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551. Heraclitus said to himself, "Oh, shucks”
I just noticed ─ we live in a world of flux.
You can't sit twice
in the same bucket of ice,
or of anything, expect a carbon-copy redux.”
552. A languid Lady Nature said to Industrial man
“You've already done all that you possibly can
to transform me into a dried-up, frowzy hag!
So now ─ here! ─ hold on to the lip of this newfangled, Aeolian bag.
And don't let go! ─ or you'll blow humanity away ─ from here to the Yucatan!
553. Hi, I'm the man from Nantucket
of whom you all said his dick is so long, he can suck it.
Let me assure you, you’re totally wrong,
because my dick is not nearly that long.
Hell, from here, I’d be hard pressed to piss into that there bucket.
554. Whenever I see that x-ray of your heart,
it takes no art to spot the bits I tore apart.
It’s easy to tell which ones are mine ─
they’re the ones with a callously ripped edge line.
Whenever I see that x-ray of your heart,
I wish you could see how much I smart.
555. "I need to do a BM, W!
Here's a gas station ─ can I trouble ya?
I'll feel much better once I empty my gut.
Can I bring you back a donut, or what?"
"Uh! I think ─ rather not."
556. My verse would never have existed without WordHippo or Rhyme Zone.
I could never have written this stuff using my own brain alone.
My natural ability to rhyme is so weak, it's scary,
and so too is my bitesize vocabulary.
Without online tools, I would forever and always have been an unknown.
557. Halloween limericks / verses
a. This Halloween, as winds whip the trees,
I'm filled with a deep and uneasy unease,
as ghosts, gremlins, and gnomes,
make unannounced visits to strangers' homes,
with the express purpose of spreading their spooky disease.
b. It's again nearly Halloween.
Lit-up pumpkins are everywhere to be seen.
And up here, zombies and witches
and creepy ghouls with red, sown-up stitches
are performing a spooky balcony scene.
c. There once was a rich woman from Montreal,
who decided to throw a big Halloween ball
at a kid in the street
with no shoes on his feet
who didn't even know how to dance at all.
558. These are the days of frosty rime and icicle noses, *
when many a mom ventures outside in woolen pantyhoses,
and kids on skates
break arms at very high rates,
while many a dad sits warmly by the fire and dozes.
* Play on the song title “These are the days of wine and roses.”
559. When my wife and I were pulling weeds around our culvert,
I said, “Honey, cover up! I can see your vulvert.”
She said, “You can see my what?”
I said, “Pink peeping outta your culotte!”
She said, “OMG! Why’d you always have to be such a pulvert?”
560. I'm the unmoved mover.
I've lived in the same house since the presidency of Herbert Hoover.
I've moved plenty of people, but no one's ever moved me.
So I’ve existed without sadness and without glee.
But if I ever needed it, would you kindly consider ─ helping to move me?
561. If I were late for death,
death would just have to wait, I guess,
till such a time
I finished with my final rhyme,
and had sent my ultimate poem off to the press.
562. I'm so lousy at art ─ I couldn't even draw a crooked line.
But in poetry, I could always do a crooked line just fine.
As a matter of fact, a crooked line is elemental
in a funky form of poetry called experimental,
where you can do it all on purpose ─ or totally accidental.
563. Oh, I wish people would get off of their fucking high horse.
There ain't nothing wrong with anytime, consensual intercourse.
As long as after,
the two can share mutual joy and mutual laughter,
and that, if unwed, at least one of them is wearing protection, of course.
564. How can you say she's the life of the party,
when she continues to be continually tardy?
It's already a quarter past one ─
guests are leaving or have already gone.
Life of the party? These days? Hardly!
565. Be careful when you go to Crete.
The cops there aren't any too sweet.
Hell, they'll even give you a ticket,
if you buy an ice cream and lick it
on the wrong side of the street.
566. Some poets fill their poems with so much knowledge,
to understand them you have to have had up to 10 years of college.
I just flatly refuse to write that kind of shit,
because, frankly, there just ain't no market for it,
as any poetry publishing house will readily acknowledge.
567. From a distance, I saw someone wave at me.
But who it was, I just couldn’t see.
Was it the fat wife of the baker?
Or the widow of the undertaker?
Or that girl that ─ but no! That just couldn’t be.
568. Driving around in her Hyundai Sonata,
listening to a sacred, Bach cantata,
she turned on the overhead light,
and said, “You know what I'm hankering for tonight?”
“No.”
“Your saucy, twelve-inch enchilada.”
569. Piggies Pinky, Poinky, and Puck
were sloshing in the summery farmyard's murky muck.
It was the day before slaughter,
and they were enjoying the lukewarm water,
and the chorus of the cackly goose and the quaky duck.
570. If I coulda been a hero, I woulda been Byronic,
but a Byronic hero I certainly am not,
cuz I've only every been a two-bit player
in a five-line poetry plot.
571. There once was a woman from Wales,
who had absolutely no use for males.
She liked women much better,
because they would never upset her
with their masculine-conquest tales.
572. I'm the vicar of Vakkar.
I love to click her and clack her ─
the electric bell in the dome of
my miniature chapel at home ─
though each time that I whack her
she loses a bit more of her lacquer.
573. In my poems, it's just the silliness of it.
Get that, and you get the frilliness of it ─
verses of random sound
just boomeranging around
the valleyness and hilliness of it.
574. "Hi, the hospital invited us here to try to make you sick people laugh,
and we're presenting this show today totally on the behalf
of the king of the biggest-ever magic show
who, during the last century, was the first one, you know,
who, for a laugh, would cut a beautiful young lady ─ completely in half."
575. Here, take the words of this poem, take them for free,
and see if you can write them better than me.
You’re so godamn good at belittling ─
telling me I'm no better than fair to middling ─
even though in English, I have a fucking master's degree!
576. When I saw she had a wire loose,
I gave her a quick, little goose,
cuz I knew if she reacted,
nothing serious could've been impacted,
and fixing the wire could get her to produce more juice.
577. "Oh, that was a real blast!",
she decried when my erection didn't last.
"Oh, stop with your sarcasm!
I tried for hours to get you to orgasm.
No wonder my thingy’s flying at half-mast.
578. You knows how it is
when cola loses its fizz?
That's kinda what happened here.
And what can I say but, "Sorry, my dear?"
I kinda feel like I've flunked a pop quiz.
579. Perhaps, what the carrion crow perceives,
peering down, as rainwater drip-drips from the red roof's high eaves,
is that bedraggled Barbie and her three-legged horse,
lying there abandoned to suffer, perforce,
the brown-orange decay of autumn's wet, riotous leaves.
580. I've taken myself out of the equation,
basically, just out of total frustration.
I'm tired of x conspiring with y
to inflate its value when z is nearby,
then reducing it again for every other occasion ─
perhaps, such as fraud? ─ or tax evasion?
581. If you tell me that's a real Van Gogh,
I might as well believe you, cuz ─ hell ─ what do I know?
But if it's not a real Van Gogh,
what I would like to know,
is why the hell would you even tell me so?
582. Along the shore of the river Lethe, I'm told,
the ancients quite often forget that their old.
And then they jump in the water like youthful, spring chickens,
and attempt to make love to one another like the proverbial dickens,
despite being hindered by their every crease and their every fold.
583. I wish I could go with you tonight,
to that place where we wouldn't need any light
to reveal what we'd be revealing,
and what we'd have no way of concealing
from our angel, our devil, or our sprite.
584. Yeah, I realize my poetic oeuvre contains a fair bit of junk.
But you know what? Even God created something called a skunk.
In the works of all unparalleled thinkers,
you can expect to find quite a few genuine stinkers ─
most poems never attain great heights ─ most just immediately go kerplunk.
585. She's always in so much pain,
that continuing seems hopeless and insane.
I have no idea how she keeps on going.
If it were I, I wouldn't helplessly stand by.
I'd long ago have been on the river Styx
helping Charon with the rowing.
586. When I got so sick of the way
she always had something nasty to say,
I pleaded with my pop,
to take her back to the shop
and recircuited her,
so that at least once a day,
she'd also have something nice to say.
587. My lady is worth her weight in gold,
so precious, she could never be sold.
But then the other day, a guy asked if he could buy her,
on the provision that he'd first be allowed to try her.
No need to tell you what ugly scene then did unfold.
588. I'm a quandary about a poem that came pretty damn cheap.
Should I go ahead and toss it, or is it still good enough to keep?
You'd think since it came this easy and is only five lines long ─
just toss the damn thing and wait for others to come along!
But will they? That’s the question that sometimes disturbs my sleep.
589. A lady waves at me from her car every day.
Or rather ─ waves at my dog, I'd say.
The dog gets all the attention ─
I hardly get any mention.
But hasn't it always been that way?
590. I have an iPad pen that doesn't work worth a damn.
During lunch, I use it to ladle out the last bits of strawberry jam.
Or to jab some creepy, seventh-grade girls,
sitting behind me playing with their blond, little curls,
who then whirl around and yell at me who do I think I am.
591. See that word with the double underline?
I don't think that word is mine.
I think it was inserted by a critic,
who hails from Chappaquiddick,
who can never accept that a poem of mine is just fine.
592. I hate it when a flea
takes a liking to me
and keeps darting in front of my eyes.
I try to swat it away,
but she thinks it's play,
and insists on keeping it up till she dies.
593. Prufrock limericks / verses
a. I said to my dog, "Let us go then, you and I, *
while pink, wispy clouds traverse the wide, azure sky.
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go to your favorite tree so you can wizz it.
And then we’ll stop by the bakery for a fresh piece of crumbly peach pie.”
b. The other day, when I was walking by the sun-splashed sea, *
I was overcome by a fiery joy and a titillating glee,
as, on silvery, green rocks not far from the yellow beach,
I heard mermaids singing, each to each,
and then they turned ─ and they sang to me!
* Play on "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot.
594. If, when reading my verse,
you think life sucks, your life is a curse,
I hope you know,
it may not always be so.
In an instant, things might just get a whole lot worse.
595. I love the idea of a metapoem,
one that, late at night, comes knocking on the door of your home,
and nearly out of breath, says, "I prayed, and I prayed!
I prayed that this time I wouldn't be too late
to be included in the publication of your latest poetry tome.
596. I was interviewing a potential poem on mycasting couchstudio couch.
I asked her, “Why you wanna be a poem?” She said "Ouch"
That's a very good question.
I did it on my daddy's suggestion,
so I might learn not to be such a slouchy grouch."
597. I drove the meaning of the poem home,
dropped her at the front door, then drove home alone.
And I never heard much more about her after that,
except a rumor that some scholarly types had made a sanctum of her flat,
where they fill evening upon evening, chewing her fat.
598. Does anyone wanna take care of this wee little poem?
Can I get a volunteer to take this little poem home?
Yes, Emily, she can go home with you.
Yes, a few nice words and a little loving kindness should do.
And promise to share her with us again ─ when she's full grown?
599. Poet, I know you.
I've seen your poster in a classroom or two.
And I've heard about how great you are.
Even among the greatest, you are the star.
But I write poems, too.
And I'm so very eager to show the world what I can do.
600. My poetry teacher said, "In the mind of every unstudious, would-be poet,
real poetry might be swirling around, but they wouldn’t know it,
cuz instead of learning, they're always just grasping at straws,
and thereby repeating the same old flaws
that makes every other unstudious, would-be poet ─ blow it."
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Verses 51-100 Verses 101-150 Verses 151-200
Verses 201-250 Verses 251-300 Verses 301-350
Verses 351-400 Verses 401-450 Verses 451-500
Verses 501-550 Verses 551-600 Verses 601-616
Comments, suggestions, or questions? Please email Rio Jansen at rio_jansen@hotmail.com