Oh, Monday.
Oooh, Monday.
Oooh, Moonday.
Oooh, Moanday.
You come and you slay me.
Sunday is not done,
Not gone with the setting sun,
But there you are once more
Scavenging at my door.
A beggar with a broken smile.
You promise to be for only a while,
But your 24-hours pass
As if the sands stuck in the hourglass.
Oh, Monday.
Oooh, Monday.
Oooh, Moonday.
Oooh, Moanday.
You come and you play me.
I fall for your tattered lines.
I hope ruthlessly for the sublime.
But, Moanday, you are there,
A rumbled love I no longer share.
You once held such promise,
But now you are always upon us.
Hanging low over the weekend,
Always about to offend.
Oh, Monday.
Ooh, oooh, sad Monday.
I go to bed and sigh
As I wave the weekend goodbye.
Ooh, oooh, Moonday.
Ooh, oooh, Moanday.
.
.
#davidebooker #Monday, poem #poetry #humor #september #photonotmine #092225 #2025
Filed under 2025, humor, photo, poem, poet, poetry, poetry by author, Poetry by David E. Booker
Creative anxiety
*
Oh, those bug farts /
give me quite a start. /
just tear me apart, /
and then I cannot start. /
*
I cannot put pen to paper /
Not now, not then, not later. /
Any noise is absolute traitor /
Drives to a creative nadir. /
*
My computer screen remains blank; /
There’s no fuel in the tank /
Ideas are skunk skank /
If I golfed, it’d be a shank. /
*
A car horn blocks away /
Children running round to play /
All these reach out and slay /
Any creativity today. /
*
Oh, the muses do decree /
All these sounds won’t let me be. /
Even a leaf from a tree /
Is as loud as a crashing sea. /
*
Oh, dear God, if you exist, /
Please grant my bucket list /
Or at least if you insist /
Take away all who made me pissed. /
*
Silence, only silence I can abide. /
I accept not your a chide /
Even your socks across the floor, slide /
Make me full of bile and snide. /
*
I will not, cannot not live in peace /
Until all sound reaches surcease /
Until even the bee’s knees /
Reach a point of full freeze.
.
.
#072125 #creative #anxiety #writing #poem #poetry #humor #davidebooker #july #monday #2025
Filed under 2025, poem, poet, poetry, poetry by author, Poetry by David E. Booker
A British sentry cuts a lonely picture as he stands at his post at sunrise in France, March 1915.
Battlefield
Battlefield sentry, /
fearing with the sunrise that /
fog and hope will lift.
.
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#battlefield #sentry #fear #fog #hope #sunrise #haiku #poem #poetry #haiga #photonotmine #May #Sunday #051825 #2025 #davidebooker
Filed under 2025, haiku, photo, poem, poet, poetry, poetry by author, Poetry by David E. Booker
Tall tale
The gravedigger says, /
As his needling wife’s unearthed, /
“It’s all a big yarn.”
.
.
#poem #haiku #davidebooker #poet #writer #writing #may #monday #2019 #pun #wife #gravedigger #humor #unearthed #skeleton #needles #050619 #haiga
Filed under 2019, humor, photo, poem, poet, poetry, poetry by author, Poetry by David E. Booker
Oh, Geezerdom
Oh, geezerdom; oh, geezerdom,
When will the angels come?
Will the come in a van
Like a Wal-Mart clan.
Playing games in the parking lot
With the souls they have got?
Or will they come in a box
A mix that Betty Crocker talks
You through how to bake
Take the ingredients and shake
Them all together to make
Food for the angels’ sakes?
Oh, geezerdom; oh, geezerdom
When will the angels come?
I’m not sure that I know
If I’m yet ready to go
To rise fast of sink slow
To wherever the afterlife might exist.
Am I on the heavenly list?
Am I an ingredient
In a cake expedient
To be lifted to heaven to come
Or left as parking lot crumbs.
.
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#gezzerdom #davidebooker #poem #photonotmine #050725 #2025 #photobriangriffin #humor #walmart #angelfoodcake #angel
My bowels had been in a slump.
Now, I so needed to take a dump.
I ran to the nearest men’s room
Only to face dread and certain doom.
A sign I saw posted there
Made its sole declare:
“Closed for a private event. Our apologies.”
Now, now, how could this event be?
When be an event rumbling in me.
Rumbling to manifest itself
Soon in my light pants’ shelf.
I cried to the heavenly powers.
How could this be as this desperate hour?
My flight leaves in a just a short bit.
I had just enough time to give a sh–.
Now I hop like a bunny at Easter
A turd egg stuck suspended up in my keister.
And if I didn’t lay it soon.
I’d be stuck here until well past noon.
By then my flight would be in the air
And my dark egg settled in my underwear.
With my urgency driving me blind
I decided to rush past the sign.
What’s the worst they could do?
If you only I knew, only I knew….
To this day, I am still struck dumb.
The words are there, but won’t come.
The sight was beyond comprehension
I no longer had to lay a declension.
I pivoted and ran away.
And still to this very day.
I can’t enter an airport commode
Even if my nether did explode.
I curl into a fetal position
And accept my painful condition
Or I camp in the airplane restroom
As I feel the plane go zoom, zoom.
The rumbling of the engine’s roar
Gently nudges my bowls to explore.
Soon over the Great Divide
My waste is allowed to glide.
.
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#041325 #2025 #poem #humor #davidebooker #photonotmine #restrooms #sunday #april #pottyhumor
Filed under 2025, humor, photo, poem, poet, poetry, poetry by author, Poetry by David E. Booker
Shots fired
.
If my vagina fired rounds,
Deep, throaty, rattling sounds,
Bringing men to their knees and to the ground.
If my vagina fired rounds.
.
At the range the other day,
Man sidled up, “Let’s play.”
He pulled out his little gun.
I fired mine and watched him run.
.
If my vagina fired rounds,
Deep, provocative, throaty sounds,
Bringing men down to the ground.
If my vagina fired rounds.
.
Cock the hammer and squeeze just right,
Feel the tension release its might.
Trigger quickens to the right touch
As do I, then I release so much.
.
Listen ammosexuals, I aspire
To all the things you desire:
To live untrammeled by regulation,
Or laws that bind me to subjugation.
.
If my vagina fired rounds,
Deep, provocative, throaty, sounds,
Bringing men to knees and ground.
Would my vagina then be profound?
.
.
#040521 #2021 #vagina #gun #ammosexuals #poem #poetry #photonotmine #shotsfired #davidebooker #political
Filed under 2021, photo, poem, poet, poetry, poetry by author, Poetry by David E. Booker, politics, sex
Ahead
The two-way nympho: /
who beheaded the woman?
is she one-way now?
.
.
#ahead #nympho #beheaded #twoway #oneway #spoof #haiku #poem #poetry #humor #haiga #photo #bookeddy #davidebooker #april #friday #040425 #2025
Age
Age is a crap shoot. /
Some days, the royal flush. /
Other days, flushed out.
.
.
#age #royalflush #crapshoot #flushed #haiku #poem #poetry #haiga #photo #humor #puns #oldnorthknoxville #davidebooker #march #thursday #031325 #2025
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