Tag Archives: poem

Monday morning writing joke: “Big stink”

There once was a writer from Spokane /

who did his best output in the can. /

Flushed with success, /

he created such a mess /

and ruined his one and only fan.

[Editor’s note: writing joke in the form of a limerick. It might not be the last one as April is Poetry Month. You have been warned.]

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Haiku to you Thursday: “Mental”

My insanity: /

the only thing keeping me /

well … kind of … normal.

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Haiku to you Thursday: “Prefer”

Road sign overhead reads: /

“EXPECT POTHOLES, USE CAUTION” /

Would prefer asphalt.

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Photo finish Friday: “13 divided by pie”

What did the guru say?

What did the guru say?

I went into the woods today
a question on my mind.
I did not expect it,
but a guru I did find.

Young and fair of hair,
she sat in the eye of a thatch.
Bright were her clothes,
brightest thing in the wooded patch.

I approached with care
afraid I might frighten her away.
She bade me come closer,
“Do you have a question today?”

I said that I did
and proceeded to try to ask.
It was about triskaidekaphobia,
but she said that would simply pass.

“It’s a silly number
falling on a Friday.
If that is all you have,
then you have no reason to stay.”

I turned to leave her,
feeling suitably rebuffed
when she said she had a question
if I thought I had the right stuff.

Then she paused a minute
and I told her I would try.
She said she wanted to know
about this day they called pie.

“What types of pie,” she asked,
“will there be on pie day?
If I come out of the woods
can I taste whatever I may?”

I thought it through a minute
then realized what she meant
but if she were looking pie
this might not be her event.

I told her 3.1415 was
what this day was about.
She looked up to the sky
and then I heard her shout:

“Just another lousy number
when all I wanted was a slice.
Take two radii and form a wedge
of blackberry would be nice.

“Add a scoop of ice cream
to this little wedge of pie.
Is that too much to ask?”
and then I heard her cry.

I quietly left the woods
tiptoeing over roots and rocks
vowing never to complain
to a guru with golden locks.

–photo and poem by David E. Booker

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Haiku to you Thursday: “Birthday”

Each year I am born /

and each day I begin life /

are fodder for dreams.

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Photo finish Friday: “Time’s up”

The spring has sprung Savings Time has fell and here comes idiocy cold as hell.

The spring has sprung
Savings Time has fell
and here comes idiocy
cold as hell.

Daylight Savings Time

by David E. Booker

Time to lose an hour

What else can I say?

It’s coming March 8th,

Early A-M that day.

Clocks will spring forward

Even though I may not.

An hour will disappear

But in my body, not forgot.

Charge ahead we must

Into this time-warped fray.

It is a stupid thing

to give an hour away.

‘Tis a great shenanigan

A political cluster duck

That has led us to this day

With which we now are stuck.

So when you go to vote

Remember who took away

This hour of sleep or fun,

And all without any pay.

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Haiku to you Thursday: “Drip”

Snow melts: drip, drip, drip. /

Ice rattles down the gutter. /

Slowly spring creeps in.

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