humor

Poetry is ruining this website
For the sake of Vocal.media and the writers who want to do more than the minimum, please remove the Poetry category. I'm not suggesting this with fancy poetic devices, a metaphor, allusions, or an unnecessary allegory.
By Shanon Angermeyer Normanabout a year ago in Poets
Ching-Ching Old Marley
Dereck looked out from his Prius, with a sense of indignity at the malevolence all around him Penning the woven words of woe and dispassionate despair, he waits,
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Poets
A Requiem to the Lordes of Poetry
Poetry is my blood it's full of pretension, that's a word, don't look it up, it's a word. Trust me and trust my pen. scrap that, cliché
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Poets
The Streets Are a River of Light
I walk where the pavement hums with stories, each step an echo of those who came before. The glass towers shimmer like watchful guardians,
By Life Hopesabout a year ago in Poets
Banana on the Sidewalk
Someone left a banana on the sidewalk, not peeled, not eaten, just reclining like it had somewhere better to be— maybe waiting for applause.
By Life Hopesabout a year ago in Poets
The Coffee Cup Conspiracy
This morning my coffee mug winked at me a sly, ceramic secret keeper, its handle curved like a knowing grin. I swear it whispered,
By Life Hopesabout a year ago in Poets
Candy Crush
I asked my Granny if she wanted to play Candy Crush and she, furrowed her brow, chuckled, and threw a lollipop down on the tile.
By Rowan Finley about a year ago in Poets
The Starling’s Song
In the autumn of 2025, the tiny village of Brighthollow, tucked in the folds of the Yorkshire moors, was a place where time seemed to pause. Stone cottages clung to hillsides, and the wind carried the scent of heather and peat. For 34-year-old Lila Grayson, Brighthollow was a refuge. After a decade as a music teacher in London, where the city’s noise drowned her creativity, she’d returned to her childhood village, renting a small cottage once owned by her grandmother. Lila hoped to rediscover her passion for composing, but Brighthollow held secrets that would reshape her life.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Poets
“Short Nothing. Let’s see what the algorithm worships today.”
I created this for my bird. We are living in an authoritarian society in America now. Sweetie is my muse for writing and music. I bond well with birds. We both love Syfy and glitches in the matrix when they happen. Floating in a busted bubble I breathe in, breathe out slowly. I do not get many views. I studied AI on my own with Copilot assistance. I like the tools it provides for photography, videos, & music. I write my own stuff. I began music & voice training at an incredibly early age. THAT IS BORING AND NOT INTELLECTUAL ENOUGH! I laugh out loud, I cry out, I sigh, relief from the grinding news of death, destruction, & chaos. I am 76 and still rockin!
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a year ago in Poets
Hummingbird
With your last breath You became more valuable in death than in life A land left in strife A robotic mourning wife Yet, in the haze of your final days
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
A Cornered Box (The Sport of Boxing)
Room in the corner for rest. Where arms sleep— a knockout test. Cells, cells inside the champion... called on champion for bis, except calling champion, champion to breath. Fores, tris, so on... But the corner, stinks like perfume, stinks like cologne, a jacket creating box. Spreads say say— stay a little longer. Left! Which was another strategy... up, side, top, in, then to the upper corner. Rare.
By K.A. Smithabout a year ago in Poets
Tilting Chairs Was Just The Beginning
My fingers dug in, holding onto a thread The world tilts forward, because of something I said Throwing orbits into chaos, completely a mess
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsdenabout a year ago in Poets