Limericks
Here are some limericks for the challenge. I hope you like them!
A Funny Little Boy
There once was a dashing old tree,
Which may have harassed a bee,
According to a boy,
Who went and got an axe toy,
And started hitting the oak at three.
That Guy
There's this guy who goes to the store,
And breaks many cans on the floor,
He said he wouldn't buy
All the damaged supply,
So he is banned from the store heretofore.
Eye of the Needle vs Humps
No problem for the unhumped
My humps explain
My difficulties getting through
The hump I carry for each sin
The hump I profit for my avarice
The humps grown in disloyalties
Lick the end of Clotho's thread with a forked tongue
Still creates a taper for threading her spindle
While Lachesis salivates
The eye of the needle accommodates
But only so far as Atropos' decision
And my fate matures
The shape of destiny is a landscape
Of humps on the horizon in stark relief
To the sunset we all ride off into, through contracting needles' eyes
Iris-out and fade-to-black
There's always room for fluid hope
When leaving the humps behind
A matter of metre
So many wonderful words we write,
When we dream of a seed and sow it.
A novel or sonnet may come to light
If we take the time to grow it.
And many are they but plenty are we
Who would yearn to be the poet.
Lovers embrace on the moon tonight
Should our pens' pretenses show it,
And an angel's wing will want for flight
Should the villain reveal what's below it
For limitless bliss or the fury of those
Who would yearn to be the poet.
From the dawn of man at the start of time
One would pick up a verse and bestow it
Upon thirsty mind set afire by a rhyme
A fine lyricist would overflow it
And words were like wine dripping down upon those
Who would dare to be the poet,
Or might care to undergo it
Remember the past or ignore the day
Come the troubadour, minstrel, and bard
Leaving doubt behind, keeping woe at bay
And distresses, disregard
When the words of a beautiful, dutiful voice
bring a healing to the scarred.
Very few children understand
And many who do outgrow it
The Raven, Silence, Fairy-Land
And his name, you surely know it
For it was Edgar Allan's hand
Which put the Poe in poet
And as a child, remarkable he
Was a poet and didn't even acknowledge the fact.
Obsess...
I'm trying hard
...not to obsess
about this...
I'm trying hard
...not to obsess
about that...
I'm trying hard
...not to obsess
about me...
I'm trying hard
...not to obsess
about you...
aii I'm obsessive
...and what's an
obsessor to do...?
06.22.2023
Something about obsession/being obsessed challenge @Melpomene
Little Boat
There are days when I look up,
and the sky gleams a fluorescent blue.
Diamond clouds dotting the expansive sky,
like chocolates on a cake.
There are days when I look up,
and the sky is torn in two.
Scarred by black burns and cut by thunder,
like remnants of a home.
The sun, quick in its escape, would hide.
and the clouds, despairingly abandoned, would cry.
The winds would pick up, cutting the mast,
leaving me adrift for days on end.
I found myself alone.
Clutching my small paper sides against the towering river walls,
with nothing for comfort but the quiet remembrance of the past.
The past of a childhood with simple pleasures,
jumping off the bus, running along the sidewalk, and heading home.
Before I knew it, the past was over, I had to go.
My parents had taught me that to exist was to ready my stern and set sail,
yet nobody had told me what laid beyond,
nobody had told me how to return.
The sage, the kid, and the pebble.
I am not a poet!
Okay, the voice stated.
Then it waited...
...Patiently...
For the kid
To listen
To the sound
Of the gentle breeze.
I am not a poet
Alright, said the sage
Who sat with no rage
Quietly
Beside the kid
Waiting to
Hear what more
She had to say.
I am not a...
Aha, I heard you
Like for the first two times
If you are not a poet
Then...what are you, kid?
At this the kid
Stared, gazed,
Into the sage's
Supernova like eyes
All three (oOo)
(the third eye was open, too).
The kid picked up a pebble
And tossed it
That pebble bounced
Across the water
Like a tiny, smooth ball
Until they finally heard a
*plop*
The pebble went
Deep into the belly
Of the pond.
The sage chuckled.
Smiled at the kid,
And then said,
You are not a poet,
But a good pebble tosser!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NDk4P5pzC_E
All Rights Reserved.
Written on Juneteenth.
Trust No Crow
I'm made forlorn
By any renovating
Even if the walls were worn
Beyond speaking.
Now I roam the roads
Seeking some destination
But all the crows forebode,
Swooping down to defend their stations.
I'm surged with instinct
After stress recess.
The sense of stinging's
Cross-hatched abroad my breast.
I fell short of reassurance
At my pleas to flee
And escape the burden
Of being where I'm not supposed to be.
The mountain is ours!
We offered slivers and you left scars!
The valley is ours!
You took and took now we can't see the stars.
***
between
wrapped in night silk
jewel eyes glinting
from beneath heavy brows
prowling the shadows in
between pages, lingering
between lines to someone
else's lovesick dialogue
soaking in the letters
and standing among
dog-eared stories, stalking
the world for more
more
letting myself take it,
digging my fingers into
the words like they're flesh,
like i can rip them from the paper
consume them
just become them
if only i could flatten myself
into a heart-shaped sheet
and tuck myself safely amidst
the flowery writing
, but,
i can't be confined to the parchment
which might be why i
was washed away into
the midnight sky
originally posted 2/25/21