I’ve gotten to where I so hate to see writings labeled “Anonymous” (which they’re not) or “Unknown,” that I refuse to read stuff without the author’s name. Continue reading
Email group discussions are always fertile soil for inspiring a poem. This time, a light limerick on the dangers of fellowship. Continue reading
Here’s the last of the limericks on the elderly, for now, at least. No more have appeared on the slate, since that feverish moment last week. So it must have been a passing phase. Now, the limerick: Continue reading
As mentioned earlier, I’m on a limerick streak, in terms of style, and on an aging streak, in terms of content. So far, on grandmas and physical changes like hair. (See all the poetry archives here, with other limericks about fans and frog warts.)
Today’s verse is on the eating habits of the elderly, which may not apply to all, of course. A caricature, certainly. But this is for fun, so here goes. Continue reading
by J. Randal Matheny
Old age is a bummer, they say,
With dentures, bifocals, toupee;
Hair grows in the nose,
In the ears, on the toes;
But up on the pate it won’t stay.
For some reason, a series of limericks on aging appeared in my poetry file over the last week. So I’ll post them here over the next few days. I started to find a picture of a bald head somewhere on the web, but with the present subtitle above by Dave Eggers,â€œThe words are enough, if the words are good,” I decided against that. Continue reading
We sleep to the noise of a fan,
The bird’s song is under the ban,
Instead of the rain,
The drone of a plane —
Behold! the solutions of man!
Our ceiling fan in the bedroom is on the blink. Most table fans sold here are plastic and last for two minutes. Vicki traipsed to Sam’s Club and found a large metal fan, industrial strength, and brought it home. Continue reading
–by Yours Truly
Some bloggers are snipers, snug on a rooftop taking deadly aim. Others plunge into public places with scattered shot to murder, bloody and maim.
Yet others strap self-destruction around their torsos and explode themselves in hopes of applause and reward.
They write for maximum effect, vampires for show, their dead on display. Continue reading
To grandma no creature’s immune,
To strangers she’ll crow and she’ll croon,
With pictures she’ll ply them,
No detail deny them,
Though baby may look like a prune.
My tribute to grandmothers and grandparents everywhere. We’re not in the class as yet, but they say it’s a wonderful state of being. Continue reading