Last updated: January 7, 2006

Light Verse Poems that are Just Plain Silly:

This section contains light verse poems too silly to qualify for any category other than SILLY:

On Going To Meet One's Mecca

It's not wise to salaam
While skiing the slalom:
The fall will appall 'em.
The rites will be solemn.

Attila To A Clumsy Horseman:

Henceforth with infantry you'll stride,
For you can Hun, but you can't ride.

The First Thinker To Strike Head With Palm

Back when levity was all the rage,
A serious Polynesian sage -
In fact, a very heavy dude -
Grew envious of levitude.
Disgusted with flighty folk tripping the light fantastic and
other frivolous depravity,
He determined to discover gravity;
Therefore, he seated himself beneath a coconut palm
Day and night. Many asked, "Is this guy loco?" - but, POM! -
Gravity proved itself on his head,
Unfortunately leaving him dead
Before he could communicate his discovery,
So the folk remained flightsome, flippant and hovery,
Which shows that, as with cake, one can't both eat it and have
it, he
Couldn't both eat his coconut and sustain its gravity.
Though if, before discovering gravity, he had first discovered
the apple,
Famous, and only slightly dented, he might have lived on, ever-
afterly happle.

The Lowellist Form of Humor

From mounded sand - two tiny feet!
We gently scooped away, and soon
Touched torn blue feathers - no heart beat...
O what is so rare as a jay in dune!

The Lowellist Form of Humor - 2

The Mama tern sits on her eggs.
They hatch: Each nestling begs and begs.
She dives and gluts, regurgitates
Into their greedy maws. She waits
On them all hours. Still they cry "MORE!"
And where's their Pa? Christ! What are Pa terns for?

The Quick and the Deadless

Icarus quicker was
(and much sicker was),
But Daedalus bled less
(and so was dead less).

Fold on Dotted Lines

A chair is a bed
For my rump-to-knee basis,
While the rest of me stands
In two different places.

Why God Gets All The Good Lines

God speaks from mist, to Moses' great amaze;
How like Roy Roger's sidekick - gabby haze!

Tantric Yoga?

His mentor assigned him a mantra
So mentally taxing, he can't rem-
ember it, so throws a tantrum -
In fact, he throws myriad tantra.

Nashism Is Fascism...NOT, See?

Nietsche was pietsche,
But Hitler was beer-and-skittler.

Goebels had foebels,
But Hess was a mess.

Goering was boering,
And Himmler was simmler.

[Note: The title, besides the pun on Nazi (Not, see?), makes more sense than you might think: For decades in the late 2oth Century, free verse was so highly favored by academia, that critics labeled formal poetry unamerican (Old Worldish and inappropriate for American poets) and even called rhyme and meter "fascist." Ogden Nash certainly used rhyme and meter, though perhaps he tormented both enough to please some of the academics.]

Paradise Lushed

Poor sot tipples, uncowed,
Though he's scorned and pastiched.
He is whipped, but unbowed,
That is, lashed, but not leashed.

Forget and Forgive

Thou hast seen the true me -
How gloomy!
What shall I bequeath thee?
Lethe.

The Watch On Rhyme

The sun, boiling up each morning right on time
like a Harlequin-Romance climax
Sure beats Timax.
The crickets' shrill chirp, chopping off the
seconds sharp as a pole-axe
Is finer than Role-axe.
The night sky, with its trillion-jewelled
precision movement, has it allova
Bulova.
Your pulse pushes softly against my hand. Who,
with a clock so classy - Oh
Who would settle for Casio?

Digitals for Genitals

After many months of receiving dozens of messages daily
promising to add inches of length and circumference
to my penis, I now receive dozens of messages daily
promising me good deals on big-name wrist watches.

I wonder if all the people who have acquired
long, wrist-thick penises are now looking for
elegant watches to wear on them – perhaps
to time the Timex Climaxes of their Rolexes
in the hay?

A Passion, Not a Piece

Over the keys my fingers rove in
Intertwinings Casanovan.
O what a tangled web is woven
As I practice my Beethoven.

Liver and Lights

My love, no need deliver me;
delight me every day.
I'll keep my liver, but feel free
to take my breath away.

TEERS, Dumb Ass!

Guns have no cares, compunctions, fears.
They kill without remorse,
Though long ago, of course,
Three muskets shed three musket tears.

Words to Live By

Stand in the sun, a hairy wart,
Picking your nose and scratching your bum
Until a giant foot with a "Farrrt!"
Squishes you like used bubble gum.
Scrape yourself off that heavy sole;
Resolve: This shall not be again.
Then curl up safely in a hole...
Until it starts to fill with rain.
You're safe if you just drink it fast!
Be frog-tongued: Catch each drop. Don't miss!
You're dry, but how long can this last?
Until the hole fills up with piss.
Crawl out -- but watch for giant feet,
And watch your step and watch your back.
If hungry -- why, you're MADE of meat!
Two arms, two drumsticks -- you'll not lack.
But don't stand still. Dart like a gnat,
And, clever gnat, stay out of eyes!
And watch for giant hands...Oops! SPLAT!
Another day, another demise.
Don't get too thin. Don't get too fat.
Don't be too dumb or, worse, too wise.
Don't be the face that on is sat
Or -- SPLAT! -- is splooshed by flung cream pies.
Be vigilant, a startled cat.
Think for yourself -- so I advise.
Or just start out already flat.
Or die. You'll be reborn -- the prize
For being a cartoon: You're never
Killed, and when you're crushed, you make
A funny noise. Live, then, forever...
And NEVER wooden nickels take.

The Snob in Flood Time

Above the surface lifts one small pink morsel --
There it goes!
Perhaps a small pink shark, and this its dorsal?
No, just a nose.

Run, Darwin, Run!

Is there a missing link --
Or did that gorilla wink?...

Do Not Goose Gently Into Those Good Knights

Always the bastard's brother wins the crown.
What's left for bastards but to drink and weep,
At last on pillow's silken softness, sleep...
O birds! Don't let the bastards get your down!

Making it Lego

To the altar we go,
Amiga, amigo
(Whither he go, she go),
My ego, your ego --
Now one altar ego.

Damned Kinder!

Our hearts, grown so brittle
And dry, make good tinder
To warm us a little
As sun turns to cinder.
When hearts are but ashes,
Then nothing will hinder
The cold's bitter lashes...
So PLEASE close the winder!

Where Have the 24 Beatniks Gone?

A dozen dozin',
A dozen do Zen,
But here's the hitch:
Which are which?

Going Ungently

I'm going to leave in a huff,
For you're terribly terribly wrong;
And if there's a huff large enough,
I'll take all of my umbrage along.

A Bad Turn

God, in righteous hurry,
On Sodom sat as jury,
Then with Lot's wife, his fury
Added salt to Jewry.

It's a Mythtery

The pirate's legs had oaken peg ends
From which, they say, buds grew
And leaves and acorns too.
Thus legend gives him living leg ends.

Don't Let Your Dwayne Get Hogged By Claire

Those sexually alert Spaniards, without fail,
End a female noun with "A", while in "O" ends a male.
Thus, to chaparone Deloreses or Dianas or Danas,
You'd use, of course, duennas,
While for Johns and Seans and Shanes,
For Delberts, Dons and Dwaynes,
As sure as there's cheese in chile rellenos,
You'd use duennos,
Though some may say, "No!
Use only duennas!"--
What do they know?
Their ignorance is heinous!
You surely will want to afford Don or Dwayne
A masculine role model like John Wayne,
Who, when the bad guys badgered and bugged him,
Always plugged the bad guys, but none of them ever plugged him,
And when a hot-tempered red-haired woman offered him her luff, he
Never, unlike an unduenno'd Dwayne, got stuffy,
So for your stuffy Dwayne it's Duenno.
Comprende? Bueno!

Happiness Or Bust!

That lone long hair on your soft breast
Stirs me to cow-eyed sappiness!
As Jefferson so well expressed,
Hooray for the hirsute of pappiness!

Unique Corn

What do you get when you mate
A unicorn with a stocky horse?
When horny meets husky, they create
Unicorn on the cob, of course!

Of Snails And Shaggy Puppydogs's Tales

Though little girls are made of sugar and spice
And everything nice,
Some say that women are made of fire,
Some say of ice.
From what I've tasted of desire,
I think they're nice,
Though some go haywire
Around mice;
And although men who stir their ire
Pay a dire price,
When, for months one has had no one but oneself in the mirror to
admire,
No other to love nor hate,
Not even a luncheon date,
Then even fire and ice would be nice
And would suffice,
For, though being alone isn't (or is it?) the end of the world,
On Saturday night every boy should be girled.
Now some hold,
Speaking of the end of the wold,
That it ends in a bang,
Some say in a whimper.
From what I've seen of the way girls' curls in ringlets hang,
I much prefer a springy bang to tresses limper,
Though when bangs go bad and stand on end, they are horrid
And untowarrid,
Yet when they are good, they are very very good right in the
middle of a torrid forrid,
Where they can't be ignorrid;
But as for women who simper and whimper, I,
Like the U. S. Marines, say "Simper, Fie!"
Though I'd not, let me just amplify,
For a few simpers throw out the whole woman, which would be
grossly to over-simper-fie.
In fact, I would gladly put up with myriad simpers and whimpers
For one glorious smile wreathed in dimpers.
As for the world's ending
The way things are tending,
Though I used to think we would all be replaced by computers,
Yet seeing all these evangelists and presidential aspirants
and perspirants exposed for being prostituters,
I wonder if the world won't end
When some First-But-Not-Necessarily-Last Lady surprises her
President-Erect husband in the oval orifice of his
private secretary cum secretory cum girlfriend
(Which, if it were to happen even as I write, would be absurd,
Since whoever found a Bush in a bird?)--
And in a passion for vengeance clobbers him over the pate with
a bust of Thomas Jefferson, swipes his N.S.A codebook
and somehow gets the right buttons punched to start
an all-out nuclear war and blow us all out to limbo!
This, then, is the way the world would end: Not with a WANG,
but a bimbo!

Hopefully NOT

"Won't you be mine," he asked, hopefully.
"No way, Jose," she scoffed, nopefully.
"But you're my sun!" he cried, tropefully,
"My only one!" he sighed, dopefully;
"Alas, poor me!" he whined, mopefully.
"You SHALL be mine!" he vowed, Popefully,
"Else I shall DIE!" he gasped, soapfully.
"Here, use this noose," she said, ropefully.
"Please, one last kiss!" he begged, gropefully.
"I'll give that a miss," she grinned, SCOPEfully.
"Can't we be friends?" he asked, hopefully.
"Her roommate's nice," he mused, copefully.

A Ruttin' Deal?

Why do male dear risk their lives
Butting antlers for more wives?
It's fatal if their heads get stuck.
What can be won? More bangs for the buck.

Agony to Lose Anna

(To tune of "Oh Susanna")

O we divorced this time last year--
A year of agony,
So I went to Californi-er
My Anna for to see.

The things she threw when she saw me!
Egg white was in my eye!
Such egg-in-eye my ex-to-see--
Eggs-cuse me if I cry!

[Chorus:]
O I'll sue Anna
For what she did to me,
When I went to California
My mean old ex-to-see.

To hell with Anna
And the state of California,
For I'm back in Alabama
With a bandage on my cornea.
[end of chorus]

O the more she egged me off, the more
She egged me on, that bitch!
'Till I was laying on the floor...
Not eggs, just bad English.

O she's glorying in eggshells
Since the day of that harrangue.
How come when SHE'S the lemon,
It's ME covered with meringue?

[chorus]

O no more alimony
Just to fund her egg-toss spree.
She's a Californee phony,
And I know the yolk's on me.

I had a dream the other night,
My withered id broke free,
For I thought I sawed through Anna!
Now she's split: My ex-tush she!

[Chorus]

Character Study

[Warning -- this poem is not quite silly, and not even very funny. In fact, it might be a serious poem...almost.]

A faces us stoutly, legs apart, arms crossed, an arrogant ass. Stick out your tongue and say Ahhhh....

B bumps along, big boobs bouncing, but, bothered, bites bitterly.

C calls out, Caw! Caw!--cutting the silence with cause.

D droops dumbly forward, duh--but, educated, denies and delicately deletes.

E extends excited fingers, eager ears, or electrified eely hair-- EEE!

F is about to fail, fall forward fast flat on his face.

G gapes, gargling and drooling. He'll get it out of his gorge or gulp it in, Ugh!

H is horizon lightly fenced, a head by hair or air bounded by wind high on a hill.

I is ice and idyl, thoroughly present and in an instant an if.

J is hooked at the bottom--jerk it and it jumps free.

K lifts up and strikes down, king and killer, knight and knife.

L slides along on his lubricated lower lip, snail-like.

M is the maintaining of mountains by valleys and valleys by mountains. In the assertion of pursed lips, the murmur of emptiness, matter mapping mind.

N is the near peak next to the newly forming peak (Now, then Not).

O is an open hole (oops!) or a closed whole (O!).

P picks up its pert puss and pushes it forward: Pop!

Q is the squatting of a cat, quiet, quick, quadruple.

R has a forward leg to lead somewhere--to run and return. It ripples and riffles, quietly, P taking a pee.

S snakes upwards and hisses, poised to strike or insinuate.

T, top-heavy towering table, tumbles from the tongue's tip.

U, a valley unsustained by mountains, the presence of an I being understood in the utterance (unspoken) of a you.

V--a pointed valley, vector, virginal vertex levered from tight convergence of lip and tooth, vexed, driven, no place to rest, nowhere to go but up and out, very deriving from verity.

W--a whisper, pricks up from the depths of the valley or vagina-- we wonder, where from? why? who? In a wide place, a whatness wakes and worries, but can't see over the walls of the world.

X is a scissors and snips off the ends of foxes and boxes. Sounds cross each other and survive, but like X-Rays, mark where they have been. It is hard to start anything with an exclusion, but there are exceptions. Extras are trimmed, and those who can't keep ahead of the blades become X.

Y has an I for a trunk, spreading its branches to prolong itself yet awhile, yearning to yield with a yes (forming a crotch); I, reaching to others, is the start of knowing that self is to another a you. The end of my and thy, needing that which is owned, the end of why, reaching yet.

Z starts with a zip, ends with a buzz, like a wasp--the serpent backwards, sting on its tail. It dwells in extremes, zeniths and zeroes. It faces two ways at once, a saw-tooth cutting both ways, this ZZZ that rounds our lives.

Playing For Keeps

Memories are stored in the been bin,
ruins on the wrack rack.
Capabilities are preserved in those can cans.
Keep shocking images in the jar jars.
Messages that won't keep in poems are preserved in
messenger mason jars.
Fresh ideas are packed in the create crates.
Intentions go in the I'll aisle.
Directions are warehoused in the wherehows.
Pack obstacles in the hamper hamper.
Track ancient desires on the list list.
Persistent ones go in the yearn urn.
Recent losses go up on the tear tier.
If they're still hot,
carry them there in the had hod.
Put that quarrel at the end of the row row.
Dissipations will fit in the Bacchus box.
Put contingencies on the shall-if shelf.
Hang the hangups in the closet.
Severe syndromes go in the case cases
except for the basket cases, and of course
dramatizations go in the showcases.
(German cheese goes in the kase case.)
Drag drug addicts into the drug attic
(drug sellers go in the seller cellar),
and put fanatic fans in the fan attic.
Self-abasing singers go in the sol-fa basement.
(Now don't get confused, but underwear briefs go in suit cases,
while lawsuits go in brief cases.)
On-and-off relationships go in the come-part-ment compartment.
Functions belong in the am-for-a amphora.
Put prophesies in the vatic vat.
Pour lots of gratitude into the thank tank.
Identities go in the you-are ewer.
Shovel unrequited love into the sigh-low silo.
When it turns to utter apathy, move it to the gray-nary granary.
Keep feminist aspirations on ice in the frees-her freezer.
Classical nightingales go in the jug jugs.
(No, breasts go in the chest chest,
over there beneath the shoulder holder.)
Loose hair is piled up in the hair shed,
matted hair goes down the thatch hatch,
necks cut while shaving are on the knicked-neck knickknack,
snot goes in those beak beakers--just fill 'em with phlegm,
and excess lip goes in those retorts
(and just note it on that cheeklist).
Flab goes in fat vats, ton tuns and tub tubs--
store them in the lard larder;
and there's the leg keg, the arm farm, the sight site
(where the biggest eyes are in Eddie-Cantor decanters),
the new orifice office (just getting organ-ized),
the rib crib, the haunch hutch, the crotch cratch, trunk trunks,
footlockers, the toehold, the bun bundles, the car-case
and (phew!) the hip heap (hooray!).
Intestines are beginning to overflow the gut hut,
so be sure to pack each innard in hard.
Just shove elbows and knees anywhere in the joint joint.
Be very gentle with genitals: With each container
first put in the padding; then put in the pudenda.
Discard venereal diseases in the private pariah-vat.
Ducts go in that vas vase.
Now don't let those assholes take up too much space:
You can cram passels of assholes into one arsehole parcel.
Whenever you add a hemorrhoid to that pile pile,
Make a note of it in the anal annals.
If you have to spit, aim at the ptui etui.
If you get dry, there's soda in the carbonate cabinet.
Take the plundered dry white wine from the haul hall, pour it
into boodle bottles, put the bottles in those bags and pile
them in the sacked sack sack stack.
(Sweet white wine goes to the canary cannery
next to the rum room.)
Teapots go in the teapot depot.
Get those bouquets out of the bucket! Press them in the bouquets
bookcase.
We list greedy ranchers in the cattle-hog catalog.
Anti-aristocratic ideals are displayed in the counter-count counter.
The gall of adolescents who monopolize the bathroom goes in the
can-teen canteen and if it overflows because some of them
can't even clean up after themselves, the excess goes in
the can't-e'en canteen.
Don't get these confused: Confessions go in the bare-all barrel,
but patience goes in the bear-ill barrel, stoicism in the
bear-all barrel and uncompromised dreams in the bear-hell
barrel.
Outrages go in the vile vials,
disgust in the keck kegs.
Critical tirades are stored in boo-shall bushels--
they can be heated up at any time in pan pans.
Pour real gross actions down the base-sin basins.
(They empty into the fault vaults.)
Soak feelings of being out of step in the synch sink.
Make sure no Germanic logic is seeping from those Darum drums
(I worry most about Daruber rubber seals cracking).
Russian intensity goes rancid if stored with its negativity, so
strain it through that nyet net, and the filtrate will be
preserved in that my-soul-and-I miscellany.
The nyets go in that bahs box over da.
Cautions are stored in the but butts,
extreme cautions in the safe safe,
and envy in the jealous chalice.
The guilt husbands lay on wives when a new baby monopolizes the
wives' attention is tracked in the teary-infant-or-he
inventory.
Sneakiness goes down below in the crept crypt,
resentment in the dudgeon dungeon,
Byronic love in the Don-Juan dungeon,
mysogeny in the out-her-keep outer keep.
Insanities you refer to the depart-mental department.
Chastity is handled by the sex-shun section.
Explanations of the meaning of obscure poems go to the deep-art-
ment department.
Embarrassments go in the tsk-tsk desk
(Victorian embarrassments are in the drawers drawers),
hopes for health in the could-be-whole cubbyhole.
I don't know if you can get any more impatience into that put-
ya-on-hold pigeonhole.
Money from sale of fish goes in the catch cash cache.
Impoverished Black stereotypes go in de po' depot.
You won't see these very often, but if you run into a mens sana in corpore sano, separate them. The mens sana goes in the mens' sauna. If the corpore sano is naked, caparison it. Then, since caparisons are odious, toss it into the odium odeum.
Catch those idiocies before they overflow the stupe stoup!
Certainty of damnation goes in that pit-sure pitcher,
courage against the odds in the buck-it bucket
(careful, mustn't let it go beyond the pail),
straining for ideas for poems in the come!-ode commode;
inanely trying to get everything but the kitchen sink into a
one-gimmick poem goes in the kitch-in-his-ink kitchen sink,
and poets who do it are kept in the pen pen.