Maturity

She tries to live her life beyond reproof
And never act from turpitude or spite,
But angry rains still pound upon her roof
And voices still accuse her in the night.
She offers up her reasons, not contrition,
As if her good intentions could purport
To strike out self-judged failure and omission,
But still she feels she’s fallen somehow short
When, buttressing her conscience's complaints,
The triumphs and ripe fruits that might have been,
Fill out a better life her mind’s eye paints
In colors bright as day upon its screen.
She turns though, lets them fade into a haze,
And treasures her full belly and warm days.

More of My Limericks

If you’re lacking a little good cheer,
Go and tickle a bull in the rear,
For I’m sure that the rumor
That they’ve no sense of humor
Is a product of ignorant fear.


Aloof types are never the sweetest.
It’s clear that avoiding them’s meetest,
So give them the snub,
And apply for my club:
We’re exclusively anti-elitist.


A native of Chalamazug
Once fell overboard from a tug.
He cried, “Ding-dong boller
Doo jango zong zoller,”
Which means, “Glug-glug glug glug-glug glug.”


Speaking anthropocentrically, I
Would prefer that we not search the sky
For quick-witted ETs,
Who’d subdue us with ease,
Till we know what they like in their pie.


See the Moon in the sky as it waxes;
Feel the warm tranquil wind that relaxes;
Turn and give me your smile
On our Paradise Isle;
Say you love your avoider of taxes.


The CAPTCHA's the name for the box
That you have to fill in to outfox
Those machines that send spam
That is linked to some scam
That would swindle you down to your socks.

I Said Goodbye to God

I said goodbye to God one day
Because I couldn’t see
Why one who seemed so full of words
Would never talk with me.
“Well, He knows where I am,” I mused,
“And if there comes a day
He’ll condescend to seek me out,
I can’t be far away.”

I said goodbye to God because
I’d finally concluded
That those who claimed to teach His ways
Were guileful or deluded:
What use is praying to a God
Who hides behind a curtain?
And how do you grow close to one
Whose feelings are uncertain?

I said goodbye to God without
Resentment in my heart;
I hadn’t any notion of
How long we’d be apart.
It seemed that there was just too much
About Him left to know;
I said goodbye to God and yet
I thought someday He’d show.

I said goodbye to God and now
My words I shall not mince:
I said goodbye to God and, no,
I haven’t heard back since.
I stroll along my merry road
And seldomly look back:
I said goodbye to God and that’s
One less load on my back.

Some More of My Old Limericks

An obsessive young lady named Fong
Would constantly bang on a gong;
Said her doctor, “I find
You’ve an unbalanced mind—
You should strive for more ding and less dong.”


In the village of Jingamafloo,
They don’t look at the world like we do:
When a gentleman dies
His dear wife shouts, “Surprise!
Now we’ll all get a little more stew.”


How to spell the potato has tried
Many minds, sometimes mine, I’ll confide.
Though it might have an eye,
There’s no E – don’t ask why!
Not until it’s been baked, boiled or fried.


If a thought that’s been thought has been “thunk”
Have those dreams that we’ve sought all been “sunk”?
Should “we ought” be “we unk”?
Can what’s fought be what’s “funk”?
And those stocks that we bought, were they “bunk”?


There once was a yogi who said,
“I can see I should never have wed:
Our carnal relations
Only cause lamentations—
I suspect it’s the nails in the bed.”


Assisting a suicide’s fate
Is a practice all faiths seem to hate:
Is God, the Creator,
Some prickly Head Waiter,
Who freaks if you send back your plate?

The Dandelions

The dandelions are laughing in the grass,
But soon I’ll be along to mow them down.
I bend to ape the customs of my class,
And such displays aren’t welcome in this town.
We’ve deemed that all our lawns must look alike,
Bereft of giddy-headed yellow charms;
The place for flowering things is on a hike,
With rippling streams and wholesome, oblong farms.
To stop and stare there is a place and time,
But don’t pretend it might be here and now:
The workweek does not yield to the sublime;
The lapwing’s nest is nothing to the plough.
No, we’re resolved to hasten, strain and strive,
To squeeze on through like earthworms, not to thrive.

I’m Looking for a Mind at Work

I’m looking for a mind at work,
Compassionate and giving,
A consciousness that seeks the good
Of every creature living.
I’m looking for a sense of care,
A bias for protection,
But when I dare to stop and stare,
I just see blind selection:
The cuckoo raids another nest,
And Smokey grabs a rabbit,
While soccer moms strike squirrels down,
Just out of callous habit.

I’m looking for a higher love,
But only find a scheme;
An algorithmic strategy,
A program, not a dream.
I’m looking for a miracle,
If only on occasion,
But Nature’s brutal wheel just turns,
Quite heedless of dissuasion.
The suffering of innocents—
A cliché for good reason,
For in all weathers, hot or cold,
They’re never out of season.

I’m looking for a mind at work,
And likewise so are you;
I just can’t find a trace of one,
I know that irks you too;
For though we’re told the road is long,
And that the gate is narrow,
We don’t see why the rules can’t bend
To sometimes save a sparrow.
No, mysticism never helped
Us see behind closed doors:
And yet there is a mind at work,
The one that’s mine and yours.

More of My Old Limericks

I've no fear of the mean streets of Skokie —
I'm adept at concealed karaoke:
If I'm under attack,
There's a switch that I whack —
Then it blares out a loud “Hokey Pokey".


Is Algebra fruitless endeavor?
It seems they’ve been trying for ever
To find x, y, and z
And it’s quite clear to me:
If they’ve not found them yet then they'll never.


There once was a baby named Sam
Who would never be good for his mam:
His screams were so loud
That he’d draw a small crowd,
Then he’d sell bootlegged booze from his pram.


As for sex education, I’ve wondered
If our school system’s totally blundered,
For the textbooks these days
Just teach two or three ways—
While Norwegians learn more than five hundred.


There once was a man of Nepal
Who declared, "I have seen through it all.
I shall sit on my bum
And not even chew gum
And shall think and do nothing at all."


One’s stance on the flinging of feces
Is likely to hinge on one’s species,
The strength of one’s arm,
One’s urge to do harm,
And whether one rents, owns or leases.

In Praise of Income Tax

I love the income tax,
I’m very glad to pay it;
It makes the world a better place.
I’m not afraid to say it.
To spread some of the wealth around
Enhances any nation,
If, like all acts of virtue,
It’s performed in moderation.

Sing praises to the income tax,
Oh people near and far:
The more you have to pay of it,
The better off you are.
Instead of revolution,
With bloodshed, ruin and strife,
How sweet it is to write a check
And get on with your life.

Not everybody has quick brains,
Clear vision or bold pluck,
Robustness, or resilience,
Or, most of all, good luck.
So, be a hero, not a jerk,
Should you be blessed with stacks:
Please act as if you’re all grown up
And gladly pay your tax.

On the Sluggishness of Mother Nature

I have a strong suspicion, truth be told,
That tyrants had a role in days gone by,
When fearsome wolves pursued us through the cold
And gods made dreadful thunder in the sky;
In perils, hardnosed leaders were a must;
We had no time to glibly question why?
Was this command imprudent, that unjust?
Close-lurking death demanded we comply.
Submission then most likely had its place,
But now it’s just a need we long outgrew,
And those who shout in everybody’s face
Just blight and bungle everything we do:
When boorish brutes beset each institution,
How slothful seems the pace of evolution!

More of My Old Limericks

 

The jester of Amalek's dead.
The Israelites chopped off his head.
His last witty thing
Was to point at the king:
"That's Saul, folks!" — the last words he said.


There once was a man of great wealth
Who was told, “This will not bring you health.”
He was told it a lot,
So he had the man shot,
And that pretty much speaks for itself.


Now, listen up all of you haters,
And I’ll give you the word about craters:
They are holes that are strewn
On the face of the Moon --
Well at least that’s the meat and potaters.


There once was a gourmand named Finney
Who hated to see people skinny,
Which I think best explains
Why he left his remains
To a cannibal tribe in New Guinea.


There once was a baby named Lou
And he grew and he grew and he grew,
And he grew and he grew,
And he grew and he grew,
But he stopped when he reached six foot two.


There are three hundred girls in distress
In a basement at USPS,
Where the postmaster hides
All the mail-order brides
Who were lacking a proper address.

More of My Old Limericks

 

There was a young fellow of Putney
Who would eat only lentils and chutney.
He chose to migrate
To an Indian state,
But he died there of terrible glutney.

 

It took a few plates of titanium
To patch up that crack in my cranium.
That’s the danger you court
With a cocky retort
To a wife with a potted geranium.

 

An ambitious young fellow named Matt
Tried to parachute using his hat.
Folks below looked so small,
As he started to fall,
Then got bigger and bigger and SPLAT!

 

An unscrupulous bird is the stork:
He dines with no knife and no fork;
No agency vets
All those newborns he gets,
And when asked where they’re from, he won’t tork.

 

There was a young lady of Clapham
Who had too many kids and would slap ‘em,
Till the council said, “Cease!”
Now she calls the police
And they come round with tasers and zap ‘em.

 

What a limerick is in a crunch
Is a bit like a loony’s light lunch;
Though it briefly delights,
It’s just four nutty bites,
Swallowed down with a ludicrous punch

Against Hope

They say that hope's a thing with wings,
But such a view has flaws:
What comes with such appendages
Will also come with claws.
Poor Icarus had feathers too,
And yet he took the plunge,
Which brought his parents agonies
That hope could not expunge.
Now, when our loved ones writhe in pain
We hope they’ll find relief
And by this hope we daily learn
That hope’s in league with grief.
For hope’s a thing that draws you in,
It’s unsuspecting prey,
Concealing its intent to pounce—
Let’s keep false hope at bay!

Flanders Field Memorial

Before the flag-draped altar humbly kneeled,
Once more we pay respects at Flanders field;
We hear the somber sermon and the knell
And praise those loyal men who flocked to hell.
How hard for those whom statesmen’s folly dooms,
Their destiny betrayed in cold gray rooms,
The doors to which are closed, debate concealed,
And every door just leads to Flanders field.

The trip took days, another bleak November,
All for these scant dull seconds to remember,
Remember what we never even knew,
For they are gone, those last remaining few,
Who heard the blasts, saw healthy youngsters blown
To clumps of flesh and brain and splintered bone,
With nothing left to lay upon the shield
To bring a Spartan home from Flanders field.

But home some came, with tales they never told,
Took up their mundane callings and grew old,
Though waking still in time-mistaken fright
And hearing cries of terror in the night;
Or silently remembering the cost,
Of anguish gained for friends and comrades lost;
For those who lived bore wounds that never healed,
As much as those who fell in Flanders field.

This modern world would leave them so perplexed;
We don’t write verse these days, we simply text;
We seldom hear a patriotic word,
And yet, we’re not so numb we can’t be stirred:
We still fight wars that no one understands,
On distant isles, in far exotic lands,
Where poppy crops produce a deadly yield,
Though no one there has heard of Flanders field.

I Sold My Soul to the Fairies

I sold my soul to the fairies,
When I was foolish and green;
Lost in a mystical frenzy,
Deep in the forest unseen.
Dark was the spirit who led me
To their perverse evening throng;
What was that potion she fed me,
Sweet on the tongue yet so strong?

That’s when I felt myself sinking
Into the Moon-haunted night;
Blackness enveloped my thinking,
Left me benumbed to my plight.
Soon they were circling around me
In a malevolent craze,
Rhythmically rapping their tabors
In the red campfire blaze.

Ever since then I’ve been falling,
It matters not how hard I try;
Cursed by one moment appalling,
Marked till the day that I die.
So, if you sell your soul to the fairies,
You need to know what to expect;
If you sell your soul to the fairies,
The fairies will always collect.

Monday Limericks -- A Few I Wrote a While Ago

I'm delighted to say that I've mastered

The appropriate usage of "bastard":

It's a person who's bred

By a pair who weren't wed,

But were too much in love—or too plastered.

 

If a lizard or worm's in a spot,

Then self-amputation's its lot.

For they're both quite autotomous,

But the great hippopotamus,

Though he rhymes,

To be honest,

Is not.

 

“Lord, we finally got into Canaan,

But we think you should do some explanaan.

Forty years isn’t funny:

Where’s the milk? Where’s the honey?

Where’s the benefits promised in trainaan?”

 

“I talk,” claimed a linguist named Hamill

“With every species of mammal”

When asked for a reference

He said, “What’s your preference?

My mother-in-law, or my camel?”

 

It is said that Dame Julian of Norwich

Was tempted to sin by her porwich.

At breakfast one day,

She yelled, “Devils, away!”

Then she locked all her oats up in storwich.

A Pain You Should Not Try to End

There is a pain you should not try to end,
Not even if it slices to the core,
Carves wounds that unskilled time can never mend
And remedies just seem to strengthen more.
This sorrow for misfortunes of another
Engenders all that gives us pride and hope;
Without it, what is sister? What is brother?
What keeps us from the razor, or the rope?
Some say such common anguish should be tamed,
That nobler souls transcend its worldly grasp;
But I say no, embrace it unashamed
And feel the widow’s tears, the victim’s gasp:
Don’t try to quench with water, or with wine,
The fire that lights the light that makes you shine.

Where Have They Gone?

Where have they gone, my bright ideas,
Those angels bold and wise?
They left me when I found them out,
The way they plagiarize.
They slyly flew to pastures new,
Whose farmers are more green
And left me but one thing to do:
Regress toward the mean.
The years trim back our confidence,
We know it’s all been said.
So, better just go take a walk,
Or grab a beer instead.