Posts Tagged ‘Humor’

Story time

A fellow was telling a tale
How he once caught a whale by the tail
“That’s a whale of a tale!”
Yelled Ahab looking pale
In a failed Melville tale not for sale

A fictional hero called Potter
In a magical world fought a rotter
Tom became Voldemort
A tyrannical sort
Whom they couldn’t pick up with a blotter


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Everything that goes up must come down. But there comes a time when not everything that’s down can come up.
George Burns

Jumping on my trampoline
Higher than I’ve ever been
When I rise, I see you fall
Motion relative for all

Jumping too far to the side
Now towards the ground I glide
Nothing there to break my fall
Just a leg or two that’s all

Romping in the grass with Jean
Crushed and bruised those blades of green
As she rises, I must fall
Or there’ll be no joy at all

Waiting as that rising tide
Lifts again what then had died
Wishful those who in love fall
That there’ll be no quick withdrawal

Movement is the key, you see
To explore what there might be
Waiting where the eyes next fall
To repel or to enthral

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Still Life

The garden gnome seems quite at home
Just sitting there with thoughtful stare
Beneath the tree as still can be
With jacket green and trousers blue
Red pointy hat somewhat askew
His brown boots hardly worn at all
He welcomes those that come to call:

A hedgehog with a point of view
A snail with haste that seems undue
A bird that flying visits makes
A bee too busy to take breaks
And many others I’ve no doubt
That I do not yet know about.

Though of few words, it must be said,
He seems somehow goodwill to spread
And often when I happen by
I swear he looks with kindly eye.

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Lucky dip

I hear the voice that speaks no words
I see the form invisible
The inner one reveals a world:
A semblance of reality
I share through sociality.

It fell one night from outer space
And formed a crater in that place
A burning stone and there within
The seeds of life now to begin.

The hour was late; I told it so
And pointed to my watch.
The minute hand upheld my claim
Time only had itself to blame.

The garden’s growing – not in size
But everything therein.
It’s daring me now to compete
And try to keep it looking neat.

‘A penny for your thoughts,’ she said.
He said, ‘I hadn’t any.’
‘So now it seems you do,’ she said.
He said, ‘There’s just the penny.’

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This hole it goes right through
Comes out the other side
Not too wide or too narrow
Its emptiness implied
An absence of what’s there
Outside its unseen skin
That’s clamouring to enter
But somehow can’t get in

This hole has size and shape
Although the ends it’s true
Extend out to infinity
Or some far point of view
Enigma some might say
With not that much to show
While hanging there in space-time
Unable to let go

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Passing time

It’s a beautiful day
Grey and misty with drizzle
The sun can’t decide
Whether to thwart the mizzle

So it seems my first line
Will describe what has truly
Occurred or be wrong
To those wet most unduly


A friend of mine called Clementine
Finds sipping wine so very fine
Though quite benign, she must recline
When sips combine to number nine


The afternoon is here so soon
With morning gone half dressed
The evening on the staircase waits
For rattle of the dinner plates

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Christmas Spirits

Flavours of Christmas, past and present

A wassail, a wassail, let’s drink a wassail
Sweet ale with roast apples
And spices, all hail!
Come ye lads and lassies
Now gather around
It’s joy for the making
Whose is the next round?

A Christmas pud with brandy flame
appears to shouts of rude acclaim.
The wine flows down to where there’s sin,
and see, the Vicar’s joining in.
Red faces, burps, sharp nudges, winks,
eyes searching for revealing chinks;
the raucous laughter, titters, grins,
it’s Christmas for the double chins.

So raise a glass, let hearts be light
Set now your troubles out of sight
And for those wishing on a star
May your dreams take you just as far.

Christmas, Christmas, what are you
A feast of pleasure, nothing more?
With presents opened, all consumed
Must normal business be resumed?

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Just four


Yesterday I caught a cold
And put it in a box
But still it makes me cough and sneeze
It seems it can escape with ease

Empty spaces

One joined to a lived-in neighbour
One left standing all alone
One tucked in between two others
Houses that no one will own


A lonely shower moved from the sea
To pour its blessings down on me
And when I cursed, wished it to go
It froze, turning the rain to snow.

Daze of the week

Monday starts a week of weekdays
Friday ends what it began
Saturday begins the weekend
Sunday fends off Monday’s plan

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Writer’s cramp

This not meant to be a complete guide to grammar, which those who succeed in wading through it will probably welcome. Some may not agree with everything – luckily 🙂

The usage of that, which, who, whom
will often leave for doubt some room,
and faulty grammar can offend
the ones on which you might depend.
Here whom should replace which, of course,
as all good teachers will endorse.

Yes, that and which are used for those
who cannot count how many toes.
Oh dear, I’ve done it once again
that should replace who, it is plain.

When following a comma which (,which)
an element is one to ditch,
while if it follows that, no doubt,
it’s one that cannot be left out.

Now who and whom are next to be
placed firmly under scrutiny.
Here is a sentence to inspect
“To see whom will the fault detect”
Those who would here use who instead
most will delight, it must be said,
though there’s a rule called “her or she”
that makes it clear for all to see.
You answer thus: “She will detect”;
the test says who is here correct.

And here’s another one to test
“The girl who I just know the best”
Applying now the rule once more,
“I know her best” will work for sure
The rule now says that whom is right
so that is what you then must write.
To sum up, it is simply true:
Her gives whom” and “She gives who”.

I trust this leaves you less confused
and hopefully somewhat amused,
you that now having reached this far
might needs be heading for the bar.

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The world’s not made of atoms
Complete with sticky bits
They’re just a mask for others
That I call Little Wits

A Little Wit does wonders
It sees through you and me
And views the world around it
With calculated glee

It conjures plain to lavish
It creates, hates renewal
And gladly joins with others
To break most every rule

When those who worship science
Discover Little Wit
It might bring some surprises
And cheer us up a bit


Strangely, after writing this I came across the following play written in the sixteenth century by John Redford, a vicar-choral at St. Paul’s Cathedral in 1534, entitled:
The play of Wit and Science
It concerns a marriage between Wit and Science.

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It follows me just everywhere
and kicks me now and then.
Yes, there it is again you see
I never can tell when.
And if I turn, however fast,
I never get to view,
the one that knows just when I need
to stop and think anew.

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All my own work I hasten to add

There was a famed tenor named Ford
Who wished to sing praise to the Lord
In a monastery grey
He decided to stay
But soon left when no one would applaud

In a house on a hill lives Aunt Jane
After climbing there, often she’s drained
But when once more below
Her cheeks are all aglow
From potential energy that she’s gained

There once was a bright statistician
Whose wife left him for a physician
Though the chances seemed high
That she’d one day come by
Now he’s just a plain mathematician

A cosmology student named Cole
Thought he’d found somewhere near a black hole
He was sent into space
To take shots of its face
It smiled briefly then swallowed him whole

Of books used by clerical brothers
The scriptures are read more than others
But for most it’s the case
That here in the rat race
Their old wisdom stays between the covers

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August showers

To the tune of “April Showers”
From the Broadway musical “Bombo” (1921)
(Buddy DeSylva / Louis Silvers)
An original version can be found here

All together now!

Life is not a highway strewn with flowers
But a road where oft things go amiss
When the sun gives way to August showers
Here is the point we should never miss

When August showers they come our way
They drown the flowers and weeds shout, ‘Hey!’
And if it’s hailing, some have regrets
They ever started growing things at all
And having plants as pets

And when we see clouds that bring us chills
The last we think of are daffodils
And there’s a very soggy blackbird
That won’t break into song
Whenever August showers come along

And when we see clouds that bring us chills
The last we think of are daffodils
And there’s a very soggy blackbird
That won’t break into song
Whenever August showers come along

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Six times six is thirty-six
unless my mind is playing tricks.
Four sixes rise and me implore
to add them to the final score.

Left with one six clutching nought
it seems that I have sixty wrought.
Where have those other sixes gone?
Absorbed like magic every one.

Numbers running round my brain,
all integers from their domain.
The “point” is, as I hope you’ll see,
removed from this reality.

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Nine lives



If nine by nine is eighty-one
as it would seem to be
then with nine more
and then times ten
nine hundred we might see.

And if another hundred came
what could heave into sight?
No numbers nine
but just a one
with three noughts to the right.

What is the purpose of this piece
you might now wish to know?
It’s just a rhyme
to fill the time
arriving apropos.

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Old nursery rhymes revisited and a few new suggestions

Raggle Taggle went to market
For a goose to haggle
When at last he had his way
The goose could no more waggle.

Humpty Dumpty often fell
Though warned no walls to sit on
His shell became so fractured that
No fractal shape would fit on.

Miss Muffet would rough it
And sit on a tuffet
To munch every day
On her curds and whey
But since that old spider
Came up close beside her
She eats at the table
Which ends this small fable.

Foxy Fox wore bright red socks
To call the bull
Shaped like a chicken
That thought it was
Too big for licking.

The cow that jumped over the moon
Came back down just a little too soon
It went into orbit
As gravity caught it
The dog wept and dish ditched the spoon

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According to the Big Bang theory the “universe” began as a space-time expanded into nothingness

Thoughts after reading Constantin Antonopoulos’s:
A Bang into Nowhere: comments on the Universe expansion theory
From APEIRON Volume 10 Number 1 (January 2003)

If a whole should be something
then it’s not the Whole.
A part it must then be
of some other whole.

Then a whole could hold others
but also be small
compared to some other
containing it all.

And if one whole could grow more
than all of the rest
then still there’d be two wholes
or no wholes at best.

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Winged lodgers

We’ve got birds in the roof
from the bathroom you hear
tweet, tweet, tweet from the fledglings
with hunger severe.

Mom and dad get inside
through an air duct so small.
It’s a wonder that they can
gain entry at all.

It’s the neighbours’ you see.
I told them what I’d seen;
showed them just what was damaged
a job most routine.

But the days they passed by
and my frustration grew.
I’d repaired the one our side
from them nothing new.

So the birds won the day
and we’ll just have to wait
till the little ones take flight
to seek out their fate.

I can hear them from here
quite a distance away
sitting listening to tweet-tweet
the whole blessed day.

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Bach was back

Who isn’t moved by the music of Johann Sebastian Bach – moved in the positive sense, of course? Well, those who don’t like classical music for starters, and those who do but prefer something with more pizzazz or find even Bach too exotic.

Anyway, there we were yesterday evening sitting high up in a box hanging on the right wall (facing the podium) of a wonderful ultra-modern but tastefully decorated concert hall. An expectant muttering filled the air as Bach admirers from all over the Netherlands waited for something to happen. The piece to be performed was Bach’s St. Matthew’s Passion, in its original form and played with original instruments though not, unfortunately, with the original players and singers. One can’t have everything.


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The title doesn’t really match the poem – or does it?

It feels like spring with spells of sun
and clouds so soft that bring delight,
fifteen degrees – not bad for March –
or fifty nine in Fahrenheit.
The birdies chatter endlessly
telling each other
but not

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