Humor

The Battleground The slashing blades strike fierce and deep The newly stricken fall down in heaps. In vain: the foe storms back enraged, The scythe-like swords remain engaged. The rampaging hordes beat with passion; Blade-wielders reply in their own fashion. Undaunted, the enemy tries once more, The swords, unstinting, produce...

The two were different as could be as anyone could surely see One was tall and thick and white, the other black and thin and slight To look at them it would be clear to any stranger standing near That neither would think of the other as a friend or...

Tell me why the patient is still crying. What pharmaceuticals? pain pills? barbiturates? What pretties has the doctor been supplying? Finish the prescription. Don't give up trying the newest, truest of amalgamates. Tell me why the patient is still crying. Xanax will put you down when you are flying, while...

Retreating Snow Like an old man dragging his long white hair out of the lawn, back toward the forest’s shade, the snow retreats, cornered, and well-aware of time that’s up and warmth it can’t evade… Young blonde Apollo bays this crumbling foe and inch by inch reclaims the tawny grass;...

  This Autumn Evening These words of Bashō I cannot claim as my own, but they appear again and again in poems I try to write this autumn evening. Three simple words I am unable to match, unable to live up to with my own words this autumn evening. As...

"More SpongeBob, Mimi"--this I hear a dozen times a day. How much more can I stand to see? No more of this, I pray! I turn the TV off and run to fetch his favorite toys. When he says, "Spongebob's much more fun," I must seek other ploys. "A Krabby...

  Made (by Imprisoned Falun Gong) in China It's mass production everywhere I look, From toys of plastic hope to airplane parts, And after all the livelihood you took, You're pressing mass production upon hearts By binding hands that never meant you harm, And feet that never trampled on your dreams,...

  Greeks, Bearing Gifts The coils of wood cascade as worn blades glide from cedar lengths, rough-hewn deformed and coarse, while nearby, ships await a final tide and summer’s winds chase sand among the gorse. As carpenters, alone among the force of soldiers, stay and toil their keen minds on...

  Calpurnia’s Paranoia Beware the Ides of March, she said— if you ignore the signs, you’re dead. But Caesar did not share her dread and shuffled off to work instead. Once on the Senate floor he knew Calpurnia’s portent would prove true, for there among that motley crew was his...

He looked all around him and saw monuments so vast Built with good intentions to endure and hold steadfast Awesome structures pointing up to heaven as to say Here is my creation and forever it will stay How he envied those whose makers surely had the skill And patience as...

  Ode to Matters of Fact The best advice I've ever read -- if you don't breathe you'll soon be dead. And secondly -- a pleasant wife can rid a man of moan and strife. Then third -- rye whiskey in a glass can knock a good man on his...

I Think Therefore “I think,” said Descartes, “and therefore I am.” declared many years ago, way before spam. It predated facebook and twitter and tweet, when only the lonely thought thought was a treat. Today there is seldom an unspoken thought; a trait to forsake for the misery it’s brought....

I Pray It’s Not Too Late I’ve walked in the eye of a hurricane Safe between its walls of rain And when the winds swept in again I stood alone in awe I’ve beheld forever in the sea Her gentle waves that called to me The world beneath so wild...

One night-crawler out on this sparkling court, Dried-up and shriveled, overdone, not red, Neglected to take heed, or to report ‘T was all mirage; to turn around instead. Followers, these, in the benighted hours, Had wriggled out to nab a bit of wet; Who in the sun wilt faster than...

Click here for more riddles I. My mirror image never is that far, I have five different points just like a star, While I’ve no mouth or tongue that I employ, I make a sound quite loud when struck with joy. Have a try, Who am I? II. I’m an...

They aren’t mine, these flabby folds of flesh. I have no clue why they have chosen me As target of their sordid misery, Transforming me from sylph to plodding wretch. I’ve never seen this abdomen before. I never have claimed kinship with such thighs. They may expect a welcome, by...

“Granma died, my ex tried suicide,” you confide in me, your credabil- ity nil for one more dark excuse is no use. Let’s settle our bill til there’s no more last, last straw.   Damian Robin is a journalist and poet living in England. Featured Image by Vaclav Zapadlik

The Three Little Pigs —a story retold There were three little pigs, one, two, three —roly-poly and pink, as pink as could be— porkers that talked just like you and me. Building their houses, these pigs were all three. Two built their houses of stuff that was free: the first...

The chicken crossed the road I heard. Which was so silly, so absurd, Especially for so dumb a bird. But when she started to come back She met an eighteen-wheeler Mack That smacked her with a great big whack! Then squawking, flapping in the air The chicken cried out in...