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.

Mama Death

I will say to Death,
“Thank you for waiting for me!
I got nothing accomplished,
But I had a lot of fun."
I was a toddler in playschool,
Covered in paint and dirt;
Adoring the teacher,
Dodging the bullies.

At the end of the day,
Mama Death returned to pick me up,
Along with my empty lunch box.
She took me home
To wash me
And cover me again,
But only with dirt this time.

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.

The Word Wall

I’m building a wall
Out of words.
Cementless,
Unequally shaped,
Yet almost coherent;
Strong enough to keep in a sheep.
Strong enough to keep out any but the wiliest fox.
Some of the words are boulders,
Others pebbles.

​ Walls demarcate:
Families inside,
Neighbors outside.
Without walls, there are only strangers passing through:
Not judgeable, therefore not trustable.

​ This wall I’m building
Is my private property,
But you are welcome to come in.
I’d love to show it to you,
If you are the kind of person who appreciates walls;
Otherwise, no.

​ Perhaps I just need to prove that I can build a wall,
Whether to impress you,
Or just to reassure myself.
“I built a wall; I at least did that.
It isn’t a very good wall;
It wasn’t easy to get the top straight;
It does the job though.”

Otherwise, where would I put all these misshapen words,
All this rubble of babble?
Some say a wall of words is an illusion,
Like currency;
But I don’t buy it.
If everything is an illusion,
Then illusion is real.
Words have consequences:
Step inside.