767 Humor poems

Bring the oncoming train into focus. Tell me your theory of the market. Pupils dilate, trees fall, I practice transference in my downtime. Think of my mother watering plants. Is everybody really watching? Blog me. Add to my Wiki entry. Date me. Reply to my electronic flirt. My mother told me she’d nominate me for that award, if she could bear the proxy. Show me your tits. I shaved my balls. I took out a second mortgage. Motherhood frightens the elms, carves its sorry initials into the sky’s prolapsed anus. Each sadness passes through me like a gallstone. My valve leaks an amniotic canopy over the bar I’m fragging. I’m a fragment, a tender button. I saw my first beetle in the periphery. Lake Shore Drive against the ruins, the stain of lake-effect snow a special effect, the only weather exhibiting any real affect.

Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes: By the old hedge-side we'll halt a stage. It's nigh my last above the daisies: My next leaf'll be man's blank page. Yes, my old girl! and it's no use crying: Juggler, constable, king, must bow. One that outjuggles all's been spying Long to have me, and he has me now. We've travelled times to this old common: Often we've hung our pots in the gorse. We've had a stirring life, old woman! You, and I, and the old grey horse. Races, and fairs, and royal occasions, Found us coming to their call: Now they'll miss us at our stations: There's a Juggler outjuggles all! Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly! Over the duck-pond the willow shakes. Easy to think that grieving's folly, When the hand's firm as driven stakes! Ay, when we're strong, and braced, and manful, Life's a sweet fiddle: but we're a batch Born to become the Great Juggler's han'ful: Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch. Here's where the lads of the village cricket: I was a lad not wide from here: Couldn't I whip off the bale from the wicket? Like an old world those days appear! Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatch'd ale-house—I know them! They are old friends of my halts, and seem, Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them: Juggling don't hinder the heart's esteem. Juggling's no sin, for we must have victual: Nature allows us to bait for the fool. Holding one's own makes us juggle no little; But, to increase it, hard juggling's the rule. You that are sneering at my profession, Haven't you juggled a vast amount? There's the Prime Minister, in one Session, Juggles more games than my sins'll count. I've murdered insects with mock thunder: Conscience, for that, in men don't quail. I've made bread from the bump of wonder: That's my business, and there's my tale. Fashion and rank all praised the professor: Ay! and I've had my smile from the Queen: Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her! Ain't this a sermon on that scene? I've studied men from my topsy-turvy Close, and, I reckon, rather true. Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy: Most, a dash between the two. But it's a woman, old girl, that makes me Think more kindly of the race: And it's a woman, old girl, that shakes me When the Great Juggler I must face. We two were married, due and legal: Honest we've lived since we've been one. Lord! I could then jump like an eagle: You danced bright as a bit o' the sun. Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry! All night we kiss'd, we juggled all day. Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry! Now from his old girl he's juggled away. It's past parsons to console us: No, nor no doctor fetch for me: I can die without my bolus; Two of a trade, lass, never agree! Parson and Doctor!—don't they love rarely Fighting the devil in other men's fields! Stand up yourself and match him fairly: Then see how the rascal yields! I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting Finery while his poor helpmate grubs: Coin I've stored, and you won't be wanting: You shan't beg from the troughs and tubs. Nobly you've stuck to me, though in his kitchen Many a Marquis would hail you Cook! Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in, But your old Jerry you never forsook. Hand up the chirper! ripe ale winks in it; Let's have comfort and be at peace. Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet. Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease. May be—for none see in that black hollow— It's just a place where we're held in pawn, And, when the Great Juggler makes as to swallow, It's just the sword-trick—I ain't quite gone! Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty, Gold-like and warm: it's the prime of May. Better than mortar, brick and putty Is God's house on a blowing day. Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it: All the old heath-smells! Ain't it strange? There's the world laughing, as if to conceal it, But He's by us, juggling the change. I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying, Once—it's long gone—when two gulls we beheld, Which, as the moon got up, were flying Down a big wave that sparked and swell'd. Crack, went a gun: one fell: the second Wheeled round him twice, and was off for new luck: There in the dark her white wing beckon'd:— Drop me a kiss—I'm the bird dead-struck!

I They went to sea in a Sieve, they did, In a Sieve they went to sea: In spite of all their friends could say, On a winter’s morn, on a stormy day, In a Sieve they went to sea! And when the Sieve turned round and round, And every one cried, ‘You’ll all be drowned!’ They called aloud, ‘Our Sieve ain’t big, But we don’t care a button! we don’t care a fig! In a Sieve we’ll go to sea!’ Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve. II They sailed away in a Sieve, they did, In a Sieve they sailed so fast, With only a beautiful pea-green veil Tied with a riband by way of a sail, To a small tobacco-pipe mast; And every one said, who saw them go, ‘O won’t they be soon upset, you know! For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long, And happen what may, it’s extremely wrong In a Sieve to sail so fast!’ Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve. III The water it soon came in, it did, The water it soon came in; So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet In a pinky paper all folded neat, And they fastened it down with a pin. And they passed the night in a crockery-jar, And each of them said, ‘How wise we are! Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long, Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong, While round in our Sieve we spin!’ Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve. IV And all night long they sailed away; And when the sun went down, They whistled and warbled a moony song To the echoing sound of a coppery gong, In the shade of the mountains brown. ‘O Timballo! How happy we are, When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar, And all night long in the moonlight pale, We sail away with a pea-green sail, In the shade of the mountains brown!’ Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve. V They sailed to the Western Sea, they did, To a land all covered with trees, And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart, And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart, And a hive of silvery Bees. And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws, And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws, And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree, And no end of Stilton Cheese. Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve. VI And in twenty years they all came back, In twenty years or more, And every one said, ‘How tall they’ve grown!’ For they’ve been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone, And the hills of the Chankly Bore; And they drank their health, and gave them a feast Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast; And everyone said, ‘If we only live, We too will go to sea in a Sieve,— To the hills of the Chankly Bore!’ Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.

Just a shadow. Hardly that. But audible. Coming out of the woods, whispering Happily Ever After. Even in that light— stars with the skeletons of animals and old friends— visible to the eye behind the one always left open on the east side of the house, downhill. Where the coffee trees and hemp and the graves of old dogs lie, buried themselves in leaves and left to the sputtering wind of memory. & if that's not enough (he says to himself in the voice of a black-and-white actor whose name is a moth that keeps avoiding the tip of his flaming tongue) to bring you home, well, there it is again, already exhausted by your efforts to make it comfortable enough to stay. Impatient, already headed back down into the woods, whispering Once Upon A Time . . .

What might be said to disport itself along the cinderblock in leaves. * What I write I write instead of ivy. * Green snouts in evidence or— more to the point— insolent and tense. * What might be said to writhe professionally as the days nod and wink.

Just think! some night the stars will gleam Upon a cold, grey stone, And trace a name with silver beam, And lo! ’twill be your own. That night is speeding on to greet Your epitaphic rhyme. Your life is but a little beat Within the heart of Time. A little gain, a little pain, A laugh, lest you may moan; A little blame, a little fame, A star-gleam on a stone.

I sometimes find him in the attic, lying on his side, contemplating the insulation. Or just staring at the beams, trying to get the measure of force and distribution. He turns up a lot in the garage. I know he loves me. But if I look away for an instant, he's off, and I worry that he won't come back (or when he does he'll have no taste, gone in for some fad I'll have to bear, and every move he makes a test). But usually he's charming, following me to the cafe and lying on the awning so carefully as not to make it sag, only casting a slight shadow on my table. Of course I act as though I haven't seen a thing. He only wants, I think, to do what can't be done. Why just yesterday, for instance, I found him going through the public trash, figuring how to fill a bottle some angry drunk had smashed.

from our deep cool verandah we spy on the world passing by. we both wear glasses in order to pick out the details. even as children we noticed all. people would say dont like those twins they look at you funny. we were reassured. our powers had been confirmed. but that was a long while ago. now we are 60. we have lived in this ground floor flat on the main road for 20 years. it is a very suitable dwelling, and we have a satisfactory relationship with the landlord. we think he is pleased we notice his transparency. we have been here since we left our husbands who got in the way of our observations. after our evening meal we talk quietly of what we have seen. we believe in sharing our observations in case one of us has missed something. for our eyesight isnt as sharp as it was ten years ago. though we do clean our glasses each hour and keep our hair tied firmly back in small grey buns so nothing can distract our focus. we are small women. many people do not notice us, while we are noticing them. we keep to ourselves. mother used to say to us never get too friendly with strangers they can harm you. even if they smile and offer you an hour of their lives dont tell them nothing. mother knew a lot. she always kept the bible and a cloth to clean her hands on the kitchen table within reach. at night we take turns to sit at the window and watch. we set the alarm at 2 and 6. this way we both get some sleep. theres always something to see along this road. even at 3 in the morning. last night we saw a woman in a torn fur coat, gum boots and a beanie blow up balloons, tie them on her arms as if they were wings. she climbed up a tree, spread her arms and jumped. we think she might have injured herself. she screamed for quite a while until one of the passing motorists stopped and rang for an ambulance. we didnt want to get involved. our slippers might have gotten wet. it had been raining quite heavily. another night one of the local drunks fell asleep on our verandah. he smelt wretched but we were pleased to be able to get a closer look at him. for several weeks we had been trying to work out a few things about him. at least we were able to see how thick and long the scar on his bald head was. we were able to read the words on his tattoos, ‘dearest jean’ and ‘sailor boy’. we also saw a thin line thru the word ‘jean’ as if he had tried to cut the word out. very interesting. we scrubbed the verandah with disinfectant the next morning. it didnt take long. we keep records of our observations in a private code in large journals. we are saving them up for the day when our memories fail us. then we can read them thru to recall the details. they are an assurance that our days have been full and busy. we put black velvet covers on these books. they are so soft to stroke. just like the backs of our 8 black cats who often sleep like guardians in front of the cupboard as if they recognised the importance of its contents. there are many folks with bad legs along this road. they hobble ever so slowly up and down all day as if they had all the time in the world. they bandage their legs in different ways. some of the bandages are rather grubby. you’d think theyd wash them. there are plenty of laundromats around here. every pension day they could wash them. they could share a machine. you can fit a good deal in one of these contraptions – at least ten bandages. dear me. if theyd looked where they were going instead of expecting life to do everything for them, they wouldnt be in this predicament. we’re so pleased we’re not handicapped. we have only ourselves to thank. and of course mother. pension morning is always busy. we always make sure the teapot is full by 9.30. the crowd gathers outside the bank. for at least  half an hour. theres no time to get up and put the jug on for some time. they clutter the footpath. so many of them. it takes a while for us to sort out who’s there. we sometimes use the journal if we cant quite locate every face. often its the only way to really know who died before the postman called. on our deep cool verandah we sit. the twins. there are no mirrors in our hallway.

Unable to pour boiling water over an edge from kettle to pot water boils from kettle to neti pot still boils from kettle to cup running over boil pool steam pool leak pool little cooling pot over the boiled edge of boil pooled salt vapors sulfurous stank boil heal dangled over the boiled edge of burnt earth cooling salt pool nettle stung black clotted blood at the bottom of the sink

Game of Thrones In this story, she is fire-born: knee-deep in the shuddering world. In this story, she knows no fear, for what is fractured is a near-bitten star, a false-bearing tree, or a dishonest wind. In this story, fear is a house gone dry. Fear is not being a woman. I’m no ordinary woman, she says. My dreams come true. And she says and she is and I say,yes, give me that.