Tag Archives: humorous poetry

Belly-ache

cheese platter.jpg

Rigid in bed I glared at the ceiling,
belly-ache imparting a ghastly feeling.
Hurt so bad I didn’t sleep all night
belly-ache giving me quite a fright.
The veggie bake was a big mistake;
too much cheese gives me belly ache.

Couldn’t pretend that I didn’t know –
the belly-ache had hit me weeks ago;
from baking up the very same meal,
belly-ache made me squirm and squeal.
Swore back then that I’d forsake
the cheese that gave me belly-ache.

It happened again since I couldn’t resist
the lovely cheesy belly-achy dish.
Guessed the reason and it’s not too sad
belly-ache’s caused by a rocky gall-blad.
The rich cheese sauce gave me personal proof,
when belly-ache pain shot through the roof.

Knew right then what I had to do –
take my belly-ache to the medical zoo.
Personable doctor prodded me,
gave me extra belly-ache for free.
We nodded our heads and we both agreed
an ultra-sound scan was what I’d need.

Waited seven weeks in sober mood,
sticking to belly-ache reducing food.
All of my favourite cheeses are out –
Don’t want another belly-ache bout.
Letter came and it offered me a date
for checking the reason for my belly-ache.

Crawled to the bus-stop in the heat of the sun,
went to the hospital, belly-ache all gone.
Lay on the bed for the friendly technician –
pleased that my belly-ache was in remission.
She greased my belly and employed her skill
to find what was causing my belly-aching ill.

Technician told me her name was Nelli,
as she viewed a grainy movie of my ache-free belly.
She was sweet and funny and extremely kind-hearted –
this was the belly-aching news she imparted;
Belly is filled with a truckload of rocks,
that’s what tied me in belly-aching knots.

Don’t know how long the wait will be,
but the belly-aching bundle will be cut out of me.
I’m looking forward to the glorious day
when I can throw my belly-ache diet sheet away.
This is the reason that I feel so pleased;
I won’t get belly-ache when I eat cheese.

<> <> <>

The technician really was called Nelli…

©Jane Paterson Basil

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Funny Bundy

I love this slice of Father Madness from Dorna at Madasahatter. Click HERE to read her brilliant poem about Al Bundy.

I was a bit disconcerted at first, but as soon as I realised that I was getting  Al Bundy mixed up with the repugnant Ted Bundy, who would be described as something rather more ominous than “cheeky”, I breathed a sigh of relief, quickly followed by a gurgle of laughter.

Moving swiftly on, forget Ted Bundy and click HERE to read Dorna’s poem if you didn’t already click above – or even if you did – it is worthy of a second read.

Indomitable # a poem

Filleigh - Castle_Hill_viaduct.jpg

Standing on the window ledge polishing the glass,
petrified pedestrians staring at my ass.
Don’t think about the pavement thirty feet below;
hang on to the window frame and don’t let go.
When the windows are clean, the battle is won;
you call it risky but I call it fun.

The disused viaduct is surprisingly high,
If I was to plummet I would surely die.
The protective fence is no wider than my shoe –
close your eyes tight if I am scaring you.
Ten steps to go, and I’m feeling driven,
you call it madness but I call it living.

Lying in the park in the middle of the day,
just around the corner from the kids at play.
Frankie is practicing his knife-throwing skill;
every near miss is giving me a thrill.
Watching his smile as he hovers above;
You call it dangerous but I call it love.

Image of Castle Hill Viaduct. At some point before I moved to the area – in my teens, a fence was built along each edge of the bridge, to make it ‘safe’.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Vanity

bigbum-tiledformat.jpg

I can’t believe I spent so long on this…

bigbum3

I hope you won’t think
that I’m fishing for pity, or some reassurance;
I could not bear the idea of that,
but a burning issue is seeking attention,
and it’s worth a mention,
so this is the thing, you see;
I just no longer like being me.

I hate to confess the breadth of my reasons,
and I can’t blame the troubles that came my way,
or the way my life has generally been,
so nobody else is to blame;
it’s only because I am me.

I will put it succinctly:
I no longer
respect myself.
So I will be brave
and straight to the point,
as I stand here before you…
stripped to the hips.

Does my bum look  pretty,
is it pert and flirty?
Do you think it is priceless
or simply  blown out and flabby and big?

It wasn’t a bad poem to start with, but I had to make all sorts of changes to force it into the shape of a woman’s body. Sometimes, wrecking a poem can be time-consuming and gruelling work…

©Jane Paterson Basil

The Ballad of Dreadful Cecil

pestle-and-mortar

Cecil was a vile pretender
whose cruel disguise was retail vendor;
in market stalls all round the county,
he set up alluring bounty
of stone and marble kitchenware,
then sat in wait upon a chair.
He displayed to avid eyes
pestles and mortars of every size.

On his stall, the largest vessel
was devoid of matching pestle.
“Where could it be?” I hear you ask –
Why; in his hand, and tightly grasped.
Before I tell you of his ruse,
you need to know it won’t amuse,
for he was evil to the core –
a scofflaw who loved blood and gore.

If a housewife took a shine
to a pestle quite divine.
he didn’t sell it as he aughta,
but hit her with his mighty mortar,
then hid her underneath the table
just as fast as he was able,
making sure that no-one saw
her collapse upon the floor.

It gave him joy for many years
to cause such agony and tears –
but one fine day he came a cropper
via a woman in a topper;
when he hit her on the head
she pretended she was dead.
He didn’t know that her dark hat
had deflected his hard bat.

He had caught a clever sort
strong of body, quick of thought;
She jumped up and pushed him under –
was that lightning, was it thunder
he heard crashing in his ears,
summoning his deepest fears?
No, the poor old wormy wood
had taken all the weight it could.

The table smashed to smithereens
to the sound of Cecil’s screams
from beneath the splintering table –
it was like the fall of Babel.
Stoneware hit his back and head,
turning concrete bloody red.
As he desperately wrestled
He got tangled in the trestle.

So enmeshed was dreadful Cecil
he was buried with his trestle.

My best friend challenged me to write a poem with the last two lines ending, respectively, in Cecil and Trestle. This was the result.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Greedy George

greedy

Gross!
Greedy
George gorges;
gulps gazpacho,
guzzles gingersnaps;
gives gargantuan groan…
gusts gigantic, gruesome gas…
gesticulates… grabs gut… goes green.
George gone! Graceless guests gawk, gasp, goggle,
Ghastly girlfriend gapes, gets giggles. Ghoulish.

~O~

I wrote this poem last night, for a contest which required  an etheree poem containing as much alliteration as possible. An etheree consists of 10 lines of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 syllables.

To make sure I wasn’t outdone on the alliteration count, every word begins with G. I was quite pleased with the result.

When I tried to enter the contest, I was automatically  disqualified. The contest organiser had decreed that nobody who’d won a contest on that platform in the past 90 days was eligible. I think I’ve come 1st, 2nd or 3rd on that platform eight or nine times.

I thought I’d post it here instead. 

©Jane Paterson Basil