767 Humor poems

Seven o’clock, the time set in his mind Like herbs displayed in aspic, as the chimes Were striking. Then the squeaking of his shoes’ Black leather tread, pacing those measures down The first-floor hall, where sunset’s apricot Was oozing nectar through the open doors. Her voice, conspiratorial and astonished, Called him across the bedroom’s drowning cube Towards the window. How well Miss Waterson Remembers it: “Please come and look at this, Mr Devine;” the clock on the mantelpiece Rehearsing for the hour of seven. She pointed Down. There, a moving picture on the lawn, His father, like a patient whose long months Of immobility meant learning afresh The art of walking, climbing the light’s green slope Towards the summer house, looking intently As though for a cuff link or a signature. That evening he still thinks of, lying now, No longer needing lessons for his legs, How he cast back his glance and saw the windows Blazing like cats’ eyes on his uselessness, And in that golden mirror, two gold figures Recording him, two shadows of dark gold— Miss Waterson (was it?) and another one— And then took out his watch on which the hands Were so meticulously assembling seven. Young Emily, appointed just the week Before, came rushing to the stairs—she’d seen Him stumble—to advise Mr Devine About his father’s fall. And so, almost Immobilized herself in that clinging syrup, She observed the hall clock’s quaint rendition of Seven, the time set clearly in his mind Like summer herbs in aspic, as the chimes Were striking. Then the squeaking of his shoes’ Black leather tread, pacing those measures down The corridor, where sunset’s apricot Was oozing nectar through the open doors. Her voice, companionable but astonished, Floated across the bedroom’s drowning cube As he descended. How well Miss Waterson Remembers it: “Please come and look at this;” And Emily, who had just been taken on That week, came rushing to the window. She pointed Down, smartly on the stroke of seven. There, A moving picture on the lawn, was old Mr Devine, like a patient whose long months Of immobility meant learning afresh The art of walking, climbing the light’s green slope Abstractedly towards the rose garden. That evening he still thinks of, lying now, No longer needing lessons for his legs, How he cast back his glance and saw the windows Glaring like cats’ eyes on his helplessness, And in that golden mirror, two gold figures Gesticulating, two shadows of dark gold— The new girl (was it?) and another one— And then took out his watch on which the hands Were so laboriously assembling seven. Miss Waterson, with Emily behind her In a panic, dashed to the stairs to find Mr Devine, anxious to let him know About his father’s fall. And there they saw him, Almost immobile in that clinging syrup, And heard the hall clock’s muffled tolling of Seven, the time set firmly in his mind . . .

As much as you deserve it, I wouldn’t wish this Sunday night on you— not the Osco at closing, not its two tired women and shaky security guard, not its bin of flip-flops and Tasmanian Devil baseball caps, not its freshly mopped floors and fluorescent lights, not its endless James Taylor song on the intercom, and not its last pint of chocolate mint ice cream, which I carried down Milwaukee Ave. past a man in an unbuttoned baseball shirt, who stepped out of a shadow to whisper, How are you doing?

How awkward when playing with glue To suddenly find out that you Have stuck nice and tight Your left hand to your right In a permanent how-do-you-do!

In Indianapolis they drive five hundred miles and end up where they started: survival of the fittest. In the swamps of Auburn and Elkhart, in the jungles of South Bend, one-cylinder chain-driven runabouts fall to air-cooled V-4’s, a-speed gearboxes, 16-horse flat-twin midships engines— carcasses left behind by monobloc motors, electric starters, 3-speed gears, six cylinders, 2-chain drive, overhead cams, supercharged to 88 miles an hour in second gear, the age of Leviathan ... There is grandeur in this view of life, as endless forms most beautiful and wonderful are being evolved.

My mother says it’s childish and my father says it’s dumb— whenever they discover that I’m sucking on my thumb. It’s such a silly thing to do, as everybody knows. So now instead of sucking it I stick it in my nose.

How much wood could a woodchuck chuck If a woodchuck could chuck wood? As much wood as a woodchuck could chuck, If a woodchuck could chuck wood.

Moisturizer is important to me like a car is important. I’ll never own a car and skin is incidentally mine. Truth is, skin seems to manage pretty well on its own. I only travel in cars to sing to the radio. My skin is such a brute! It needs a regime! I need a drink. My car and my skin need a drink. I want to say ain’t you a cool glass of water. My skin is so dull and I have no car. My eyes, however, are ritzy. I favor the non-abrasive. My cult product is an anti-aging self-emollient. More often this is new pajamas. But pajamas need multi-talents! I’m not yet old-old. Thinking of crystal decanters makes me feel young, they are inscrutable adulthood. My skin can’t be so bad — sleep is like a drink and my controls are set to bed. This is my mitigation against stress, stern weather, assorted irritations. Being ravaged is my own fault! Proper living requires routine, tiny adjustments that make life better. I’m making plans with no muscle to them. Sleep is no artificial skin, despite its gauzy potential. Rose water — by the by I’d rather drink it as the hokey pendulum swings. I’m looking for something foolproof, aplomb that withstands the interrogating nude.

Dora’s gone to Ireland Through the sleet and snow; Promptly she has gone there In a ship, although Why she’s gone to Ireland Dora does not know. That was where, yea, Ireland, Dora wished to be: When she felt, in lone times, Shoots of misery, Often there, in Ireland, Dora wished to be. Hence she’s gone to Ireland, Since she meant to go, Through the drift and darkness Onward labouring, though That she’s gone to Ireland Dora does not know.

While the Doormat asks neurotic questions about his ex, the Dream Girl looks at her watch if her man brings up the ex, and if the man ever says, “Everyone was in love with my ex,” a Dream Girl won’t ask for a photo, but if a photo of the ex is provided, the Dream Girl won’t demean the appearance of the ex because her man will likely rush to his ex’s defense. The lesson is that when a man considers his ex a prize looks have little to do with it, for when a woman acts like a prize a man can forget he’s with a battle axe. What should you say when he asks questions about your ex? Remember you’re a prize, so you needn’t report that your ex stole appliances or defaulted on child support or that your ex has a Mafioso brother doing time for racketeering or that your ex is “still stalking you” — because your man will not find these ex stories charming, if he’s classy, so what you say about your ex is simply, “We wanted different things,” or, alternatively, “My ex and I went separate ways.” It’s none of his business: your ex and all the vicissitudes of your past, like the jewelry your ex gave you which you pawned, or your violent fantasies about your ex because inquiring minds don’t need to know. Did you know that exes are a common conversation topic among men: “You remember my ex, the one who snapped ... ?” they might say, referring to the “terrible” ex who was “possessed by demons,” thus causing the inevitable ex- tramarital affair? Of course he never had anything to do with his ex’s transformation, he was a perfect angel, but lo and behold, the ex- orcist was suddenly required! Women believe these narratives and ex- coriate themselves if they’re Doormats, but love is beset by variables, and Dream Girls must take control in this world of unknowns.

Everything is perfect, dear friend. — KEROUAC Get some sleep. Don't give advice. Take care of your teeth and gums. Don't be afraid of anything beyond your control. Don't be afraid, for instance, that the building will collapse as you sleep, or that someone you love will suddenly drop dead. Eat an orange every morning. Be friendly. It will help make you happy. Raise your pulse rate to 120 beats per minute for 20 straight minutes four or five times a week doing anything you enjoy. Hope for everything. Expect nothing. Take care of things close to home first. Straighten up your room before you save the world. Then save the world. Know that the desire to be perfect is probably the veiled expression of another desire—to be loved, perhaps, or not to die. Make eye contact with a tree. Be skeptical about all opinions, but try to see some value in each of them. Dress in a way that pleases both you and those around you. Do not speak quickly. Learn something every day. (Dzien dobre!) Be nice to people before they have a chance to behave badly. Don't stay angry about anything for more than a week, but don't forget what made you angry. Hold your anger out at arm's length and look at it, as if it were a glass ball. Then add it to your glass ball collection. Be loyal. Wear comfortable shoes. Design your activities so that they show a pleasing balance and variety. Be kind to old people, even when they are obnoxious. When you become old, be kind to young people. Do not throw your cane at them when they call you Grandpa. They are your grandchildren! Live with an animal. Do not spend too much time with large groups of people. If you need help, ask for it. Cultivate good posture until it becomes natural. If someone murders your child, get a shotgun and blow his head off. Plan your day so you never have to rush. Show your appreciation to people who do things for you, even if you have paid them, even if they do favors you don't want. Do not waste money you could be giving to those who need it. Expect society to be defective. Then weep when you find that it is far more defective than you imagined. When you borrow something, return it in an even better condition. As much as possible, use wooden objects instead of plastic or metal ones. Look at that bird over there. After dinner, wash the dishes. Calm down. Visit foreign countries, except those whose inhabitants have expressed a desire to kill you. Don't expect your children to love you, so they can, if they want to. Meditate on the spiritual. Then go a little further, if you feel like it. What is out (in) there? Sing, every once in a while. Be on time, but if you are late do not give a detailed and lengthy excuse. Don't be too self-critical or too self-congratulatory. Don't think that progress exists. It doesn't. Walk upstairs. Do not practice cannibalism. Imagine what you would like to see happen, and then don't do anything to make it impossible. Take your phone off the hook at least twice a week. Keep your windows clean. Extirpate all traces of personal ambitiousness. Don't use the word extirpate too often. Forgive your country every once in a while. If that is not possible, go to another one. If you feel tired, rest. Grow something. Do not wander through train stations muttering, "We're all going to die!" Count among your true friends people of various stations of life. Appreciate simple pleasures, such as the pleasure of chewing, the pleasure of warm water running down your back, the pleasure of a cool breeze, the pleasure of falling asleep. Do not exclaim, "Isn't technology wonderful!" Learn how to stretch your muscles. Stretch them every day. Don't be depressed about growing older. It will make you feel even older. Which is depressing. Do one thing at a time. If you burn your finger, put it in cold water immediately. If you bang your finger with a hammer, hold your hand in the air for twenty minutes. You will be surprised by the curative powers of coldness and gravity. Learn how to whistle at earsplitting volume. Be calm in a crisis. The more critical the situation, the calmer you should be. Enjoy sex, but don't become obsessed with it. Except for brief periods in your adolescence, youth, middle age, and old age. Contemplate everything's opposite. If you're struck with the fear that you've swum out too far in the ocean, turn around and go back to the lifeboat. Keep your childish self alive. Answer letters promptly. Use attractive stamps, like the one with a tornado on it. Cry every once in a while, but only when alone. Then appreciate how much better you feel. Don't be embarrassed about feeling better. Do not inhale smoke. Take a deep breath. Do not smart off to a policeman. Do not step off the curb until you can walk all the way across the street. From the curb you can study the pedestrians who are trapped in the middle of the crazed and roaring traffic. Be good. Walk down different streets. Backwards. Remember beauty, which exists, and truth, which does not. Notice that the idea of truth is just as powerful as the idea of beauty. Stay out of jail. In later life, become a mystic. Use Colgate toothpaste in the new Tartar Control formula. Visit friends and acquaintances in the hospital. When you feel it is time to leave, do so. Be honest with yourself, diplomatic with others. Do not go crazy a lot. It's a waste of time. Read and reread great books. Dig a hole with a shovel. In winter, before you go to bed, humidify your bedroom. Know that the only perfect things are a 300 game in bowling and a 27-batter, 27-out game in baseball. Drink plenty of water. When asked what you would like to drink, say, "Water, please." Ask "Where is the loo?" but not "Where can I urinate?" Be kind to physical objects. Beginning at age forty, get a complete "physical" every few years from a doctor you trust and feel comfortable with. Don't read the newspaper more than once a year. Learn how to say "hello," "thank you," and "chopsticks" in Mandarin. Belch and fart, but quietly. Be especially cordial to foreigners. See shadow puppet plays and imagine that you are one of the characters. Or all of them. Take out the trash. Love life. Use exact change. When there's shooting in the street, don't go near the window.