He, the broke walrus,/
dreams of luring the nymph. [LAUGH!] /
Yet I played that game.
Tag Archives: laugh
Children’s Beach Laughter: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku
Kids playing on a/
winter beach doesn’t sound much/
diff’rent than summer.
OR
Kids playing on a/
winter beach sounds no diff’rent/
than in the summer.
License Plate Laugher: Revolutionary ImproVerse Haiku
Her license plate said/
“Live to laugh”. When we did, we/
both had our days made.
Singing To A Slipper Of Glass: Romantic ImproVerse Haiku
I laughed that the prince/
sang to a glass slipper, but/
I totally would.
Becoming As Little Children: Revolutionary Blogging Haiku
We threw milkweed pods/
and our hands in the air, and/
laughed like kids. They are.
——-
How this haiku happened: Someone posted a Meme saying: “You’re never childless, when you have a Husband”. I responded:
“This was offensive to me… until I started to look at it in a positive light.
Yes, I do act like a child sometimes. Maybe often.
This morning I turned off the bathroom lights and took a shower in the dark to the light of the setting full moon.
Yesterday my great-nephew and niece and I “put our hands in the air” and danced driving in my convertible all the way through town.
I bring home the bacon and am responsible (I have a mortgage that’s nearly paid off), but have a child-like glee in life. I’m kind, tender-hearted, and like to make jokes and have fun.
I’ll play in the sand with Tonka trucks, and stop to look at a bug on a sunflower.
Yesterday I showed these kids about milkweed pods, and as we drove away, we threw parachutes to the sky and giggled when they swirled around our heads in the wind vortex my ragtop-down created.
“For such is the Kingdom of Heaven”, Jesus said.
Maybe that’s not a bad thing.
Kindred Goof-offs Make Merry: Romantic IMprov Haiku
“Merry me!”, he said to/
she who was his kindred goof/
spirit. And they laughed.
How Can You? Romantic IMprov Poetry
How can you make me laugh
in the midst of romance?
How can you take the cold, clammy fear
in my hands, feet and forehead,
and turn it into emotions flaming up
from deep in my heart?
How can you take my tears of pain
and, in a few words,
make me weep with joy and relief?
How can you make me miss you so?
How can you hold me
and rock me gently to sleep
with just a few typed or spoken words?
How can you, with the skill of a cardiac surgeon,
open up my chest
and expose all my innermost hopes,
dreams and feelings…
without hurting or scaring or bruising my heart?
How can you, when my heart aches
and when butterflies dance nervously in my stomach,
reach across the hills, lakes and rivers
and apply soothing balm,
calming the butterflies
and soothing the aches?
How can you make my brain remember
every nuance of your scent,
every wisp of your hair,
every touch of your hand,
the feel of your skin,
your curves,
your breath?
How can you do that?
Frag’ nicht warum.
Sei einfach froh,
daB es ist so.
What Goes Around … : Revolutionary Poetic Lament
As youths,
we would laugh
and loudly whisper,
(when we thought
they couldn’t hear),
about physical oddities:
Mr. M’s errant
and grey
eyebrow hairs.
Mr. C’s gut
that stuck
out so much
you could balance
a martini glass
on it.
Uncle B’s bright white,
bra-less moobs that he showed,
shirtless,
in the summer sun.
Mr. B’s stick legs,
covered to mid-calf with
white socks that matched
his skin.
Mr. P’s back hairs
(we wondered if Mrs. P
brushed or combed them).
Mr. E’s chest hairs,
curling white against his
tan and leathered skin.
They are all dead.
Now I hear,
again,
youthful whispers
and laughs
from behind
my back.