal box
Just heard the elevator’s hissing
And they stared at the lights, unspeaking,
Unaware what they were missing.
Filed under Poems
If you say “I’d save it,” you’re lying.
If I had a million bucks
I might buy a million ducks
Who would have a million ducklings
And I could watch them grow.
If I had a million bucks
I’d load them in a million trucks
And bring them around the country
To find their perfect doe.
If I had a million bucks
I’d wear a pair of diamond chucks
And a platinum pillow
For when I need to snore.
If I had a million bucks
In cash or deer or even ducks
I wouldn’t spend it prudently.
Perhaps that’s why I’m poor.
Filed under Poems
The Fisherman’s Dilemna
They say I’m a workaholic
‘Cause I spend twelve hours a day
Away from Mabbs (my wife) and kids.
It’s the commercial fishing way.
Truth is, work gives me joy
That I just don’t get from Mabbs.
At work I catch the lobsters,
But with her I catch the crabs.
Filed under Poems
The Daily Travesty 