Whimsical Poems

Dead Celery Poem

There is a stalk of celery rotting in the corner of my refrigerator
Not three feet from a modern and convenient
Plastic lined receptacle
Which, has been expertly engineered
By poly-tech draftsmen
Well versed in the geometry of such things
Nicely crafted by some injection mold tech
Handsomely packaged for marketing
Finally bought and delivered
Not three feet from my refrigerator
Ready and waiting to accept
The discardation of such decompositions
As thee
O rotting stalk of celery
Why aren’t you there?

Knock.
On wood flooring tongue
In groove is the style
Of it’s milling
Otherwise guys
Laid side by side
It’s a planed butt
Makes the joint

Ain’t she a dove
And a dove’s tail’s
Lovely in drawers
The mitres
The fingers
The simpleton butts
Stepped down
In the bureau
The day they were dove tail joined

In the bar you can bar
The door with a bar so
The door of the bar
Will be barred
But if a man of the bar
Say an attorney or judge
Is barred at the door of the bar
He’ll just have to knock
Or a dip in the crock
Will stay barred from the Bar
Until the bar on the bar
Is lifted like the skirt of a bride

So knock on wood
You know or you should
You’re knocking to
The spirits inside 

If I Wrote a Novel

If I wrote a novel would it be
A story of love with a happy ending
A life of unwavering devotion
A tale of the passions of heart

Would it be of a vicious murder?
With paragraphs that drip with blood
Butcher knives, hand-guns and bludgeons
Cadavers, coppers and a keen eyed sleuth

I might pick someone great or renowned
And laboriously research an in-depth study
Give the entire world in no uncertain terms
All the laudable praise the person deserves

Or maybe perhaps a children’s book
Full of princes, fairies, and gnome folk
Wizards and their magical widgets
Frogs with eyelashes and horses with wings

I could write one of travels and wandering
All the wondrous worldly sights to see
With a hero some sage like hermit
Or some stir-crazy half drunken bard

Then there’s always the way out and weird
Of course the Sci-Fi that’s all the rage
Little green men in their space ships
Galaxies, planets, black holes and novas

Then if all else failed the autobiography
Tell some distant and undefined readership
The tale of a typewriter that mostly sat silent
Though occasionally tapped out a poem.