There once was a writer extraordinaire
For the less talented he did not care.
Then one day
His ghost writer gave him away
And credit with his mom he had to share.
Tag Archives: rhyming poetry
Monday morning writing joke: “Writer Extraordinaire”
Filed under 2019, Monday morning writing joke, poetry by author
Photo finish (and poem) Friday: “Rain”
As I sit out in the rain /
Pondering life all the same /
A pond appeared across the way /
Growing larger and larger throughout the day /
Until the time when night fell /
And I could not tell land from water very well. /
But as the sun rose, I will vouchsafe, /
It’s no fun being in a watery grave.
Filed under 2019, Photo Finish Friday, poetry by author
Star Trek: The Next Germination: “The multigrain sandwich and war”
Multigrain for Picard
Made chewing very hard
On the bridge to make it so.
Because of that special dough
When the Romulans did appear
The sandwich would not clear
His throat so he could order
“Data, warp 8 to the boarder!”
Now, over 20 years have passed
And his days in Starfleet amassed
In history books where stories are told
Of his feats, both brave and bold.
But there is one footnote aside
About the one mission that was tried.
Enterprise and crew were almost lost
Until Number One grabbed and tossed
The multi-grain demon across the bridge
Striking Worf upon his ridge,
And then he slapped Picard on the back
Which caused the Captain to go “Hack-ack-ack.”
Worf thought that meant aim and fire
Photons and phaser banks entire.
When the weapons were all depleted
And Picard was finally seated
Worf peeled the sandwich from his head
Took a bite and boldly said,
“Needs mustard.”
Filed under 2019, poetry by author, Star Trek
Photo finish Friday: “Cold one”
Photo courtesy of Chris Brock.
The coldest beer in the USA
by David E. Booker
The coldest beer in the USA
Drive up and down the pike
Turn left or turn right
You won’t find another
As cold and as clear tonight.
My truck broke down.
My dog died suddenly
And my woman, she left me
Running off with my brother
What else bad can there be?
The coldest beer in the USA
Drive up and down the pike
Turn left or turn right
You won’t find another
As cold and as clear tonight.
My barber’s quiet frown
Says my hair’s gone astray
Fading from my head, more each day.
Being bald makes me shudder.
I cry and throw my comb away.
The coldest beer in the USA
Drive up and down the pike
Turn left or turn right
You won’t find another
As cold and as clear tonight.
One left and eleven down.
Empties rattle in the back.
Now here comes the local flack.
He’s after me and no other.
I sip the last of the twelve pack.
The coldest beer in the USA
Drive up and down the pike
Turn left or turn right
You won’t find another
As cold and as clear tonight.
Sitting in a cell downtown
Waiting to be shipped to the jail
Nobody left to throw my bail.
Then I see my dear ol’ brother.
The look of man about to fail.
The coldest beer in the USA
Drive up and down the pike
Turn left or turn right
You won’t find another
As cold and as clear tonight.
I give him my best frown.
He walks over and says to me:
“Brother forgive and let it be
“She ran off with yet another.
“Our half-brother who’d been at sea.”
The coldest beer in the USA
Drive up and down the pike
Turn left or turn right
Sadly, we can’t have another
On this cold and clear tonight.
Filed under 2017, Photo Finish Friday
“My Bowling Green”
It’s hard being Bowling Green, /
To see the things I have seen, /
Bodies piled high as friends lean /
Upon the bars in my Bowling Green. /
The reckless came to town one day, /
Said we had all gone away, /
Gone away, no more to say /
In this place now unseen, called my Bowling Green. /
Jihadist from a foreign land /
Had come and massacred us so grand, /
Wiped us all out where we stand. /
O’ the tragedy was so mean deep in my Bowling Green. /
They say none of us were spared, /
That these terrorist did not care. /
We were lost to great despair /
That day in memory serpentine in my Bowling Green. /
The media did not take note. /
Little was said and less was wrote. /
We were left with but just a sad note, /
A sad note it would seem about my Bowling Green. /
Fredrick Douglass had nothing to say. /
Nor Oliver Wendell Douglas about that day /
When Green Acres were turned red with dismay /
O’ that sad, mean, vile scene in my Bowling Green. /
We cannot remember what we do not know, /
Though alternative facts tell us so, /
That lies and lives come and go. /
There is little we can now glean from my Bowling Green. /
They erected a sign to the non-event /
And many a word has long been spent /
In song and poem and prose unbent /
To say what can’t be seen of the wrongs in my Bowling Green. /
It’s hard being Bowling Green, /
To see the things I have seen, /
Bodies piled high as friends lean /
Upon the bars in my Bowling Green.
–photo and poem by David E. Booker
Filed under 2017, photo by David E. Booker, poetry by author, political humor
Relate
Bloviate, expectorate
sniffle, drivel
prevaricate.
Chronic hate, cheat on mate
snivel, quibble,
not so great.
Reprobate, a tyrant’s slate
uncivil, drivel
expropriate.
Disassociate, oh too late
swivel, shrivel
unsubstantiate.
Violate, grope a date
piddle, riddle
desecrate.
Obviate, end of state
cripple middle
subjugate.
–by David E. Booker
Filed under 2016, poetry by author
Photo finish Friday: “Ode from a deliquescing pumpkin
Ode from a deliquescing pumpkin
I was once a pumpkin:
Now I am a mess.
The party night is over
And I wait to deliquesce.
The treats have been handed out
Some to children too bold
Who think that a cigarette
Is not a sign you’re too old.
They came in hoards and cars
As if the end of time was near
From close by and far way
Some with the scent of beer.
I was once orange and in my prime
Round and succulent to behold.
But now I deliquesce
As I grow a little mold.
I will not make Thanksgiving
Which I hear is a special holiday
Where pumpkins become pie
And make taste buds say, “Yay!”
I hope you will remember me
As I slump into the earth.
Don’t think of me as too scary
But with a little mirth.
And next year at this time
Decorate one of my kin
And the season of the spooks
Can once again begin.
–by David E. Booker
Photo finish Friday: “Heads up”
Inspiration can come from anywhere — even someone else’s photo.
Heads up
Oh no, many heads will roll
After these twenty years so droll.
After ten their eyes rolled back
And such they uttered: “Poor ol’ sad sack.”
She married wild and much too early
And outside her station, “Oh, most surely.”
There is very little we can do now
Except shake our heads and wonder how.
She’s stuck around like a head on a pike.
She has given him pain, but much delight.
But the naysayers still shake their heads
As if that’s all that need ever be said.
Oh no, many heads still roll
After these twenty years so droll.
After ten their eyes rolled back
And such they uttered: “Alas and alack.”
He’s such a goofball, they did deride
And these were friends on his side.
“He’s weird and crazy and even a dope.”
Still she never once gave up hope.
These twenty years have been quite heady
Even those that weren’t quite steady.
The days have passed in the blink of eye
Even for eyes perched way up high.
Each moment has been like a stone
In building a castle called a home.
Few are left who say nay to them
And their chances grow ever slim.
Oh no, all those heads will roll
And that rolling will take its toll.
Heads now are perched high up on lances
With eyes blank, no longer giving glances.
–poem by David E. Booker
Filed under 2016, Photo Finish Friday, poetry by author
Oh, Mom
[Editor’s note: inspired by a neighbor’s actual event, as reported on Facebook. Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers reading this.]
Oh, Mom,
I did it again, like when I was ten
And then, in the middle of the night
In panic and fright I committed the sin
Of turning your bedding off-white.
Oh, Mom,
I was queasy then and I am again,
And once more I stand at your door.
Too much to drink, this time I think.
I should’ve stopped instead of saying, “More.”
Oh, Mom,
As I now look in, the light is very thin.
I hear the roar of a brain-jarring snore.
Is that you or Dad? Oh, my achy breaky head.
I pitch in too soon, onto the bed — ka-boom!
Oh, Mom,
I will try again. Oh, where to begin?
I did not mean to do or repeat anew,
But my head went in, like when I was ten,
And turned white into red, white, and “Ouuh!”
Oh, Mom,
I did it again, like I did back then,
When, in the middle of the night,
In panic and fright I committed the sin
Of turning your bedding off-white.
–by David E. Booker
Filed under 2016, poetry, poetry by author
Photo finish Friday: “Lights out”
Traffic indecisive.
There once was a light in town
that folks just couldn’t get around.
Red, yellow, and also green:
all colors could be seen.
It glowed all day and night —
strong was the town’s light plight.
They couldn’t get anywhere
with that light hanging in the air.
Stuck at a standstill they were;
no thought or action could occur.
Nobody knew what to expect
or which color light to select.
Green meant they should go,
yellow meant I don’t know,
And red meant do no more,
keep your brake down to the floor.
So there were wrecks and bottlenecks
and people who couldn’t trek.
The town was in full mess.
What to do was anyone’s guess.
Then one day in the dead of night
with hoods on to block the light
people stumbled and bumbled around
until they cut the light Hydra down.
They hung it in the town museum
where folks now can come and see them:
all three bright lights —
glowing both day and night.
But they attached a timer switch
so even those caught in its twitch
have a chance to get away
on this, April Fool’s Day.
So, if you ever come to town
and feel life has you down,
go where others have already gone
and watch the lights shine on and on.
–photo and poem by David E. Booker
Filed under 2016, photo by David E. Booker, poetry by author
Booker's Blog 