Humor

"...that best portion of a good man's life;     His little, nameless, unremembered acts     Of kindness and of love."         —William Wordsworth, Lines Composed...Above Tintern Abbey At any time in life, the little kindnesses occur. Somebody greets you with a smile brightening 'Yes, sir!' One store clerk reassures...

Life Ravaged forests again take root Life nestling within the sturdy acorn Cannot be throttled Ashes reborn yield bitter fruit Fragrance scattered upon the winds Cannot be bottled   The Old and the New What shall Lord and land and hall and bower Castle and fen and glade and tower...

Dandelions She touched their gray-haired afros tenderly: an urban six year old with kinky hair who pounced on dandelions (bud-vases were full of yellow stubby). Telling me: “This is the way that dandelions age” – then blew upon them (instant baldness), sad that “no one liked them but the wind...

The tip jar was snatched at O Cafe. O! “Somebody just picked it up,” mused the guy at the register. I’d stopped in to buy six ounces of beans, fresh sweet espresso, number two grind. The young baristas know their stuff. They're very warm--no snark. So why did you make...

Fall Haiku New England college towns: Pumpkins, apples, breakfast in a warm café. Swamp-maples afire! Rusty colored barns, silos draped in bittersweet… In their black pea-coats, off of the Metro North, the leaf-peepers arrive. Cross-country. Small-town football. The leaf-smell hunting— God I love the Fall...   The Little Vector (a...

  "Breathes there a man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself has said, This is my own, my native land." —Walter Scott I saw this stolid man stand tall, and obviously proud. He wore a bit of blue and white, o, Scotland, strong and stout. He looked like...

  When snow arrives As long forecast, It sets a scene That does not last; But for the while Snow sits around, All else remains Transfixed, spellbound.   Jane Blanchard lives and writes in Georgia. Her work has recently appeared in Concho River Review, Mezzo Cammin, and Orbis. Featured Image:...

The Bored Knight A tired knight rode to his castle After a long day of hassle. He bowed to the land’s king, his lord, “My liege, I’m incredibly bored, I’m more like a stupid monkey Than protector of royalty I stand there at the outer gate Like moldy food that...

I. The Tin Shant on the hill in Martinique is stoutly situated, unique in design, and built half a century ago.  Though stucco and cinderblock, we call it the Tin Shant due to a fine-sounding tap on the tin roof during rain.  Lovely sounds when you’re comfortable and dry. What’s...

I left my gloves at the analyst's He called to say he'd found them Black, he said, lined with cotton Green, I said, lined with satin He saw them right, confound him Not the leather, a fine dark green But the lining—just cotton Ordinary winter stuff Dull patina, flannel-rough No...

“Hello, again!” the sun does say when rising on a morn in May. “Thanks for the break,” replies the moon. “I need to go to bed quite soon.” The sun then bids, “Don’t fade so fast! Why can’t you get your light to last?” The moon retorts, “Fine talk from...

Some People Say Some people say that giraffes were petite and they grew their necks out to properly eat, or they were once dinosaurs who lost their wings. But I know God makes serendipitous things.   I Had A Pair I had a pair of tennis shoes who caught a...

Blue and Yellow Barn-Swallows She made a note to note when they arrived. It’s obvious whenev’r they fin’lly do. Over the cows they dipped and ducked and dived. “They have two houses; shouldn’t we have two? I wonder where they stay in Mexico? Or maybe Florida? Or some Texas barn?...

Ashamed I will no longer be... Ashamed I will no longer be To write an older poetry -- I have the right to reach for rhyme And make the most of measured time -- While looked upon I am with scorn -- And ridiculed -- as per fashion -- I...

The cost of insurance was such Its price I could sadly not touch -- So I gave all of that To a young bureaucrat And now it costs three times as much!   Troy Camplin is an author, poet, and interdisciplinary scholar living in Richardson, Texas. Featured Image: "Doctor and...

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...