Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Tag

05/05/2022 More Bad Poetry   3 comments

Enjoy the holiday!!

Poetry is an enigma to me. I wouldn’t know good poetry if my life depended on it and even the bad poetry that I sometimes see doesn’t sound so bad. Anything that confuses me like that makes it impossible for me to take it too seriously. After a recent Bad Poetry Post, I received a few e-mails with samples from some of my readers. I assume they sent them because they thought they were bad, I don’t really know, so you figure it out. I think the first one was sent to me because I’m from Maine and someone thought I might be interested in Moose poetry. Good luck with that one. Here it is . . .

A moose is like a bull on stilts
With a silly kind of head.
And if one of them sat on you
You’d probably be dead.

Do you really think that’s bad poetry? It seems okay to me but nothing special. It’s a little bit of truth with a little bit of silliness. Here’s the next one which I really don’t understand about a Toad. It’s a little weird but kind of funny. It seems more like a limerick than poetry but when you get right down to it there isn’t much of a difference.

The story that is told
By a severely flattened toad,
Is of evidential failure
In attempts to cross the road.

This next poem hits home for me primarily due to my advanced age and secondly because it brings back memories of my favorite grandmother who passed away a very long time ago. See what you think.

💖

Of love and marriage who can say, which
way these things can go.
A loving wife, a shrieking hag, no one
will ever know.

The years of youth have come and gone,
with memories good and bad.
The happiness of family, the love of mom
and dad.

The years should teach you something, or
so we’re always told.
Remain yourself no matter what, and mellow
when your old.

Your life is filled with happiness, and
sorrows big and small,
But not until your old and gray, will you
understand it all.

It is a shame that through the years, this
knowledge lies unused.
Erring and blundering again and again,
with help and advice refused.

So, think about the elder ones, grandmothers,
grandfathers and such,
Who’ve experienced life’s many problems,
and could help you oh so much.

Their days are few in number, and once
their gone it’s sad.
Accept their help and listen close, to the
experiences that they’ve had.

And when they’ve gone, you’ll think of them
the way they used to be.
The memories are all you have, but that’s
enough you see.

🌯🍹🌶

ENJOY YOUR HOLIDAY

04/30/2022 Bad Poetry Alert   Leave a comment

Today we’ll be introduced to what might be called something less than a romantic love poem. For those of you out there who worship at the steps of classical poetry, I apologize. I like my poetry a little more down to earth and accented with a bit of humor, be it erotic or rude, you decide. This was written some years ago, but it took a long time for me to actually decide to blog it. Anyone who knows me from that time will understand the fun of it, I hope.

PUPPY LOVE

First love is a thrill you never forget,

It sends a warmth through your heart.

Fifty years later the memory remains,

but the feelings have fallen apart.

How to recall those wonderful days,

when the freshness of things made you wish,

For the love a girl with beautiful hair,

in a field, all alone…

Do you smell fish?

04/25/2022 More Bad Poetry   1 comment

Slow Dance

Have you ever watched kids on a merry-go-round?
Or listened to the rain slapping the ground?

Ever followed a bird’s erratic flight?
Or gazed at the sun as it fades into night?

Do you run through your day on the fly?
When you ask, “How are you?” Do you hear the reply?

When your day is done do you lie in your bed?
With the next hundred chores running through your head?

You’d better slow down don’t dance so fast.
Life is short and the music won’t last.

Ever told your child, we’ll do it tomorrow?
And in your haste, not see his sorrow?

Ever lost touch and let a good friendship die?
Cause you never had time to call and say “Hi”

When you’re running so fast to get somewhere,
You miss all of the fun in getting there.

When you rush and worry all through your day,
It’s like an unopened gift that’s just thrown away.

Life isn’t a race. Do take it slower,
Listen to the music before the song’s over.

MORE TO COME

04/04/2022 More Bad Poetry   2 comments

As you may have guessed, I’ve been around a while and my memories go back many years. I survived the 60’s and 70’s with only minor damage and tried desperately to forget everything about the 80’s and 90’s. The new millennium was a big letdown, and it still remains just that. This little ditty was written in 1978 or there abouts. I was smoking a lot of Weed in those days so I’m not entirely sure about the exact date. Take a trip back with me.

THE GENERATION GAP❤
Your Dis’n me, I’m Dis’n you,
It’s all just Greek to me.
It’s wicked hot, she’s wicked cool,
I’m wicked confused you see.


I thought our slang from years ago
was a cool and groovy thing.
We’d rap all night about far-out stuff
and what the future might bring.


Peace Man! Protest marches,
and on into the night.
We’d smoke some weed and drink some beer,
it’s what made everything alright.


Stop the war! Kent State Revenge, was
what we thought was cool.
Pass the beer, we can crash over here,
so, we’re a little late for school.


To mix and match the old and new
really must be done.
To help prepare for whatever new
and the nonsense that’s sure to come.

❤❤❤

And for our millions of millennials:

LIKE WHATEVER!!!!!

03/30/2022 More Bad Poetry   2 comments

As my contribution to the current culture, I feel a real responsibility to donate something to the cause. Since I’m not a poet, I have the right to have some fun with poetry in general. I’ve never really had an appreciation of poetry and all of the flowery and descriptive emotions that are thrown around so freely. Since I’ve never heard most of those pretty phrases used in normal conversation, they don’t feel real and meaningful to me. I like my poetry to be more down to earth without all the BS. Here’s another beauty for you . . .

OLDIES

Be Bop A Lula, She’s my baby, I’ve loved those lyrics for years.

In the backseat, we hummed right along in between all of the beers.

I stroked and stroked her beautiful hair as the Coasters sang “Charlie Brown”.

Off with our clothes and tickled her toes as we turned our frowns upside down.

Those oldies had a wonderful rhythm that made our hips get the beat.

A kiss on the neck, a breast in my hand, and a cop with a flashlight….

Shit! It’s the heat.

It’s certainly no Robert Frost piece of work but that’s okay by me. He wouldn’t like my work almost as much as I don’t like his. I wrote this little ditty when I was in the ninth grade and Sue didn’t appreciate it either.

Roses are Red

Violets are Blue

Poetry Blows

And so, does Sue.

03/24/2022 😝Bad Poetry Alert😝   2 comments

NIGHT PARTNER’S❤

Gurgle! Gurgle! Sputter! and Pop!

Those strange night noises

that just won’t stop.

Bad dreams of dragons and

monsters continue,

What I really need now is a

cork to put in you.

😫😫😫

One of these days when we

both least expect it,

a terrible thing will occur.

Instead of gurgle, sputter and

pop, you’ll be gone, nothing left,

but a large brown wet spot.

ISN’T POETRY MAGICAL?

03/14/2022 “Epithets”   2 comments

For many years after moving to New England, I spent a great deal of time in dozens of local cemeteries in southern Maine, checking out epithets, and anything else interesting that I could find. There was a time when I would stretch T-shirts over old tombstones and do rubbings of family names and places which I then sold in a local gift shop. Business became so brisk I was able to take requests from certain families to memorialize their long dead relatives. It was a little weird at times but very interesting. I also got to meet a few of the local law enforcement officers who repeatedly stopped to check me out. The epithets were remarkable since most of the early deaths were colonists from England, the home of the limerick. What follows are not the ones I discovered back then but discoveries made by other morbid folks who were also fascinated by them. Here are a few priceless ones I think you might enjoy.

Sacred to the memory of Anthony Drake,

Who died for peace and quietness’ sake.

His wife was constantly scolding and scoffin’,

So, he sought for repose in a twelve-dollar coffin.

Burlington Massachusetts

🎇🎇🎇

Here lies Ann Mann;

She lived an old maid and

She died an old Mann.

Bath Abbey, England

🎇🎇🎇

Sacred to the memory of

Elisha Philbrook and his wife Sarah

Beneath these stones do lie,

Back-to-back, my wife and I!

When the last trumpet the air shall fill,

If she gets up, I’ll just lie still.

Sargentville, Maine

🎇🎇🎇

Sacred to the memory of

Jared Bates

who died August 6, 1800.

His widow, age 24, lives at 7 Elm

Street, has every qualification for a

good wife and yearns to be comforted.

Lincoln, Maine

🎇🎇🎇

THINK UP A GOOD ONE FOR YOURSELF

AND LEAVE IT WITH A FRIEND

02/24/2022 More Isaac Azimov   Leave a comment

As I stated on so many occasions, I am a rabid science-fiction fan. I’ve been reading science fiction material since I was a kid when I found a copy of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea in a box of trash near a neighbor’s home. While admittedly there’s a lot of crap out there calling itself science-fiction, the classics remain the classics. Two days ago, I started reading the Foundation Series by Isaac Asimov again. As a young man I read it the first time but to understand it at that age was difficult. I’ve read the entire series three times since and every time I find more things I missed. As I began to read it again my thoughts came back to Isaac Asimov himself and the fact that he was not only an incredible writer but also wrote many outrageous and bawdy limericks. I thought I pass a few of those along to you today because he really knew how to craft limericks. Here are a few . . .

A gourmet’s delight is Priscilla

For her breath’s a distinct sarsaparilla.

One breast tastes of thyme

The other of lime

And her vaginal flavor’s vanilla.

💥💥💥

There was a young lady named Lynne

Who said,” I’m prepared to begin

Any sort of activity

That suits my proclivity

Provided it counts as a sin.”

💥💥💥

As a poet, a young man named Buck

Was utterly lacking in luck.

He tried limericks (lecherous)

But found rhyming quite treacherous

And to rhyme “Buck” and “Luck” left him stuck.

💥💥💥

To her lover said pretty young Julie,

“I don’t want to alarm you unduly.

I don’t intend blame

And yet, all the same,

You’ve produced a small pregnancy, Truly!”

I ABSOLUTELY LOVE AZIMOV

02/11/2022 For the Poets Out There   Leave a comment

Here’s a well-known fact, I’m not a poet. I know a few people who have that skill and like it or not it is a rarity. I’ve tried over the years to read almost all of the more famous of the poets from this country and it leaves me uninterested and unmoved. I write a lot but when it comes to poetry my mind slides right into confusion. All of my poems (and there are a few) tend to be rude, abrasive, and at times erotic and funny. I’ve never been able to wrap my head around serious poetry because I just don’t have it in me. That being said, today I’ll offer up a sample of poetry and you can judge for yourself just how good it is. Let’s get started . . .

“Let me ask you one question,

Is your money that good?

Will it buy you forgiveness?

Do you think that it could?

I think you will find,

When your death takes its toll,

All the money you made

will never buy back your soul.”

That little bit of poetry was written by an often-criticized poet, Bob Dylan, in 1963, from his song, Masters of War. As with most of his musical lyrics, they’re still as good today as they were then. I’ll pass on one more small piece of wisdom with one of his quotes, ” Money doesn’t talk, it swears.”

LOVED THE SUBTERRANEAN HOMESICK BLUES

😏Weekly Quote😏   Leave a comment

“By working faithfully eight hours a day

you may eventually get to be boss and

work twelve hours a day.”

Robert Lee Frost (March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963) was an American poet. His work was initially published in England before it was published in the United States. He was well known for his realistic depictions of rural life in New England. He was honored frequently during his lifetime and is the only poet to receive four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry.

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