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

poem, poetry, rhyme, rhyming, Uncategorized

Chores in Neverland

One starry night in London, and on that very night,

as Wendy went to take a nap, a shadow caught her sight.

She heard a flute and to her shock, she thought she caught a man,

whizzing by her window light, who fable labeled Pan.

Polite and boyish, half grown up and stubborn as could be,

trailing him, his faerie friend no bigger than a flea.

“Shadow! Oh my, Shadow!” cried the cheeky little boy,

as he dove into the massive mound of painted English toy.

But then, he heard a footstep and saw a startled lass,

which caused him to trip and somehow slip into the grinning glass.

“Excuse me?” said the little girl, “Can I be of some help?”

as Peter stifled quite the blow to mask his boyish yelp.

“I believe I’ve lost my shadow. Can you help me little girl?

It’s about yay high, and sort of shy and has a matching curl.”


“I believe I’ve seen it, over there, in my old chest of drawers,

that wouldn’t be a total wreck if I had done my chores.

Dear boy, if I can catch it, will you tell me where you’re from?

For I’d like to hear from mouth to ear, instead of tale from mum.”


“Alright” said Peter. “Quite alright. If you can sew it back,

I’ll you how I met the Queen and made her shadow crack.”


It took poor Wendy quite the hour to find the cheeky twin,

for when she sewed it, she fell flat and couldn’t let a grin.

“Here’s your shadow, Peter. I’m afraid I need a nap.

Maybe sometime, you’ll tell your rhyme and show your treasured map.

I need about an hour my dear, then together we can gawk

at that land, quite grand, where that Captain’s hand was eaten by a croc.”

The tired Wendy nodded off and awoke an hour later,

to meet eye-to-eye with a flustered fly atop a cheeky traitor.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that”, a giddy Peter said.

“When you make a deal, you just can’t peel and dish the dealings dead.

I suppose if you can read us boys some stories like our mothers,

I’ll take you back and lift the pact so you can see your brothers.

And if you make us supper, then perhaps we’ll let you go-

but it’s much too cold, and far too bold to fly you in the snow.

Maybe you should stay awhile, till the rose is back in bloom?

For who would want to venture back to clean an English room?

I’ll tell you just the story now, of the shadow and the Queen,

since I never disclosed, where much was posed

when I made such a scene.

I’m afraid I’m far too literal. I didn’t mean I’d tell you there,

for there’s work to be done in the land of fun, unless you’re not aware.

My faerie Tink, she needs a hand. Perhaps you’ll help her out,

before I tell you how the Queen then lost her famous pout.

Never make a deal with faeries, I should surely know

for Tink is the boss I dared to cross so many moons ago.”

-Amy Struthers

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

The Trial of Mr. Aphid

“Mr. Aphid was framed! Sir, he can’t take a bite-

See that sizable hole? Well…his mouth isn’t right!

Oh sir, Mr. Aphid was cautioned before

and told Mrs. Lady he wouldn’t eat more!

Just because there was sap in the threads of the pair,

doesn’t mean that he ate it. You have to be fair!”


On proof Mr. Aphid had thread in his mouth,

he was shut in a nut and then carried out south-

where he stood to be tried by a room full of bugs

from arachnids, to horse flies, to roaches and slugs.


“When approached with the evidence” one did attest,

“There were trails of fresh sugar that followed the pest

and when we did follow it back to his door,

there were threads in his mouth and loose ends on the floor.”


“How do you plead?” coughed the judge to the bug

as the bite from a mite, sailed his seat to the rug.


“Innocent, sir. I was framed, don’t you see?

Just because there’s a trail, doesn’t mean that it’s me!”


“Objection your honor! I know it’s the kid.

If you didn’t do it, then tell us who did.”


But just as she spoke, the whole courtroom did shake

When appeared overhead, the bold bill of a drake.

“Hey! Hey!” yelped the duck, as he picked up the roof

when the judge yelled, “Dismissed. On the grounds of poor proof.

Mr. Aphid, I’m giving you one day at most,

to prove you are not the responsible host.”


When the duck dropped the box and the bugs jumped and flew

Mr. Aphid emerged with the trace of a clue.

“If I plant a mitt and then stay up all night,

I will catch who did frame my poor name for my right.

Now, where must I hide? For no creature can see

a bug draped in the shade it has made from a bee.

I know what I’ll do! I will hide in a shell!

For that nut made the cut, as it fit me so well.

Yes, that’s what I’ll do! I will wait in the grass,

to see the rare mug of the thing that will pass.”

And so Mr. Aphid did wait until night,

to capture the captor and prove he was right.


When a rustle appeared, Mr. Aphid peered out

to see a white beard and a black wetted snout

that was gnawing on grass, when it spotted the mitt

and left a thick paste on the chunk it had bit.

Then, it looked for a squirrel and did place what it ate

at the foot of her tree, in one wad on her plate.


“En garde!” cried the aphid. “Yes, I have you at last!”

to which the thing shuttered and darted off fast.

So, Mr. Aphid did motion a bird

who filled his request on the test that she heard,

“The git who is guilty is getting away! Should they raid the glade, it is us that will pay!”


When the bird told the aphid to ‘jump’ and ‘hold on’,

the two took off after the crook on the lawn.

Then they cornered it near the tin shed on the farm

when they told it, “Confess!” or they’d sound the alarm.


The thing was bewildered, for who would believe,

that a goat of all creatures would pillage and thieve.


And so it did look at the pair and then say,

“If you sound my da, I won’t handsomely pay.”


Then the bird let a song that did bounce off the shed

and in through the blinds to the man in his bed.


When he woke up and saw that his goat was outside,

he put on his cap as he sluggishly cried,

“Now go on and get your hide back to the pen,

both the Mrs. and I thought we’d lost you again.

This time I’m locking it, no ifs or buts!

It’s the third time you’ve pried and you’re driving us nuts!”


When the aphid and bird did ensure all was well,

she appeared as his witness and told of the spell-

How the ‘sap’ was just ‘drool’,

how the squirrel had been framed,

and the bug, who by most, had been publicly shamed.

“Yes, the goat was the culprit.” The bird turned and said,

“Had it not been for Aphid, who baited with thread.”


“We find he is guiltless!” they cried all at once

when the Mrs. revealed she had acted as dunce,

to accuse Mr. Aphid on grounds that the sap

was reason for her to fall into such trap.

Then she handed him mittens and reached for his hand,

as she thanked him for taking a stouthearted stand.

-Amy Struthers

poem, poetry, rhyme, rhyming, Uncategorized

Giuseppe at the Getty

There’s a pigeon by the pillars

Pecking back at what I throw

And yet, he knows not of my debt

While bobbing to my dough


I’m Giuseppe at the Getty

And I haven’t got a dime

Just one beat case

And weathered face

To show for tickin’ time


There’s a woman in the garden

With a crown of cracking corn

Smiling wide for all the glass-eyed guests

Who treat her reign with scorn


I’m Giuseppe at the Getty

And this is what I see:

A world that don’t know down from up

And pays to pass what’s free


There’s a couple snapping pictures

With a lens above loose bread

Communing over comments

As they break a different thread


I’m Giuseppe at the Getty

And as each day goes by,

I see a little more of man

And wonder, “Does he cry?”


-Amy Struthers