Waggish Poetry
I would like to write a poem that’s as funny as can be,
One that would have people grin; or chuckle, preferably.
In fact, one that would have them laugh, and very loudly too,
Not just once, but regularly — that is, all the way through.
I’d love them to clutch their abs, double up and fall about,
No longer able to stand, too teary eyed, too puffed out.
And midst it all attempting to shout, “You’ve gotta read this!”
Wildly waving and pointing their finger for emphasis.
Yes, can you imagine it? Bodies all over the floor,
And I, flourishing a pen, ecstatically scribbling more.
People begging me to stop, weakly clawing at my chair,
Humour flying shamelessly while they’re gasping, “Don’t you dare!”
Okay, I’m getting carried away, but imagine it,
Infuriatingly funny poetry, razor wit.
Irresistible poetry that has folk howling, “Stop!”
Lest it be, that exhaustedly, on to the floor they flop.
Yes, I’d love to write a poem that’s hilarious to read,
And that even noise regulations the laughter would exceed.
Well, not right by my ear, of course, but close enough to hear,
And to feel the endorphins whizzing about in the air.
I’d stay up late to write such, would go without sleep and food,
Just to see folk in stitches, and change someone’s somber mood.
I’d love to lift their spirits, have them laughing through the day,
Helplessly convulsed, poetically carried away.
Guess it’s my mischievous side, the kid inside of me,
That wants to see folk falling about uncontrollably.
Even so, there’s nothing like some fun, waggish poetry,
That for some unknown reason apparently eludes me.
By Lance Landall
Kidding You
Peak-a-boo. I’m watching you. You’re reading my poetry,
And that poem of mine you’re reading is Kidding You, I see.
You’re trying to refrain from smiling, but you can’t, can you?
That’s why your cheeks are creasing, just like I wanted them to.
You’re on the second verse now. You’re quite good looking, you know.
Sorry, I didn’t mean to be cheeky, but it’s true though.
I like your smile. It’s nice, and it’s getting bigger, I see,
And let me say, how nice of you to read my poetry.
Wow! Third verse now. You’re quite a good reader, obviously,
And apparently quite partial to reading poetry.
Given I’m a poet (well, so folk tell me) I’m glad about that.
Sorry, I didn’t mean to distract you with all this chat.
Please — continue reading, you’re doing well — forth verse, first line,
Ops, there I go again. Sorry. It’s a habit of mine.
I can’t resist when people are reading my poetry,
Especially someone nice like you — grinning now, I see.
Yes you are.
By Lance Landall
Go Away!
Go away rain! I’ve had enough. It’s really depressing.
It’s not as though I’m tucked up inside convalescing.
I want to get out, get things done, go for a walk somewhere,
Not just waste all my time cooped up inside, slumped in a chair.
Yes, go away rain, and take all those sulky clouds with you,
They’ve been hanging about like they’ve nothing better to do.
They’re so dull and boring, and are covering up the sky,
So, why don’t you both disappear, clear off — go on, shoo, fly.
You’re not listening, are you, determined to have your way,
Both of you, shedding your moisture, making everything grey.
Can’t you go somewhere else? There is plenty of world, you know.
You’ve no need to remain here, you’re just making me feel low.
Can’t you see everything’s green? Go find a desert or two.
You’re just flooding my garden, and muddying things up too.
Give me sunshine any day, I’d rather have warmth than cold.
That’s right, bucket down! I might have known that you can’t be told.
By Lance Landall
Flies
Could someone please tell me: What’s the purpose of a fly,
And why they won’t stop walking all over my apple pie,
Or anything else on my table that I’m about to eat,
Infecting it all with their grubby little hairy feet?
Though I wave my hands about, they insist on returning,
So, I reach for the fly swat, but do you think they’re learning?
No! Back they come again, fly after fly, zeroing in,
Seemingly unmoved by my crazed attempts to discipline.
Often they wait out of reach until I’ve sat down to eat,
And then, down they swoop, thereby making me vacate my seat.
After all, my arms aren’t that long, of which they seem aware,
Hence why they go for the yummy food that’s not quite so near.
They seem to come from nowhere — more so, when you’re eating food,
Or when you’ve put the swat away — talk about attitude!
It seems that they’ve got us sorted, and hence why I agonize,
For just when you think you’re fly free, it’s a case of, “SURPRISE!”
By Lance Landall
