There once was a writer from Hell
Who could tell his stories quite well.
Full of fire and hate
They kept his readers up late –
And then there was their god awful smell.
There once was a writer from Hell
Who could tell his stories quite well.
Full of fire and hate
They kept his readers up late –
And then there was their god awful smell.
Filed under 2020, photo by David E. Booker, Poetry by David E. Booker
Old age never ends. /
It lives like a thin shadow, /
Fattened by seasons.
Filed under 2020, Haiku to You Thursday, Poetry by David E. Booker
There once was a writer from Sandusky
An outdoor fellow and husky.
He wrote about the birds and the bees
And even humans on their knees
But he himself was never lucky.
Filed under 2020, Monday morning writing joke, Poetry by David E. Booker
If I were the last /
Would morning dew still matter? /
Asked the blade of grass.
Filed under 2020, Haiku to You Thursday, Poetry by David E. Booker
Thunder bangs the glass, /
a beggar at the window /
demanding tribute.
The stargazer grieves /
for the love he left behind /
fading into daylight.
Empty as a pocket /
We compared mythologies /
Midnight to devastation.
Filed under 2019, Haiku to You Thursday, poetry by author
Know is not knowing /
Then how can you consider /
This watch, but not time?
Filed under 2019, Haiku to You Thursday
I killed her with laughter.
She lies dead on the floor.
For many many years
she I just tried to ignore.
She was a noisy neighbor
a Gladys Kravitz type
who took the smallest thing
and gave it biggest hype.
Then one sunny day,
I told her a joke.
It wasn’t very funny
but she began to choke.
I stood there and stared
wondering what I should do.
She made the choking sign
and I knew she was through.
I should have helped her –
this I know now –
but I was glad to be rid of her
that nosy neighbor cow.
The house she lived in
has strange new residents.
I hope to meet them
but their nose never relents.
In the middle of night
I’ll hear a freight train.
It’s charging through my bedroom!
I’m going insane!
I have been spying on them
to find out what I can do.
Then one of them came over
and started with a joke or two.
There once was a chef from Kent
who knew not how her evening was spent.
With her panties aside
had she hitched up for a ride?
Or was that dampness some other condiment?

Filed under 2019, Monday morning writing joke, poetry by author