Holiday making
Stirred and not shaken /
Holiday magic, mayhem? /
You decide for you.
.
.
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Filed under 2020, Poetry by David E. Booker
Writer, noun, living. /
Writer, verb, conveying life. /
Writer, now, writing.
Filed under 2020, Haiku to You Thursday, Poetry by David E. Booker
There once was writer from Chicago,
Who fancied himself a hero in Key Largo.
So, he packed up his crap,
But misread his map,
And is living near zero in Fargo.
Debate in our hearts /
In this season of our lives /
Affords us new growth.
Filed under 2020, Haiku to You Thursday, Poetry by David E. Booker
There once was a writer of horror
Who wrote about mean, evil flora.
And there once was a fly
That landed nearby
And ate him so he could write no more-ah.
There once was a writer of satire,
Who feared his profession would soon expire.
No matter what he would write
Reality very soon made it trite,
Or worse, make it something to desire.
The once was a poet from D.C. /
Politics wouldn’t let him be. /
So, he finally gave in /
And started rhyming the sin, /
Beginning with orange and swamp and pee.
There once was a writer from NASA
Who knew if aliens could blast ya.
He wrote his memoir
Called, Life from Afar.
His agent said, “The movies have passed ya.”
Filed under 2020, Monday morning writing joke, NASA, Poetry by David E. Booker
Go left at the fork.
Go right at the spoon.
Go under the knife
And jump over the moon.
The banana split
During its salad days.
It was easy as pie
To cake walk away.
He’s such a dish.
She’s gone to pot.
They’re in a stew
That’s boiling hot.
His goose is cook.
Her mind is fried.
Don’t butter them up,
They’re raw inside.
If you egg her on
The yoke’s on you.
She’s no apple of your eye
By the time she’s through.
The tables will be turned.
The empty will satiate
As you’re rounding third
And trying to steal home plate.
Life is a pickle,
This you can’t deny.
It’s the pot or frying pan
No mater how hard you try.
You can stir up a frenzy.
You can sift through the rubble.
The ingredients are there
To pickle all your troubles.
When things are ajar
And you feel in a jam
Just remember life will gel
If you don’t act the ham.
Go left at the fork.
Go right at the spoon.
Go under the knife.
Do your dishes soon.
–David E. Booker
Filed under 2020, Photo Finish Friday, Poetry by David E. Booker
Morning glory
Morning glory, what’s /
your story as August leaves? /
Frost whispers your name.
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