Tag Archives: Poetry

The Siren

‘Twas a year before numbers
When I sailed the sea
Where I met my first siren,
And my Demise met me.

I was taking first watch
Near the time of four fourty
When she called out my name.
She called “come to me, Morty.”

Her high, lilting song
With my heartstrings was toying.
She lured me to danger.
(It was very annoying).

But I leaped off the deck
Not thinking too clearly
And I swam towards the voice,
Which was starting to cheer me,

And I reached her lagoon
At four forty five
Shocked, but ecstatic
To still be alive.

And that’s when I saw
The voice’s physical guise.
I asked “What is your name?”
And the voice said, “Demise.”

I’ve been in that cave
Since numbers were made,
And Demise and myself
Both faithful have stayed,

But if you see my ship,
“The Ocean’s Slumbers,”
Please tell the I’m happy,
And teach them about numbers.

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Poetry of the Living Dead

I judged a book by its cover
And was killed the very next day.
Death was fairly uneventful,
But in a painful, death sort of way.

Luckily I am a zombie,
And can keep carrying on with my life.
That means I can keep writing poems,
But my rhyming might get a bit brains.

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An Off-Color Poem

Green escalators don’t exist,
And I think that’s a pity.
Playing cards are red and black,
But wouldn’t blue be pretty?

Sunsets can be orange or pink
But never violet hued,
And I’ve never seen a face so red
As when you saw me nude.

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Mr. Woodchuck Goes Public

I’ve heard you pose the question
More often than you should,
About the amount of wood I would chuck
Were I able to chuck wood.

First, I can chuck wood.
Let’s just put that out there.
But this woodchuck doesn’t chuck much wood,
‘Cause this woodchuck doesn’t care.

After all, you can chuck wood too.
How often do you do that?
It’s a highly overrated job
For which I am too fat.

So here’s your stupid answer
From the mouth of this woodchuck.
I do chuck wood, but not as much as I should,
Cause the woodchuck doesn’t give a
Hey look, an acorn!

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Life’s Not-So-Great Questions

If the sun makes people smile true,
Why does it make the sky so blue?
Why is notebook paper just-so lined?
By whom was that line size defined?

How much does a scale weigh?
What is it the fox does say?
Why start with qwertyuiop?
Why not put abc on top?

These things we will never know.
‘Scuse me, now I’ve got to go.

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On Unity and Stuff

Some see beauty in the city lights,
Some in the rising sun.
I see beauty in burritos.
Am I not the only one?

See, a burrito all begins
With a flat, round wheat tortilla.
It’s a metaphor of the world,
At least I think. Can’t you see-a?

Then you add the rice and beans,
The white, black, and brown blokes.
Then you cover them in cheese,
And voila! That’s all there is folks.

A burrito is a symbol
Of world peace and harmony.
So take a bite of that roll-so-tight.
Mmm. Tastes like unity.

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Poor Misunderstood Little Maw

I looked into the maw,
The symbol of demise.
I gazed into the maw
Though its breathing burned my eyes.

I stared into the maw,
Fearsome, darkened, and devoid.
Then I smiled at the maw
And offered it an altoid.

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My Mind’s Branches

My mind is an elm tree,
Or cedar, or spruce,
But not like the kind
That like to produce.

My mind may or may not
Be like a tree,
But it’s an excuse for a poem.
Did you expect better from me?

(And yes, this is happening
On New Year day three).

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The Nature of Trophies

Once there stood a golden man
Who lived behind the glass.
He held a pose of triumph
Since he caught that touchdown pass.

For the first few years, he was well loved,
And people passing by
Would comment on that fateful game
And murmur, “What a guy.”

But as all things will die away,
So too the glory faded.
The visits and the murmurs stopped,
And the golden man got jaded.

One Winter day when school let out,
The golden man stepped down,
Opened his cage and ran away
Off to another town.

And when the children came again
And saw the case, they wondered
What person had done the act
That tore man and plinth asunder.

That day the base was thrown away
And the gold man was forgotten,
And a few days later no one cared,
And life just kept on trottin’.

And miles away, the golden man
Tossed his football to himself,
Happier having acted than
Forgotten on his shelf.

And thus is fame, gone with the win.
Victory comes when the new games begin.

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What’s In A Name

Reflecting on the year that’s been
365 poems you have not seen,
A fact which seems, at least to me,
To lose the “daily” of the daily travesty.

So in the year to come I do resolve
To genuinely this problem solve.
So look for poems every day!
(If we’re lucky it will last ’til May).

Happy New Year, enjoy the show.
That’s one down, 364 to go…

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