767 Humor poems

There was an old man on the Border, Who lived in the utmost disorder; He danced with the cat, and made tea in his hat, Which vexed all the folks on the Border.

There was an Old Man with a beard, Who said, "It is just as I feared!— Two Owls and a Hen, four Larks and a Wren, Have all built their nests in my beard.

There was an old person of Nice, Whose associates were usually Geese. They walked out together, in all sorts of weather. That affable person of Nice!

You are as even tempered as a frying pan In a sudden downpour A campsite in disarray A long time coming Laughter from two yards over The neighborhood a claim on space Involving multiple parties It must be Father’s Day Judging by the heightened attentions of daughters and sons Thus a man enjoys solitude, stillness, pink petals of the carrier rose And in a certain light The sonic continuum of tires against the road The sensation of being carried along toward the end of a sentence After the disappearance of the period Air to breathe, water to drink The suggestion box is empty Obsolete equipment piles up in nooks and crannies This is all wrong, that’s messed up We go on in and make ourselves comfortable The movie has just begun It’s Nick and Nora Charles and their little dog Asta They’re visiting Nick’s parents in the suburbs He’s on the wagon and trying to keep a low profile But of course she brags about him to the local paper And soon he’s embroiled in detective work despite himself There is crime everywhere, even here in the suburbs It must be human nature Desperate characters on the loose “Yoke yourself to your strongest conviction” Was a piece of advice derived from the Y in JOY But Pam doesn’t buy that And I say it sounds too slavish Remember the Groucho line “These are my principles If you don’t like them I have others” When the pen runs out of ink You simply replace the cartridge And continue writing To the sound of jet planes overhead It’s time to revive the typewriter For the benefit of kids Now entering the ranks of the scribe force Sliding the paper under the roller Striking the surface with heavy metal blows History curls right into the future A Möbius strip That brings bygone media around and back With all the drama, character, sound, light and destiny Alive in an imagination of living

“The English Garden.” — Mason The cold transparent ham is on my fork— It hardly rains—and hark the bell!—ding-dingle— Away! Three thousand feet at gravel work, Mocking a Vauxhall shower!—Married and Single Crush—rush;—Soak’d Silks with wet white Satin mingle. Hengler! Madame! round whom all bright sparks lurk Calls audibly on Mr. and Mrs. Pringle To study the Sublime, &c.—(vide Burke) All Noses are upturn’d!—Whish-ish!—On high The rocket rushes—trails—just steals in sight— Then droops and melts in bubbles of blue light— And Darkness reigns—Then balls flare up and die— Wheels whiz—smack crackers—serpents twist—and then Back to the cold transparent ham again!

The telephone company calls and asks what the fuss is. Betty from the telephone company, who’s not concerned with the particulars of my life. For instance if I believe in the transubstantiation of Christ or am gladdened at 7:02 in the morning to repeat an eighth time why a man wearing a hula skirt of tools slung low on his hips must a fifth time track mud across my white kitchen tile to look down at a phone jack. Up to a work order. Down at a phone jack. Up to a work order. Over at me. Down at a phone jack. Up to a work order before announcing the problem I have is not the problem I have because the problem I have cannot occur in this universe though possibly in an alternate universe which is not the responsibility or in any way the product, child, or subsidiary of AT&T. With practice I’ve come to respect this moment. One man in jeans, t-shirt and socks looking across space at a man with probes and pliers of various inclinations, nothing being said for five or ten seconds, perhaps I’m still in pajamas and he has a cleft pallet or is so tall that gigantism comes to mind but I can’t remember what causes flesh to pile that high, five or ten seconds of taking in and being taken in by eyes and a brain, during which I don’t build a shot gun from what’s at hand, oatmeal and National Geographics, or a taser from hair caught in the drain and the million volts of frustration popping through my body. Even though. Even though his face is an abstract painting called Void. Even though I’m wondering if my pajama flap is open, placing me at a postural disadvantage.Breathe I say inside my head, which is where I store thoughts for the winter.All is an illusion

It’s a little-known fact that God’s headgear — A magician’s collapsible silk top hat, When viewed from Earth, from the bottom up — Is,sub specie aeternitatis, A pluperfect halo, both circle and square, And a premonition of this truth Spurred on an ancient philosopher, Anaxagoras, to make numerous vain Attempts to approximate the circle Of his concerns with the square of the cell He was jailed in for impiety. Doomed calculations which God acknowledged By doffing then pancaking his topper. He was still bareheaded millennia later, When he learned of von Lindemann’s proof that pi Is not the root of a polynomial With rational coefficients, hence Squaring the circle’s impossible. God un-collapsed, re-donned his hat! But — it was 1882, Progress was a juggernaut And the public had no patience for “proof.” From below, God’s gesture looked like a signal For all hat- and cap-wearing men, Proper in their headgear, for nations, Well-stocked with helmets for delicate brainwork, To take up “the compass and straightedge” And prepare for a singular all-out attack On this seductive conundrum, so men Enlisted en masse in Geometry’s army, Tossing up and away all hats Of cloth, opaque haloes, hurray!

St. Patrick’s Day! St. Patrick’s Day! Oh! thou tormenting Irish lay— I’ve got thee buzzing in my brain, And cannot turn thee out again. Oh, mercy! music may be bliss But not in such a shape as this, When all I do, and all I say, Begins and ends in Patricks’s Day. Had it but been in opera shape, Italian squall, or German scrape, Fresh from the bow of Paganini, Or caught from Weber of Rossini, One would not care so much—but, oh! The sad plebeian shame to know An old blind fiddler bore away My senses with St. Patrick’s Day. I take up Burke in hopes to chase The plaguing phantom from its place; But all in vain—attention wavers From classic lore to triplet quavers; An “Essay” on the great “Sublime” Sounds strangely set in six-eight time. Down goes the book, read how I may, The words will flow to Patrick’s Day.

Look deep into the blueberry eyes of  breakfast.

Somebody been giving you Stink Eye? Let me tell you about Stink Eye. Stink Eye no mean nothing when you owe somebody money. Pay up, girl. No be in debt. But Stink Eye means something when you owe somebody nothing. Remember when Connie Mamazuka, the girl with the mustache, grabbed your lipstick in the PE locker room and smeared it all over her big fat lips? Wasn’t ’cause she like your lipstick. Was ’cause you was one cute skinny chick. She was giving you Stink Eye all along and you never even know it. Now you know it and now you watch for it. You was always catching Stink Eye, always crying to your mother about somebody icing you out. When Stink Eye is cold, it is fucking freezing, it can make you shiver and cry, “But Mommy, Mommy, what did I do?” Took you long time to know you never do nothing but you was good at something, something Stink Eye like try steal not ’cause Stink Eye going use it. Stink Eye just no like you use it ’cause if you use it only going make Stink Eye feel more ugly, feel more stupid. Easy for spot Stink Eye coming from one mousy thing. More tricky for spot Stink Eye coming from some of the friendliest faces. And you the dumb one, left dazed and hurt. “But she seemed so sympathetic.” Yeah, right. Stink Eye sideswipes into you out of nowhere where somebody been thinking evil thoughts about you, wishing bad luck to blow bad breath upon you, knock you down, forget your words, drop your tools, make you sputter and drool. Under the bed, in Stink Eye’s room, get one picture of you stabbed like one pin cushion with so many needles, stabbed like one cactus, stabbed like one porcupine. Stink Eye even dreams about you. Careful of that coat you wear, the one you blossom in, feel loved in, the one that keeps you warm. Stink Eye like snatch it right off you ’cause Stink Eye just no can stand to see you look so cool. Stink Eye wants a piece of you. So choose to be naive, girl, or wake up ’cause Stink Eye been waiting to sit on your chest, pounce on your flesh, squeeze the living air right out of you, watch you flatten like one used-up tube of toothpaste. Suck up your goodies, Glutton-of-Stink-Eye, ready to gorge on your talents, feast on your fears. So girl, run fast, spell good, write well, add up, think quick, talk sharp, walk pretty, jump high, throw hard, sing sweet, leap far. Now you know it and now you watch for it ’cause Stink Eye gets bigger and meaner and stronger as you get better and smarter and stronger. Scary thing about Stink Eye, Stink Eye always looking for more— as much as you willing to give.