I consider myself a poetry minimalist. And yet, my attempt at responding to the #7SyllableSentence #pinch #prompt, somehow grew into this 40-syllable #limerick:
Please don’t tell me to add just a dash
Or a pinch of some item. That’s rash:
Though my fingers are smaller
Than most, I’m a brawler.
Be precise, or be blamed for my hash.
I dream of a solid night’s sleep,
Unbroken by noise — long and deep;
Unawakened by hourly
Peeing, done dourly.
(And don’t you dare recommend sheep!)
I find learning new words a delight.
But my mind disagrees; it’s a fight!
Seems my crowded old brain
Deems such efforts a strain;
It evicts other words, just for spite.
Since production of pennies is ending,
Is it time for some idiom-mending?
Must the penny be spurned?
Nickel saved, nickel earned?
Dime for thoughts? Is “cute quarter” ascending?
An old man (who just died) was an ass;
Rather nasty and given to sass.
He, alas, wasn’t tactful.
His gibes were impactful.
(NOT packed full — his funeral Mass.)
I wonder just what is the reason
Why spring’s such an ornery season.
First it’s cold, then it’s hot,
Then it’s icy, then not —
Makes me ask whether spring is just teasin’.
Hubby’s cooking is NOT to be missed.
My job’s cleanup; that’s how I assist.
Hone my skills at the stove?
‘Twould be pointless, by Jove,
For my cooking-chops just don’t exist.
I have never been able to whistle.
“So who cares?” you might say in dismissal.
But a gal who can toot
On the oboe and flute
Should be able to whistle a bissel.
Whined a writer, I’m rusty and blocked.
I just can’t get my juices unlocked.
It’s the fault of my muse
Who’s gone AWOL. J’accuse!
Can’t remember the last time we talked.
That magician is handsome and nice.
But I only went out with him twice:
He’s obsessed with The Matrix
And kept doing date tricks.
I HATE tricks, so date him? No dice!
A young fellow scrawled something quite mean
In bright orange, dark red, and lime green.
I must hasten to note
I don’t mind what he wrote.
But that color scheme? Grossly obscene!
“You’re too trusting! Stop being naive!
You’ve been conned. You’re a snap to deceive.
I can tell from one look
That your boyfriend’s a crook.
Your credulity’s hard to believe!”
A fine actress who’d hoped for the lead
In an upcoming film failed to heed
The advice from her spouse,
Who had warned, “Never grouse
At auditions and don’t read on speed!”
I infrequently recommend shows,
For my fav might make someone else doze.
But I’m deep in the thrall
Of the series Étoile
About artists who dance on their toes.
The weather this spring’s not conforming
To seasonal norms. I’m not warming
To its ups and its downs,
So I keep wearing frowns.
As for clothes, fickle temps hinder norming.
When my boyfriend proposed, mom was pleased:
“No returns, no exchanges,” she teased.
She was thrilled with our match,
For she thought him a catch…
And her “old maid” concerns were appeased.
I’m attempting to write a short ditty
About something that’s dreadfully shitty.
But I’m getting the blues
From my options — can’t choose
The right shitstorm. (Things lately ain’t pretty!)
An old fellow who’d putter all day
Would refuse to throw refuse away.
When his wife tried to deal
With his clutter, he’d squeal
As he rescued his rubbish array.
As the cop brought her in, the young lass
Acknowledged she’d done something crass:
“In hindsight,” she said,
When her rights had been read,
“I shouldn’t have bared my cute ass.”
“You are constantly spouting some beef,”
Said his boss. “It’s non-stop. No relief!
Your complaints (mostly petty)
Don’t stick. They’re spaghetti.
Do your job and stop giving me grief!”
Mad Kane (Madeleine Begun Kane) is a writer, musician, and "recovering lawyer." She won the Robert Benchley Society Award For Humor and enjoys writing limericks, song parodies, and current events haiku.
You can email her at madkane@madkane.com, visit her political humor blog, or stop by her home page.
