Monday, June 24, 2013

"Sir Dumpsalot"

Hero du jour is Sir Dumpsalot
He's a knight but not of Camelot
He coveted the crown
but all he had was brown
So, resigned himself to think a lot

"It Once Was Lost"

There was a man who called himself Dale
Enjoyed fishing with rod, reel, and pail
One day he caught a shoe
"Oh boy, now I have two!"
His wife never did believe the tale

Sunday, June 23, 2013

"A Request Sandwich"

Make your desires known
Some get it done with one
Others require two
  slices of please

"May I" on the side
Fill it with what you want
but always, always garnish
  with a sprig of thanks

Friday, June 7, 2013

"At The Sycamore"

Two for Rome
  (One for me)
The rest for you
Good luck!

Three for Rome
   (Two for me)
The rest for you
Good luck!

(A man has to make a living)

Profits are up!

Hey there, you didn’t pay!
Come back here!
(Drat this crowd!
  What is this, a king?
    Thinks he owns the place!)

Move aside!
Make way!
I want to see!
(Can’t get through
  they hate me
  O look,
    a tree!)

(Who is this guy?
  They love him)

Who me?!
You want to what?
  (O, my
  He loves


It has?!
  O praises be!

Hey there! You people!

You know the old me
But now
  I too
    am sick of more
    (Here’s four!)

Thursday, June 6, 2013

"Daily Dose"

An apple a day
keeps doctors away
(or so they say)

A poem a day
makes creativity stay
(for poets anyway)

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

"Oh Deer!"

Two cervine trophies hung on a wall
One asked the other, "What's this place called?"
"It's a barbecue buffet:
People eat red meat all day,
But you'll be fine—long as you don't fall"

Tuesday, June 4, 2013

"Shakespeare Lied"

The Bard, ever enshrined
in the world’s collective mind,
dared so boldly to declare
that which I now contest:

Pair of star-crossed lovers
gaze deeply—twilight hovers,
hireling guards on their patrols
To leave, she says, is best

Not all pairs are this type—
one may love without the hype:
connections grand, strangers met
cov’nant friends—both sides blessed

The Bard, ever enshrined,
placing ink in front of lie;
From the sorrow of parting
Nothing sweet can e’er be wrest