cat, humor, humour, limerick, poem, poetry, rhyme, rhyming, Uncategorized

Cat Burglar

There one lived a cat that could bark,

its owner would perch in the park,

as to lap up the looks

on the faces of crooks,

confused, as they tripped through the dark.

-Amy Struthers

advice, poetry, rhyme, rhyming, Uncategorized

The Dreamer and Georgie’s Advice

He said, “I’ll be a writer, so tomorrow I will start.”,

to which his brother Georgie sighed, “But now’s the time for art!”

“But I don’t have time”, the dreamer said.

“Then make some!” Georgie cried.

“For merry men who lived their life would say you haven’t tried.

If you want to dream, then do it. If you want to write, then GO.

As nothing ever comes of talk, I’m interested in show.”

“Alright”, said he, “If you insist, for surely you are right.

Oh Georgie, can you tell me how we both began this fight?”

His clever twin responded

by pulling out a pen

to write upon his brother’s hand, “Let’s have this talk again.”

“Oh Georgie, please! Have you gone mad? But why repeat it twice?”

To which good Georgie snorted, “That’s what comes of sound advice!

You must repeat it daily, for as silly as it seems,

that’s how artists, like yourself, achieve the stuff of dreams.”

-Amy Struthers

children's stories, humor, humour, poem, poetry, rhyme, rhyming, Uncategorized

The Little Misfits

I woke from bed and wiped the glass to see a girl in white,

running through the pasture and then to my heart’s delight,

she smiled at me, then waved her hand above the sill and said,

“Hello, my name is Barbagal. I’ve come to shave your head.”

I said, “Alright”, for I did not see how a trim could do me harm

and so with scruffy locks I ran to greet her at the barn.

“Two shillings, please” said the little girl. “Sir, I’m saving for some pigs.

One that’s tall and fit to haul my wagon full of wigs!”

“An entrepreneur!” I yelped aloud. “Why, I’ll give you just the sum.”

To which the girl, this Barbagal replied, “I need a plum.

A tasty fruit of any kind, I need for preparation,

for cutting locks of reddish hue is quite the operation.

Consider it the finest scrub your scalp will ever know.

Sadly sir, you’ll need to front a larger sum of dough.”


With arms outstretched and pockets bare, I darted from that spot

and landed back in Kensington, to tell of what I ought.

“Farmers, fickle freelance folks, and friends, if you may be,

I’ve a sum for one fresh plumb, and bushels for one tree.

So happened on a day like this, a girl who cuts red hair

And if I do so say myself, no charge could be as fair.

The lucky fresh-plumb bearer shall be paid when I am shaved

and on good deed, is guaranteed my payment won’t be waved.”

Two boys fell forward laughing with a plumb tied to their wrists

and told me that they’d make a trade for what was on my fists.

“Four plumbs for four fine rings” they said, “And then we’ll cut a deal,

assuming that those bands of yours are quite the curve of steel.”


We shook then I ran back to see a barbered-barn and pigs,

fit to haul a king-sized stall, and all while wearing wigs.

It seemed that she’d made quite the pitch, as crowds had gathered round

a girl with plumbs and lightning thumbs

who started from the ground.


I got that scrub and shaven head, and all was good until

two boys with silver rings and things approached the same old sill.


“Aha!” I did so yelp aloud. “Just now what is your aim?”

to which the younglings pitched at me the semblance of a game.

“Shiny Things Incorporated, good sir, if you ask,

you are surely signing to a most amusing task.

Good sir, if you complete it, then a partner you shall be, and

by your wit, shall cut the fit it takes to be a three!

Do tell us where the truffles rest

and you’ll get your reply.

Assuming you live by your word,

you’d give our task a try.”


The little misfits cornered me.

I couldn’t back away.

By my hand

and their command,

I had to lift the hay!

They got my stockpile truffles

so that I could share in stock,

and rightly lift the coffer

as to proffer shining schlock.


Turns out that girl who owned the wigs

had branched out through her friends

to pay her show pigs truffles,

with her brothers’ dividends.

-Amy Struthers

poem, poetry, popsicle, rhyme, rhyming, Uncategorized

The Death of a Popsicle

Ladies and gentlemen, if I may

so say a few more words

about our friend, who met her end

when sat by famished birds:

She lived a spotlight life you see,

too sweet to be ignored,

that’s why through panegyric,

every cockroach states they’re floored.

A model in the making

when to Phoenix, she was sold-

betrayed by her own contract

when in contact with the cold.

The wrappers can’t believe their tears

for she had been their muse

as now without her presence,

their own labels likely lose.

Three cheers for our dear popsicle

who melted in the sun.

Our popstar in the making

gave the most iconic run.

-Amy Struthers

humor, humour, poem, poetry, rhyme, rhyming, Uncategorized

Ira and his Idioms

Ira was a pensive boy who loved to speak his mind,

until he thought upon a phrase which faced him in a bind.

“Speak my mind?” What does that mean? Does it mean my brain can talk?

Is it French or Dutch? Does it shout too much? Is its aim to simply mock?

When someone told him, “Hit the road.” He pounded with much vigor-

until one day, a girl did say, “That’s not how you configure.”

“If I tell you, ‘piece of cake’, it means the task is light.

It does not mean I’m famished or am kicking for a bite.

If I proclaim you, ‘had a cow’, you could just have a pet.

But sometimes, the old phrase does mean, “He’s working up a sweat.”

Ira, use the context to deduce what’s being said

or people will begin to think you have a silly head.”

“A silly head!” young Ira said.

“Well, that is just absurd! I don’t look like a walrus or a giant purple bird.

A silly head is ludicrous, for mine is rather normal. If anything, your language is what’s bordering informal.”

“Ira, now get real here!”

“Well, I am. What is your aim?”

“Ira, stop deflecting. No one’s here to blot your blame.

I’ll explain. Go get me chalk and I’ll draw you up a chart.”

To which the boy then hollered, “No, I don’t have time for art!”

“Ira!” steamed the little girl. “Now, whatever I say next, rehearse the said reverse

and you will surely have the text.”

But just before she chose a phrase,

a lonely spider spun

onto Ira’s collar

a convenience in a pun.

“Ira!” piped the little girl, “There’s a cobweb on your tweed!”,

to which the young boy smiled, “Tis only kin to widow’s weed!”

– Amy Struthers