Haiku

These last days of spring
we are aging together,
this old cat and I. - Jeff Barnes

Haiku

Don't delude yourself.
It would carry you away.
Cat watches a hawk. - Jeff Barnes

Instructions for My Funeral

I want my funeral to be a celebration of my life.
I absolutely forbid anybody to mourn.
Don't show up with sorrowful faces.
It should be a happier day than the day I was born.

Don't play lugubrious, funereal music

and don't fill the room with the sounds of your sobs.

I want plastic skeletons to dangle from the ceiling,

merrily dancing to Saint-Saenz's "Danse Macabre."

I couldn't stand to be in a suit and tie

with everybody standing around my coffin staring.

Dress me in jeans and a Grim Reaper t-shirt.

That's what I would like to be wearing.

Laugh and tell each other grim jokes.

Don't stand around all teary-eyed.

I want you to dance to Terry Teene's "Curse of the Hearse"

as they come to load me in for my last ride. - Jeff Barnes

Mr. Green

I knew a man named Mr. Green
who was crusty, irksome, and downright mean.
He was always venting his spleen
about how he hated the color green.

He paved his yard with concrete

to avoid having grass.

He thought Kermit the frog

was nauseating and crass.

Every year on March 17th

he hid himself away.

He couldn't stand the sight of people

dressing for St. Patrick's Day.

The very sight of broccoli

gave him a sense of dread.

He always shunned green apples

and only ate the red.

Even when he was a child

he would pout and sulk

if anyone gave him a comic book

featuring the Incredible Hulk

He said he'd rather starve than eat asparagus,

broccoli, or avocado toast.

He thought of changing his name until he realized

it was himself that he hated most. - Jeff Barnes

Haiku

Driving down the road
remembering gone places --
April afternoon. - Jeff Barnes

Word Salad Villanelle

This poem is nothing but word salad.
Don't expect it to make any sense.
This is by no means a coherent ballad.

I question whether any logic is valid.

Mmm! Take a whiff of that frankincense!

This poem is nothing but word salad.

That bust of Pallas looks rather pallid.

It has a fly on its head, like Mike Pence.

This is by no means a coherent ballad.

My years have taught me to be utterly callid.

I find my neighbors to be extremely dense.

This poem is nothing but word salad.

This is my pet myogalid.

I decided to name her Hortense.

This is not a coherent ballad.

The moth flying overhead is a pyralid.

I'm just a fool sitting on a fence.

This poem is nothing but word salad.

This is by no means a coherent ballad. - Jeff Barnes

Pope George Ringo I

We need to have a pope named George Ringo.
We've already had two named John Paul.
So say the old ladies playing church bingo.

We want someone colorful, like a pink flamingo

and well-rounded, like a rubber ball.

We need to have a pope named George Ringo.

He can be Asian, African, Mexican or Gringo.

Nationality does not matter at all.

So say the old ladies playing church bingo.

He could be an Australian living among dingoes,

all alone in the outback sprawl.

We need to have a pope named George Ringo.

He could be the bishop of Santo Domingo.

Perhaps he would answer the call.

So say the old ladies playing church bingo.

This is what we need, by gosh, by gum, by jingo!

It doesn't matter if he's thin, fat, short, or tall.

We need to have a pope named George Ringo.

So say the old ladies playing church bingo. - Jeff Barnes