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

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