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In celebration of World Poetry Day, write a limerick on the theme of World Poetry Day, poetry in general, or poets. Post it in the comments section below. Learn how to write a limerick here.
An example is provided by this poetry challenge initiator, Paul A. Freeman:
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World Poetry Day has arrived,
of verse we cannot be deprived.
So here is a stanza,
a verbal bonanza
on which, all day long, I have strived… or is that ‘striven’?
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Oh the past was a glorious time
When a poet’s voice charmed with a chime.
Now the Muses are gone
From Mount Helicon.
We can’t even write lines of poetry that scan.
The Muse and the Poet
The Muse asked the Poet to dance.
The Poet fell into a trance.
So, he wrote a love note,
But then fell off the boat.
That ended the Poet’s romance.
Poe’s Ravin’
Poe’s face was often unshaven.
Poe wrote a poem for his maven.
For his Annabel Lee,
His love never could be.
That is why he was left Ravin’.
A Cautionary Tale
He wrote a poem for his mistress
About her low-cut red dresses.
He is no longer fine.
His wife read every line.
He paid the price for transgresses.
I recommend this sorry guy
To rue the day he bought a lie
And recognize his wife’s embrace
Outshines the harlot‘s plastic face;
In short, to practice love till he may die.
Poems in Front of Me Linger
Poems in front of me linger
While I’m counting on each finger.
When the syllables match,
I must have a good batch.
The meter might make a humdinger.
It’s a Wonderful Life
The bankers became oh so woke
So all the poor folk they could soak.
They gave loans to greenies
And one worlder weenies
Never dreaming they’d ever go broke.
But Hunter and Joe had a toke
And pulled off a practical joke.
They saved billionaires
And Red China’s short hairs
Now America’s gone up in smoke.
TIME FOR THE MUSES POWER
Why is after midnight hour
The time for the Muses power?
The misty veil will part.
Poems pour forth from the heart
Like a freshly blooming flower.
For Love and Grief
Poems are writ for love and grief,
With images beyond belief.
I feel great poetry
Is something sensory
Like turning over a new leaf.
The greatest poem only shows
What Everyman already knows
But never knew he saw until
The poet looked and looked his fill
And told us what he found, but never chose.
There once was a poet named Dan
Whose Limericks rarely would scan
He said, with a sigh
“All too often I try
To fit as many words into the last line as I possibly can”
Afraid to be unsupported,
With not posting, she cavorted!
Till a spirit appeared,
Saying, cease all the fear.
With that, she penned undaunted!
Well done for posting, Patricia – that’s the spirit: overcome your fears!
Thank you, James. You brighten my day and blessed me with courage.
Patricia
LIMNING THE LIMERICK
A limerick is that kind of verse
Whose words always reflect what is “cherce.”
It’s a crime every time
If the lines do not rhyme
Or appear overlong or too terse.
THE LIMERICK
You’ve five lines to take flight like a bird,
And the rhyming just slightly absurd.
If one such proves too much,
You’re a bit out of touch,
As the French say, un peu dans la merde!
The modern world isn’t poetic,
Narcissism bent on frenetic,
“I” in the ascendant,
And the ego resplendent,
For this reader verbal emetic.
How can we trust politicians?
Who, by their own rhetoricians
Will get the job done
With costs overrun
They don’t claim to be mathematicians
Said a man by the name of Al Gore
Global warming should be the new war
The facts just don’t fit
He is so full of sh_ _
That a laxative might be his cure
A poor, hungry fellow from Crete
Who was burdened with big, ugly feet
Got the butcher in town
To whittle them down
Then fried up the bits as a treat!
A politically correct fellow from Kent
Who was speechless wherever he went
Did not want to get
Anybody upset
So he chose to remain reticent.
A woman who came from Valdez
Had a virus that caused wobbly knees
The doctors predicted
More would be afflicted
With viral Valdez Knees Disease!
The spouse of a callous new bride
From the roof, fell and split his head wide
Said his mistrustful wife
Moving on with her life
“Now I know he had nothing to hide!”
Said a father while watching his son
Playing Russian roulette with his gun
“I know boys will be boys
But it’s what he enjoys
He must clean up the mess when he’s done!”
A poor girl, so enthusiastic
Fixed her knickers with brand new elastic
But she made them so tight
That she died in the night
Said her parents, “Now that’s really drastic!”
A woman whose husband combusted
Soon after was quite well adjusted
But she said in a snit
At her husband’s obit,
“Such a mess he made after I’d dusted!”
Norma, these are all brilliant. Thanks for some great laughs today
Thanks Jeff. Some of my collection that weren’t too rude.
A good limerick’s not easy to write.
It needs meter and rhyme with a bite.
Just a doodle in verse,
Neither better, nor worse,
But well done, it’s a poet’s delight.
BLANK VERSE
The poet wrote down some blank verse.
The words he wrote kept getting worse.
He declared it okay.
It’s modern anyway.
Who cares if I wrote the perverse?
HIS PROSE
His words were not real poetry,
Since he wrote modern as could be.
‘Twas no meter nor rhyme;
He kept wasting his time
No one will remember, but he.
THE CRUX OF MODERN POETRY
The crux of modern poetry
Is writing is not as should be.
With the blanks in the mind,
There’s no rhyme you will find.
The poet is dead mentally.
LIKE DR. SEUSS
I wish more wrote like Dr. Seuss.
Too many are writing obtuse.
They prove that their learning
Is worth the fires burning.
They offer pedantic abuse.
POETRY OF PUREST GOLD
Poetry that is purest gold
Is that which can never grow old.
When words perfectly rhyme
And the meter keeps time,
A classic is what we behold.
Good poetry comes from the heart,
and muses provide a kick start;
this helps you immerse
yourself in great verse,
even if you’re a miserable fart.
Limerick for C.S. Lewis, Best Remembered for His Prose
Early efforts made Lewis sigh: “Dahhn it,
If Poetry’s a train, I’m not on it.”
This admirer of Jack,
Nonetheless, looking back,
Credits him with his century’s best sonnet.
There once was a young lady from Bude
Who liked to parade in the nude
Now she can’t sleep at night
As she got in a fight
With a fellow who called her a dude.
Poetry Wasn’t Enough
Remember how Daffodil Finnigan
Was determined to never begin-again
Loving a man,
So she constantly ran
From men — so’s not to fall-in-again!
Well, into her life walked a poet,
Who dug her, and — meaning to show it —
But easy-to-hate —
And weighhhhhh over-wait —
To bolster his chance to not blow it –
Plied her with poetry – sending his best –
Some of them poignant…others in jest…
Showering her with verse,
‘Til she deemed it a curse,
Then she *sued* him…for being a pest!