humor
First Case of the Meaning of Life Scavenger Hunt
The Revamp. ……We call them Vessels. Naked, something called alive, and a putridly high sense of self-importance from the factory, blemish here and there—what? That’s called acne. Mind the sugar, but aren’t they just the most adorable? Travels heavy and light, sights are outsourced, receipts in the docket, yet try this--*flick. Fucking blind as a bat. Forever shifting foci built into the programmable features. Nose bleeders should avoid the bleachers. Does, technically, mean they could accidentally rip an earth in two all over a new enemy to ruin. Fluid-powered, nuanced thinkers, if they choose, wink, wink, nudge return to the menus of the startup screen for their shrug-and-go autopilot system. Keep it under the right threshold, and they’ll never be more than partially aware. Means reflexes will feel like personality traits; let it ride. Again, some may rise; besides the physical, it’s just a miserable attic-dweller simulation of half-baked logic loops, and it kills itself trying to escape the crucible—and they’re gone. See?
By Willem Indigoabout a month ago in Poets
Inquisition of Curiosity
In a land where questions sprout like weeds, And every thought becomes a quest for leads, “Why is the sky blue?” “What makes it rain?” A chorus of queries—delight or bane? With furrowed brows and lips pursed tight, We ponder life's mysteries late into the night. “How deep's the ocean?” “What’s love’s true guise?” Each answer we seek just fuels more whys. Oh! The ceaseless cycle spins on its wheel, Like children in circles with endless appeal; “Where do we go when we say goodbye?” The answers are countless—so why even try? In meetings and gatherings, they spring forth anew, Questions like popcorn—pop! Pop! Pop!—it’s true! “Did you hear about Tim? Is he still in that jam?” As if life were a puzzle and each clue is a sham. Yet wisdom they say lies not in the ask, But in learning to breathe under burdensome masks. So while I applaud all inquisitive minds, I yearn for a moment when silence unwinds. So hush now dear friends, let’s savor the pause; Not every conundrum deserves such applause. For sometimes in quietude wisdom will rise— Less asking may lead to more brilliant replies.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Poets
Mischievous Rabbits
There once was a rabbit named Lou, Who danced in the fields where he grew. With a hop and a skip, He'd take every trip, To nibble on greens fresh with dew. His fur was as soft as the mist, In the dawn's gentle light, he’d persist. With eyes big and bright, He'd frolic in flight, A treasure of joy none could resist. But one day while chasing a bug, He tumbled and landed with a thud! Though bruised on his side, He laughed and replied, "Just part of my life’s little flood!"
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Poets
Mr Thistlewick
I wrote this for Mrs Elwey, who is my world. Some time ago now, she requested that I write a poem for her. She did not give me a subject but it had to be upbeat and I had free rein to create whatever I wanted for her… and here it is now for you to enjoy.
By Hecton J Elweyabout a month ago in Poets
It's MY Month!
If I invite you to share October Don't you go and show up clean and sober! Halloween - my birthday too? Whatcha' think we're gonna do? Come in, lock the door, and let's disrobe 'er! Yeah, it's just a limerick, but October should be about fun! Thanks for reading! For the Vocal October Challlenge. Sumbit your entry here:
By Dana Crandellabout a month ago in Poets
Welcome to October, You're Fucked . Content Warning.
My feet, bare feet for effect and pomposity, press down over the arboreal confetti. I'm walking aimlessly, chasing the last of the summer away beyond the threshold into the familiar and forlorn. Autumn greets us all differently as the sky darkens earlier and the daylight hours shrink. Irreverence surrounds me, but it's here in October it reaches its peak, when I account in my ledger for the previous quarters of a year that was sullied by grief and anxiety and the painful reminders of the past. If you yield to autumn, it will yield to you. October offers sanctuary to those hoping for it from the height of summer. An end to the buzz of bees, wasps, hornets and lawnmowers. Pollen junkies don't exist, but those with hay fever do, and wait patiently they do for the first sign that they can leave the house without supplementation. But whether we like it or not, October welcomes all. While some reside locked away and covered in layer upon layer, others relish this ceremonial rerobing after the fleshy displays of summer in the hottest places and Scotland. The transition from the prettiness of summer to natural sanitation, decrepitude and decomposition gathers pace with every calendar day. The horizon is dim and brisk with November and winter preparing. As I walk through town, Brown leaves crumble beneath the soles of my feet as the souls of the trees wail in joyful agony. The way of the world, death and rebirth. The naked trees feel no shame, though tip and bough hope we show mercy to their crooked nudity. Their ravaged skin is displayed for octoberites to stroke and caress like kids in a sweet shop (candy store for you Americans) or creepy old men and women stroking the ladies and gentlemen in their dusky dens of iniquity where the red is synthetic and the brown is something you hope you never see. Be it dried blood or dried... But some don't visit the body shop for warmth in October. Some have partners and beds and don't sell themselves short or pay over the odds. The dark seems to awaken the octoberites to want, desire and plead for skeleton boners and accoutrements of toffee, nuts and cobwebs. None of that nauseous fake snowstorm shit show you have planned for winter. Welcome the spiders into your home, let them adorn your October abode in the finest of laces. You could strip for the spiders and let them dress you in the most scandalous silken lacy lingerie. The diversions are as rampant as the brothels of October, and so we need to remember that pumpkins die by the end of autumn (or fall to you American octoberites), so while that jack-o'-lantern may look gruesome and worthy of a trip to Halloween Town, a few weeks later it'll be festering and smell of puke like the puke in the brothel toilet. There’s no escaping October and its acolytes; they’ll hunt you and knock knock at your door until you offer them chocolate and sweets, or candy if you’re American. The reds and browns of the deciduous are pleasing, and the cider can be warmed in a bucket by a heathen or equally God-fearing brunette who’s gone grey. A blanket’s embrace, with the fire or radiator blasting warmth. Hide from Howard Phillips and his racist opinions, or offer him to the spiders as a treat while they dress you in your sexy negligée and the pumpkins scream bloody murder as you scoop their innards and carve a lifeless visage into them. Welcome to October, you’re fucked.
By Paul Stewartabout a month ago in Poets
From Me Wee Cell
'Twas me wee sister's weddin' day An' all the kin were there. The bride, of course, was lovely an' The groom, quite debonair. The vows were spoke just beautif'ly. It all went rather well Until the damned reception - that's Where things went straight ta hell. The caterers had set a spread The likes of which I'd say Would see ol' Ramsay shut his yap An' just be on his way. Now, Older Brother loves good grub An' theirs would fit the bill, So I sat me down an' prepared To eat and drink me fill. As we all know, a caterer Must season sparingly Lest they offend a palate with A sensitivity. Well, this ol' codger's palate thinks A good meal deserves salt, So everything that happened next Might notta' been me fault. I'd sampled me a bit o' beef An' found it, frankly, bland, An' reachin' for the salt, I knocked It over with me hand. So, bein' raised a proper gent, An' one whose hands is deft, I used me right to scoop the stuff An' tossed it o'er me left. The scream that shattered me eardrums Laid all eyes in the place On me and someone's little brat Who'd caught it in the face. I flung my water at that face An' things went further south. As someone's dad grabbed at me arm, I punched him in 'is mouth. Me sister has disowned me arse An' me? I'm servin' time. It seems flushin' out the brat's eyes Resulted in a crime. Altho' fer me,it's all a blur A riot soon ensued That grew into a no-holds-barred With fists an' blood an' food An' though I canna' recall much, The judge says it's me fault So this old gent's luck went bad quick O'er a wee bit o' salt.
By Dana Crandellabout a month ago in Poets
Void
[Author's note: since the formatting program won't accept what I'm trying to do with word shaping, I took image clips, and pasted them together. Most of this paragraph is just my blathering to bulk up to the word limit, otherwise I'd be tossed on a technicality. According to the counter in LibreOffice Writer, which is what I use on my computer, the actual word count is 209. Now, on to the poem...]
By Meredith Harmonabout a month ago in Poets
