Such beauty there is in silence,
And in the sounds of Earth.
The songs of birds and crickets
Are of inestimable worth.
Yet beauty can be terrible,
And becomes so without warning
Like when you’re late night homework
And the birds sing that it’s morning.
Filed under Poems
There’s a little voice inside
That will tell you to run and hide,
Endeavor to crush you
With the weight of all your dreams.
But you have an even smaller voice
That offers you a better choice:
To accept that crushing weight
Is lighter than it seems.
And a little deeper still
Is the diminutive voice of will
That cheers you on
To the land of milk and honey
And one final voice so small
You can’t hear it at all,
But it whispers
“Fart jokes are still funny.”
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“I want meat! I need to eat!”
Said T-Rex to his mother.
His mother roared a weary sigh,
As if to say “Oh brother.”
“What are the magic words?” She asked
As she cooked up a meaty stew.
“Plesiosaurus,” T-Rex replied,
“And also, mama, thank you.”
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You’re a bad human being,
Not because of what you do,
But because you have fingers.
I’ll prove it to you.
But first a few facts
From an uncited source:
Sixty percent of ticklish marriages
End in divorce.
If that’s not enough,
Let the record show
Ninety-nine percent of victims
Are tickled by someone they know.
Just because you don’t tickle
Doesn’t wash you of guilt.
Look around? Don’t you see
The tickle culture you’ve built.
But after writing this
Everything stays the same.
All I’m seeking to do
Is impose fear and shame.
If I succeeded,
I am one happy elf.
If I didn’t, you’re evil.
Go tickle yourself.
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I broke my all time record
In the 100 meter dash.
I was a wild jungle cat,
And faster than the flash,
And yet I came in second place
‘Cause I misunderstood the rules.
That’s why I ran a 5K
In a minute thirty-two.
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Her pulse quickened,
Her face blushed,
As the huskies ran
And the drivers mushed.
And as they raced
Under skies of blue
She envied them so
And her heart raced too.
Alas, she was employed
In a sled pulling occupation,
At the head of Santa’s flying pack
Giving gifts across the nation.
And so when Rudolph came along
And usurped her lofty place,
No one could explain her smile
Until she left to join the race.
Filed under Poems
We make jokes about things
That make us uncomfortable
Like excrement, sex, farts, and lawyers.
I’m inclined to question
Why there aren’t more jokes
About child birth, plastic chairs, and employers.
Perhaps it’s because
We can’t get the jokes out,
Or they’re just a pain in the ass
Or maybe it’s that,
Though your skills are impressive,
This time they’re going to pass.
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I can think of many reasons
That Friday is the king of days.
It comes before the weekend,
Which are the only better days.
But if every day were Friday,
Then weekends would never come,
And if every day were Saturday
We’d only work weekends, which is dumb.
If every day were Friday
We’d just have to call it “day.”
Perhaps the week is fine
In its own obnoxious way.
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Ycjfrdnkigfgj
Means nothing to you
But it means a lot to me.
It means that my mind
Was so full of ycjfrdnkigfgi
That I found it hard to write poetry.
So if your not inspired
Take my example
And turn “nothing” into anything at all.
You choose the meaning
Of the nonsense you see,
Which I think is pretty darn tlpwgueall.
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Udders and spots and bells and poo:
These are the things that remind me of you.
And whenever I miss your voice or your smile
I drink some milk and remember a while.
Filed under Poems
