Prose Poem: A Plastic Bag Diet Will Save the World!

 

We all have to make life choices from time to time.

I made one a while ago that I must share with you.

After hearing about all the plastic bags

being found in the stomachs of whales

and camels and cows,

I went on a plastic bag diet.

They are best eaten raw, sprinkled with

 sea salt.

Make sure you get a variety of plastic

bags -- from the grocery, drug store, and dollar

store.

The different kinds of polyethylene they use

on the bags gives them a distinctive

taste and texture.

Don't be tempted to cheat by sneaking

in a few paper bags! They're full of corn

syrup.

And stay away from bubble wrap --

it'll make you flatulent.

Nowadays I snag my breakfast

from a trash can while out

walking in the park.

I meet friends for lunch downtown to

enjoy a plastic bag smoothie.

I usually skip dinner,

although sometimes I'll munch

on a quart-size baggie while watching 

the boob tube.

Why am I sharing this with you?

Because I believe we can end

world hunger, here and now,

if we all work together to provide

enough plastic bags for everyone.

So won't you please bring all yours

 to our Plastic Bags to

End Hunger Initiative

at the White House Rose Garden

this Easter Sunday?

Donations are tax deductible. 

Koszonom!

Today's Timericks.

 

Gun control, that bugaboo/still upsets both me and you/I say ban 'em; you demure/Can there be a useful cure?/Tax 'em like we do tobacco/maybe that will stop a whacko.  

Cereal boxes now contain/shrimp tails and perhaps bird brain/These are prizes I would ban/were I selling Raisin Bran/Rusty nails in frosted flakes/give consumers nasty shakes/I don't want such horrid dregs/and so I'll stick to ham and eggs. 

Sheltering in place did cause/weight gain like old Santa Claus/I was thin and in good shape/Now I'm rounder than a grape/Snacking in anxiety/since there's no society/sure is not a funny joke/next I'll probably start to smoke!

Prose Poem: The Breathing Act of 2021.

 

I'm proud to say I played a small part

in helping to pass The Breathing Act

of 2021.

Too many people are taking advantage of

our liberal and naive breathing policies.

Our forefathers fought for the right

to breathe, for the truth of "One Man, One

Breath!"

We can't let that sacred privilege go by

the boards by giving it away to every Tom,

Dick, and Harry that saunters into town

and demands a breath.

As of this coming May,

no longer can just anyone take a breath of fresh air;

you have to have a valid photo ID,

a birth certificate, a Social Security number,

and a zoning permit.

 Anyone caught breathing illegally

or fraudulently will see the inside of

the slammer pdq.

I know some soreheads complain

that if you can't breath you can't live.

Well, my answer to that is this --

stay and breathe in your own country,

why don't you?

Or if you're a felon hoping to breathe

again, you'd better keep your nose clean

and your hands dirty with good honest

labor -- no living off of welfare.

Then, and only then,

will you be allowed to breathe again.

Rest assured that our Breathing Integrity 

Committee, of which I am Chair,

will leave no stone unturned to see

to it that each breath is legitimate.

Any breath that is in doubt will be

thoroughly investigated, and, if

warranted, nullified.

And needless to say,

we are putting the lid on

absentee and mail-in

breathing . . . 

Today's Timericks.

 

Finding laughs is hard today/Things seem more like shadow play/I believe that hope exists/when you cut away the cysts/of despair and stark fatigue/and believe that no blitzkrieg/can prevail for long if we/place our trust in Deity.

She is dealing with parosmia, a distortion of smell such that previously enjoyable aromas — like that of fresh coffee or a romantic partner — may become unpleasant and even intolerable. Along with anosmia, or diminished sense of smell, it is a symptom that has lingered with some people who have recovered from Covid-19.  NYT.

I smell garbage when I eat/roses now are not a treat/And my lover stinks so foul/I would rather kiss an owl/Tell me, Covid, am I doomed/to never sniff a thing perfumed?

Spring is sprung; mild zephyrs blow/But still asparagus I know/as something green and slimy which/makes my taste buds start to twitch/I'd rather celebrate the Spring/with a pan-fried chicken wing.

In a conclusion that even surprised its editors, the 2021 World Happiness Report found that, amid global hardship, self-reported life satisfaction across 95 countries on average remained steady in 2020 from the previous year. The United States saw the same trend — despite societal tumult that yielded a national drop in positive emotions and a rise in negative ones. The country fell one spot, to 19th, in the annual rankings of the report, which was released Saturday.  WaPo. 

Happiness is what you get/when your troubles you forget/All day long you'll learn to croon/mantras that are so jejune/they will turn your brain to mush/telling intellect to hush/Happiness will come to me/only with lobotomy.  

I see lots of UFO's/I report them, heaven knows/Soon the Feds will validate/all my sightings with great weight/Then I won't be called a loon/when I'm kidnapped by Neptune!

Mormonism, like some other faith groups, requires members to tithe 10 percent of their incomes but is more organized and deliberate about collecting it and understanding why members cannot pay.  Washington Post. 

I have never been strong-armed/or told I should be alarmed/if my tithing I don't pay/I'm not forced to so obey/out of fear or as a bribe/in thrall to some pious scribe/I pay tithing as a way/to thank God for each new day/In return, when I'm distressed/I still know I'm being blessed/God is not a financier/All He asks is love sincere.

Today's Timericks. (Now with German quark!)

 

Senators who like to fib/always making with ad-lib/sheltered by immunity/have the scruples of a flea/Voters who will keep them in/must be drinking bathtub gin.

Milk on walls and bread on floors/these are springtime cleaning chores/Antiquaries so expound/how the old folks messed around/with wood ashes and bedpan/to keep homes real spic and span/Me, I'll stick to alcohol/It makes cleaning quite a ball.

Now when shopping I expect/foreign foods to oft detect/ Fonio and German quark/Nori and chinchona bark/locust bugs from Myanmar/But where is my grape jelly jar?  

Preachers come in many sizes/and some really like their prizes/coming from communion plates/and their pious delegates/Could I stay poor as a vicar/would I worship a stock ticker?/Luckily, I feel no call/to go shopping at the mall.

Prose Poem: The Dogs of Rangoon.

 

I left home to become a feral dog at a young age.

I was tired of sitting at the table

and wearing clothes all the time;

I wanted to snarl over a piece of offal

and squat wherever I wished.

So I wandered the world

on all fours,

grew a muzzle and a tail.

Picked up fleas and lice.

Caught the mange in Budapest.

And finally came to Rangoon

one sultry evening,

when the street lights were

sickly yellow

and the flying termites 

dripped from the sky --

I gobbled them up with gusto.

Just my kind of place.

At first I simply chased other dogs,

nipping at their backsides.

Then I attacked the night people --

those brave, foolish people,

who were defying curfew,

marching in protest.

Being Buddhist, they never harmed

animals -- even a mangy creature like me.

It was wonderful.

I ripped apart their longyis

in a foaming frenzy, as they ran

from the police.

I loved chewing up their sandals;

most of 'em only had one pair

to their names. 

In the daytime I slept under the Yangon River

docks, where it was cool and fetid.

One night I attacked an old woman

on her way home with a package 

of soup bones.

She fell and hit her head on the curb.

She didn't get up again.

I feasted on the soup bones until

a crowd gathered around me.

They wouldn't let me leave, no matter

how I snapped and snarled.

They beat me with sticks and clubs.

Just my luck --

a bunch of lousy Christians.

But the laugh is on them,

because I've been reincarnated as 

a general in the Tatmadaw.  

And I remember distinctly each

one of them . . . 

Today's Timericks. (Featuring Waffles!)

 

The world is filled with trouble/the world is filled with grief/and any happy moment/is usually quite brief/Don't read the headlines, brother/and sister, turn off the set/Just play a bit more sweetly/in life's short string quartette.  

The poet of tomorrow/an algorithm uses/to check forbidden nuance/that might come from her muses/With cancel culture rampant/and deepfake on the rise/a poet can't get published/without the right disguise.  

A Sunday morning waffle/eaten in pajamas/is better for your spirit/than all the Dalai Lamas. 

Photo Essay: More Postcards Mailed to President Joe Biden.

 

Photo Essay: Puzzling Postcards Mailed to President Joe Biden today. See if you can figure out their meaning to win a prize!

 

Today's Timericks.

 

China's always in the news/what they do and how they schmooze/other nations to maintain/lots of power, glory, gain/If they want to play tough guy/we their chicken feet won't buy!

The bigger you are, the less you aspire/to understand the worth of satire/Facebook and others, like all stuffed shirts/never approve of what disconcerts/No algorithm can comprehend/Mark Twain, for instance/and what he has penned.  

Rand Paul is a know-it-all/when it comes to virus crawl/He has read a book or two/so he knows just what to do/Listen to his crack advice/and you soon will be on ice.