767 Humor poems

I've got a rocket In my pocket; I cannot stop to play. Away it goes! I've burned my toes. It's Independence Day.

Small and panting mass Of moonlight and dampness on a log This glistening tumor, terrible frog Of moonlight and dampness on a log My small and panting mass

The same to me are sombre days and gay. Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright, Because my dearest love is gone away Within my heart is melancholy night. My heart beats low in loneliness, despite That riotous Summer holds the earth in sway. In cerements my spirit is bedight; The same to me are sombre days and gay. Though breezes in the rippling grasses play, And waves dash high and far in glorious might, I thrill no longer to the sparkling day, Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright. Ungraceful seems to me the swallow's flight; As well might Heaven's blue be sullen gray; My soul discerns no beauty in their sight Because my dearest love is gone away. Let roses fling afar their crimson spray, And virgin daisies splash the fields with white, Let bloom the poppy hotly as it may, Within my heart is melancholy night. And this, oh love, my pitiable plight Whenever from my circling arms you stray; This little world of mine has lost its light ... I hope to God, my dear, that you can say The same to me.

Crows and struts. He’s got feathers! He’s got guts! Oh, the rooster struts and crows. What’s he thinking? No one knows.

The exhausted dream I live in is scattered with teeth, the little tombstones of Freud that, plowed under, grow up warriors. My son buries his between pillow and case so no one can exchange them for foundling dollars— he wants to string them together, the miser. The rule is you lose a tooth for every child. The new baby grinds, gnashes, butts at the inexplicable ache inside— the dog that won’t shake off. Yet he gums prettily between howls. So smile! repeats his jack o'lanterned brother, as I do, falsely, as Death does.

"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown! Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town? And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?" — "O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she. — "You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks, Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks; And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!" — "Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she. — "At home in the barton you said thee' and thou,' And thik oon,' and theäs oon,' and t'other'; but now Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!" — "Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she. — "Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek, And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!" — "We never do work when we're ruined," said she. — "You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream, And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!" — "True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she. — "I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown, And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!" — "My dear — a raw country girl, such as you be, Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she.

1.   Ye shall be free to write a poem on any subject, as long as it’s the White Whale. 2.   A gold doubloon shall be granted to the first among ye who in a poem sights the White Whale. 3.   The Call Me Ishmael Award shall be given to the best poem about the White Whale, with publication in The White Whale Review. 4.   The Herman Melville Memorial Picnic and Softball Game shall be open to whosoever of ye writes a poem about following thy Captain into the maw of hell to kill the White Whale. 5.   There shall be a free floating coffin for any workshop participant who falls overboard whilst writing a poem about the White Whale. 6.   There shall be a free leg, carved from the jawbone of a whale, for any workshop participant who is dismasted whilst writing a poem about the White Whale. 7.   There shall be a free funeral at sea, complete with a chorus of stout hearties singing sea chanteys about the White Whale, for any workshop participant who is decapitated whilst writing a poem about the White Whale. 8.   Ye who seek not the White Whale in thy poems shall be harpooned.

An asparagus eating contest— I thought I’d misheard. Downstairs the rude old man lays tile, makes demasiado noise. I fell asleep at last around 5:30 am and he woke me an hour later or so: it is better I don’t look at the clock. By this means I clock my progress: I know now it is sometimes better not to know. I have midnight equilibrium but it is gone by 3 am. Thank you for Cloud of Sparrows, man who wrote it. I read all night. Thank you for the pen from Iran, Kamyar. Its myriad stars have just run out of ink eleven years on. Thank you, sun, for leaf shadows on horrible carpet in horrible box I live in and for tree by which I mean what’s living. I think of the gardens I planted and left. I think of beets, of beans and asparagus. Then on the radio, hear the contest. The noise of ten lanes of traffic does not cancel the consolation of seeing the wind in the sweetgum leaves. The experience of this is my food and my sleep. As at some strange customs, I declare.

I ruin my hats and all the mat slides glad I hop my girls and all is skip again I jump I run you up inside my truck The car goes looping out in dark and light And yellow hat slides in I run my mats and all the girl slides glad I hoped you skipped me into luck And jump me black, ruin me glad I jump I run you up inside my truck I jump my slopes and all the dopes slide glad I glide my luck and all is slip again I jump my hopes and all the rope glides sad I skip you jump the way you said But I run old and sigh your name I ruin my mats and all the girl slides glad At least when luck hops it skips back again A rune my mats and all the girls slide glad I jump I run you up inside my truck After "Mad Girl's Love Song" by Sylvia Plath

What is a brand? The hopeful tag on the tan underpants that reads “Metaphor” leaves everything to the imagination which by now is plainly exhausted. I could describe these tags as so many flapping tongues, dropping hints about a foreign designer, himself largely a cover story. Someone somewhere must sew a shirt made entirely of red flags. Untiring, music rises then falls through its imagined past.