Category Archives: Funny

Cockroaches Are Precocious, Poetry by C.P. Hickey

Genre: Funny

 

“Cockroaches Are Precocious”

By C.P. Hickey

 

I find cockroaches to be precocious.

 

Especially, those from Nacogdoches.

 

Scurry hurry, here and there.

 

On their backs, legs in the air.

 

 

Marvel at their quick precision,

 

Never in the same position.

 

Lights go on and full disperse,

 

Champion of the universe.

 

 

Evolution’s most refined,

 

With creepy crawlies of their kind.

 

There’s no sense to choose denial,

 

They are masters of survival.

 

 

You never know where they’ll be,

 

Behind the fridge, amidst laundry.

 

They have a sneaky super power,

 

I once found one in the shower.

 

As just as fast I’ll change my shtick

 

Here’s a thought to sit down with:

 

To the most unsuspecting palate,

 

Roaches make a great three-bean salad.

 

So don’t adhere to superstition,

 

High protein supports nutrition.

 

Listen to this noble truth,

 

We’ve all eaten a bug or two.

 

 

So next time when you make a face,

 

While snacking crunchy carapace,

 

Be sure to think of blooming roses,

 

And remember roaches are precocious.

 

 

Especially, those from Nacogdoches.

 

 

 

    * * * * *

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The Pumpkin Beast. Poetry by Kathy Figueroa

Genre: Fear, Funny, Halloween*, October*

The Pumpkin Beast
by Kathy Figueroa

In the blackest hours of Halloween night
Stir creatures that moan and wail;
Such sounds can give a soul a fright
And cause your heart to fail!

But there’s one that makes the other bunch
Sound as innocent as a birdie’s chirp
When it goes CRUNCH, CRUNCH
MUNCH, MUNCH, SLURP, SLURP …BURP!!

“Oh, tell us, please, what is this beast?”
Hoarse, hushed whispers query,
“On what does this monster feast
And make noises that are so scary?”

Behold yon pumpkin, with an eerie face
Lit by a candle from within –
It’s to keep bad spirits from that place,
That’s why it has a hideous grin.

But people give nary a thought
That, inside, the pumpkin is being toasted…
The candle flame burns so hot
The pumpkin becomes roasted.

Certain epicureans of the quadruped kind
Esteem this squash “cuisine”
And, in abundance, it’s easy to find
On the night of Halloween.

There’s one with which I’m acquainted
That has a legendary appetite
And I nearly fainted
When I first saw the following sight:

Only scraps of rind lay on the floor –
The Pumpkin Beast had struck behind my back!!
…And he was still looking around for more
After his initial snack attack!

“El Perro Gordo de Paudash”
Is the name by which he’s now known
And he’ll choose pumpkin in a flash
Any day …instead of a bone!

    * * * * *

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A Light In The Sky, Poetry by Kathy Figueroa

Genre: Fear, Funny

A Light In The Sky
by Kathy Figueroa

As I stood and gazed at the nighttime sky,
A sputnik, a satellite, caught my eye.
It travelled in a slow and graceful arc;
A small and bright point of light in the dark.

Spellbound and transfixed I watched it with awe
And marvelled at the wondrous sight I saw.
It epitomized man’s inventive flair,
Traversing the sky, so high in the air.

Then, as eastward, through the heavens it flew,
The roof of my house obscured it from view.
When, at last, it was hidden from my sight,
Nothing else broke the stillness of the night.

As the beauty of the sky wove its spell,
Into a dreamlike reverie I fell.
I basked in the radiance of each star,
The twinkling light from so very far.

I turned to look where the satellite passed,
Where, high over my roof, I saw it last.
Then nearly fell over from sudden fright
When, once more I spotted that satellite!

It crested the roof from the other side!
With ease, through the air, it appeared to glide
And it seemed to be coming …straight at me!
I thought, “Yikes! How could this possibly be?!”

I was enveloped by a wave of fear,
As I stared at the strange light drawing near.
My heart raced, my mind reeled, I thought “Oh, no!
This must be some type of small U.F.O.!”

As though in a dream, no longer awake,
I pondered what sort of action to take.
But the light veered away and flew on by,
…And then I saw it was …a firefly!

    * * * * *

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Brighton Clock Tower, Redecorated, Poetry by Anna Tizard

Genres: angry, cocky, funny, friendship and philosophical.

Brighton Clock Tower, Redecorated
by Anna Tizard

I covered the clock tower with clocks and clicking watches
I did it for her.

Her mind is not unkind but she lives in space-place
outside of time.
It means she’s always late
which for we who wait is obviously
not great.

She’s embarrassed for other things, ties her shawls up in pins
for giving the “wrong” excuses,
but really it’s in her lies where lies
the abuses.

So I gather all her friends around the clock tower’s stuck up finger
which I’ve already covered in putty, perfectly nutty
– it actually is, with a spade-load of peanut butter added
to make it extra
sticky-padded.

And as the sun drops low ’til it skims the horizon
the coating glints, really slick
and there’s a rubber thump-punch as over-arm
and under-arm and doggy-ball-throwers flick
the catapulted watches and clocks which land and sink
and stick.

Thumbed elastic bands are pulled back,
so more clocks stack up in the tack
with a whack,
never slack,
though they ooze just an inch or so, nearly wedged, ever quite
slow.

There’s a slight glutinous slide like weights in warm marzipan,
or rubber gently melted (unless you’ve ever smelt it).

And the friends fall silent in their watchful surmise.
Was it the lies
that made them come here and pelt their protest at the
un-prompt, protracted impertinence of their pal?

“Lordy, how’re you going to scrape that off?” says a passing janitor.
“There’s a nice bit of time-keeping” – someone thinks they’re really clever.
“But you left out last Tuesday, forever and never ever.”
“What’s the point in all this time-keeping when time always eludes us?”
“But really that’s the point!” all the friends shout back. “She always screws us –
and it goes, and it goes, and it goes.”

Clocks roll and slide like giant mechanical bugs
creeping their hesitant way down the sides
and a dozen sighs decide.

She arrives, bundled and embarrassed
tottering on those run-for-nothing shoes.
Flushed and altogether shushed
a hand trembles in front of her lips
but it’s not just her hand, it’s all of her that quivers.

A giggle builds bigger and tingles tangles about her feet
as if she’s tripping over shingles,
trying to pinch it back.

She cannot.
No-one can.

Soon all of Brighton is buckling with the chuckling
until they’re bruised, bent and utterly unwise
about the time-trapped confines and the ties of their own lives.
For today nothing is real, it’s only the past that we make fester
and each time we put it behind us it only gets better.
– You laugh at this, you may as well have met her.

* * * * *
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Secrete Ingredient, Poetry by Gail DeBole

Genre: Humorous, but not for the Faint of Heart, Funny, Rhyme, Family

Secrete Ingredient
by Gail DeBole

I was at the hospital.
It was a quarter past two.
I was waiting for my husband.
There was nothing to do.

The emergency was over.
His gall bladder was out.
He was coming back home
Better off, no doubt.

The next day our daughter cooked
A special meal for her dad.
To celebrate the ending
of what could have been sad.

Instead we were all at the table
Treating my hubby like a star
When he eyed the counter
And asked, “Where is the jar?”

My daughter’s eye caught mine
And she instantly knew
That this was no ordinary
Meat and Potato stew.

She ran into the bathroom
Her face turning green
As she quickly zoomed
Bypassing her scream.

And while she was retching
I quickly followed behind
And while she was queching
I spoke to ease her mind.

“Your meal is bladder free.
The jar’s on the garage shelf.
Come, look with me.
You can see for yourself.”

And when she saw the jar
Her eyes met mine.
I could tell she was beginning
To feel just fine.

She went back to the kitchen
And I did some retching myself
Because I had just fibbed
About that jar on the shelf.

The bladder in that jar
Was an old one of mine
And dad’s had been cooked
With potatoes, carrots, and wine.

So the moral of this tale
Is to say, “Thanks, but I’ll pass,”
When given a memento of yourself
From the hospital staff.

    * * * * *

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ly

Rain, Poetry by James Kennon

Genre: Nature, Rhyme, Funny

Rain
by James Kennon

Rain falls like terminal dodo birds liquefied by infinite speed,
gravity plunges one way, directional confusion of enveloping skins, wave upon wave etc…

Circular chitterings of gnomish crazy-eyed beaks,
quills loaded with thick black syrupy information encrypted into dazzling streaks of digital flight,
through iron pellets and streaking beams of displacing squareness that leave gaping holes in reverse images frozen with surprise.

Wetness brings cures for dryness, visions of self reflected in falling drops show the multitudes of one, bringing joy in wetness all things are covered,
old brains,
wear plastic yellow sheets that hum rain into piercing darts, splinters.

How did I think I could see the rain eye to eye without falling?

    * * * * *

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Only Until Boredom Strikes, Poetry by Rayanne Banaga

Genre: Inspirational, Relationship, Hurt, Funny

Only Until Boredom Strikes
by Rayanne Banaga

They tell you a lot about damaged people
about how you shouldn’t love them
about how you shouldn’t romanticize them
You’ll only end up hurt when you cant fix them
Ive never heard the story of the ones who do fix them
I assume we all just accredited that to the fact that its never been done
i mean after all, if it was possible we’d never hear the end of it
Who wouldn’t want those kind of bragging rights?
Well here’s the coveted truth:
it is possible.
its been done.

What they don’t tell you is what happens when you do fix someone
What happens when the damaged is no longer damaged?
Everyone lives happily ever after?
Yeah.
But only until boredom strikes
Because the secret to healing the damaged is being damaged
And thats what it takes
Anyone capable of healing does so by loving
But these people are capable only of loving the damaged

    ‘i will take you flaws and all
    rest your fears on my shoulder
    i’ll embrace all your insecurities
    and i will love every piece of you that you cant bring yourself to love
    i will make you feel better, i promise’

But only until boredom strikes
The damaged are like a puzzle
but who wants to play with a puzzle once its been solved?
Nobody knows what to do with it so they admire it briefly
and then they move on to the next puzzle

I suppose we never hear these stories because the fixers are off
trying to figure out if they are the most selfish beings in the world
or the most
selfless
But its a story that needs to be told
Because for every impossible task there is a gallant knight in a shining armour
ready to brave all odds
and fight the impossible battle

well fuck you superhero asshole
You leave those damaged damsels in their cells and towers
with their pet dragons who keep them safe

    * * * * *

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