Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film.

COMEDY Poem: DINING & DASHING, by Martha Patterson

My friends, thoughtlessly, said they
Dined on steak and mashed potatoes,
Not thinking of the bill or retribution

Afterwards, the owner approached
And said, “But what about the check?”
But Jerome reported that he only laughed

And answered, “After all, old man,
You’ve got a nice business here –
And a famished man has got to eat!”

My friends quickly made their exit
And drove off without a care –
They already had their stomachs full

###

COMEDY Poem: A Hearfelt Plea OR The Last Kangaroo, by Peri Lyons

Oh
How could you do
This to me, who
Has loved you so long!
Oh the disaster!
You ran off with our pastor
And that’s not all too!
When you ran,
you took my heart
My money; most expensive art;
But:
What
turned my heart deep blue:
Was that you took-
You awful crook!-
You took
My Specially Trained
Kangaroo.

I see you now,
You three-or two;
-Just two, without the kangaroo-
Or three, if you include him too;
Or four: my poor heart makes one more;
All of us-I mean all of you-
Are riding into a sunset, ooh.

Just you and him,
And me and you,
And a wellworn
Didgereedoo*

And of course,
-That’s not a horse!
It’s way too cool:
it’s our specially trained
but-who knew? so cruel!-
Kangaroo.

Now I am not a bitter man,
But dear it does seem cruel;
After all that I looked past,
To do this last thing too:

[spoken:]

I forgave you
When you strayed with my best friend
My catchers’ mitt
A vat of organic peanut butter
Some Filipino acrobats
And a cockatoo-
Hey,
I thought it was just an amour fou!

But now I know better
Since I got your letter.
It was a picture of You.
With Bob,
that swine with whom you flew,
And worst of all,
What hurts of all,
It’s true-
In the middle of the two
of You
is …. Jim:
My Extremely
Specially Trained,
And Ungrateful,
HardHearted
Kangaroo!

By Peri Lyons, The Poet Who Understands. -Sort of. 2024

COMEDY Poem: GOOSE MONKEY, by Maceo Nightingale

I’d rather talk to a pornstar than a poet.
Poets are confusing, emotional, and lazy.
And then there are people on social media.
I’d rather talk to a shitting dog than a person on social media.
Every person on social media makes me want to jump out of a window.
People who make videos on YouTube are boring and lazy.
This new wave of youtubers who have chickenshit minds must be turned into scrambled eggs.
They have nothing interesting to say on youtube.
All the videos make me want to jump out of a window.
And then there are the little crying babies on Instagram, tic toc, reddit, Twitter, 4chan, etc.
Ahhh, it feels good to release my wrath on these social media fuckers.
Sometimes you have to write like an asshole to entertain people.
The poet will forever remain in the golden castle with a silver pencil.
These youtubers are now talking like philosophers.
Anyone who talks like a philosopher is a monkey driving a car.
Philosophers are very good at sounding smart.
And anyone who sounds smarts uses a bunch of bullshit words that I can care less about.
I’d rather talk to a shitting dog than a YouTuber.
I’d rather go to a mental hospital than be on social media.
I’d rather talk to a sandwich than a philosopher.
I’d rather talk to a pornstar than a poet
I don’t want women to love me.
I don’t want men to love me.
They’re both gross and smell like eggs.
And they make me sick to my stomach.
When someone is loved too much, they lose all sense of hate.
Hatred is powerful when beautifully expressed.
The man who hates his mother can do a lot of things in life.
The woman who hates her father can do a lot of things in life.
Who’s to blame? The creator or the children?
And the worm that crawls up an arm will keep crawling.
I want to suck on your farts and bleed out your shit.
It doesn’t matter how many books you’ve read.
It doesn’t matter how many movies you’ve seen.
It doesn’t matter how many TV shows you’ve watched.
It doesn’t matter how much money you make.
It doesn’t matter what job you have.
It doesn’t matter how much music you’ve listened to.
It doesn’t matter how many men you’ve had sex with.
It doesn’t matter how many women you’ve had sex with.
What does matter is that you pick up your dogs poop and throw it into the trash.
I can make a straight man turn gay.
I can make a gay man turn straight.
I can make a lesbian fly in a plane.
But I have better things to do.
If you are accepted and liked by everyone then life becomes boring.’
Fall in love with appearance, then you are only left with a boring personality.
Fall in love with personality, then you are only left with an ugly appearance.
Some men are all penis, no brains.
Some men are all brains, no penis.
Men can become whores by being too sexual or by reading too many books.
There is no winning or losing when you are a whore.
At a certain point, a man will cut off his penis and feed it to the dogs.
This is the true testament of a man.
Do deaf dogs bark?

COMEDY Poem: In the Time of the Virus Flu, by B. Craig Grafton

In the time of the virus flu,
Social distancing was the thing to do.
So for the rest of his life,
He stayed away from his wife.
Even when he buried her too.

What she died from no one knew.
So to make sure it wasn’t the flu,
He exhumed his wife,
And it cost him his life,
For he too soon died of the flu

COMEDY Poem: I’m in love with a dental student that I met once., by Yessmin A

The Friday after turning 22, I met him.
A tall 6’3” gentleman.
He looked like a reincarnated confederate soldier.
The Jasper in Twilight kind.
Light blue eyes that matched his face mask.
He introduced himself to my sister and I.
I forgot his name immediately.
He leads us to the clinic and explains the agenda.
Cleaning and x-rays for my sister.
There’s an issue though.
He thinks I’m the mom.
Instead of correcting him, I go along.
I feared they wouldn’t proceed if I wasn’t the mother.
So I’m my sister’s mom.
Makes sense.
He asks some questions regarding her hygiene and health history.
I answer and say my concerns.
He nods along then takes her height and weight.
Everything looks good.
Until I begin to have a coughing fit.
Choking on my own spit.
Not Covid, I swear.
Dr. Jasper looks at me concerningly and asks, “Are you alright?”
I pat my chest and give a thumbs up.
Obviously, I’m doing fantastic.
Still concerned, he asks “Do you want some water?”
“No no no. I’m fine,” I fake a smile and assure him that I’m okay.
He gives a small nod and then gets geared up.
They commence with the cleaning.
He remarks that my sister has great teeth.
I comment, “I invested in a waterpik.”
He then says, “Oh really? I’ve never used one.”
I then ramble about how great waterpiks are.
Clearly, I’m nervous.
And a mom.
Somehow, I turned myself into a waterpik advocate.
He then focuses on my sister’s teeth and cleans them.
I chat with some dental advisors who recognize me.
They also believe that I’m a mom.
At this point, I’m not beating the allegations.
This charming, mid 20s man thinks I’m a young single mom.
Keep in mind, I’m 22.
Like the Taylor Swift song.
Once my sister’s cleaning is done, they go to take x-rays.
While that happens, I imagine my whole life with this man.
Living in the suburbs in a cute white bricked home.
I have his child who has his baby blue eyes and my black hair.
A picture perfect life.
A picture that has a rose colored filter.
The child grows up and our presumed marriage becomes strained.
We simply fall out of love.
Our child leaves for college and we decide to divorce.
No hard feelings nor hate.
Just reality and stats coming into play.
“Ma’am,” he calls out to me.
I immediately snap back into reality.
He tells me that my child’s, aka my sister’s, teeth are all swell.
There’s one tooth that they’re keeping an eye on, but nothing too concerning.
I nod and get lost in his eyes once more.
What a fool I am.
In an hour, I’ve managed to fall in, out, then in love again.
I began to question the divorce from my daydream.
I wouldn’t have filed first.
That’s for sure.
He concludes that our appointment is done.
I get up from my seat and my sister/child does the same.
Just as we’re about to leave, he looks at me one more time.
“I’ll walk you out,” he says.
Now listen.
There’s one entrance and one exit.
It’s not like we’ll get lost.
He didn’t ask but rather commanded it.
That’s probably why I filed for divorce.
So we let him walk us out.
At the door, I give him a thanks and a smile.
“Sure thing,” he says before going back in.
I turn to my sister and say, “How do you feel about having a new dad?”
She rolls her eyes and says a snarky comment under her breath.
As we rode back to her school, I rant about Dr. Jasper.
I came to the conclusion that he’s also deeply in love with me.
It’s a shame really.
He’s in love with a 22 year old single mom with a 15 year old daughter.
Poor fella.
At least my delusion is satisfied for today

COMEDY Poem: Meatballs, by Shekina Rose

It was only the time of the month
the day we went shopping for a MALM flat pack, one hundred tealights,
a fluffy rug for my bedroom and a cheese grater,
I vomited IKEA meatballs onto an IKEA bed,
retching lumps of pretend meat and Lingonberry juice;
shit-coloured puke, prettying the white pillows.

Mum found a man with a dustpan, dressed in yellow and blue.
He fluttered around me like a blue-tit, swept up sick,
removed the duvet cover, like he’d seen it all before-
a monthly occurrence. She apologised repeatedly, twiddling her wooden pencil
as I writhed on the synthetic floor, my stomach being clawed apart,
Mum explained, by my ovaries.

She lifted me to my feet, and together we shoved our way
through IKEA’s spiral maze, followed yellow arrows to the Ladies;
where my pale face and inflamed eyes stared at me
through a wiped-clean TOREKOV mirror, complete with a £12 price tag.
Mum rubbed dribbles of sick from my chin and neck with toilet roll,
offered me an Ibuprofen, which I gulped down with warm water from the tap,

a Polo mint to hide the meaty stench. Vaseline for my lips,
and a brush of pink blush for my chalky cheeks.
They get easier, sweetie, she said, until the menopause…
She laughed and squeezed my shoulder, as pain shot through my spine,
and off we went again, walking round and round in circles,
through the one-way flow of IKEA, for two more hours of bloody shopping.

COMEDY Poem: I’m scared that I’m a narcissist, by Kailah Peters

But really I think I just like myself
For the first time in 25 years
And this shit is wild

Like I used to introduce myself with sadness first
And now I lead with laughter
Because I’m laughing all the time

I stand on stage and ask strangers
To find delight in my bad dates
You need rain to make a rainbow
I need to crash a bachelor party in new orleans for the plot

My grandfather is trying to decide if I’m manic or just happy
I’m trying to convince him two things can be true at the same time

Now rewind and it’s a few months into living alone,
Putting bandaids on my broken heart

I decide I’m too comfortable falling asleep next to my vibrator
So I get on the apps
But it’s too soon

In come a string of faces I can’t see
Through the sting of my tears

Then I give up and make my tinder bio my venmo
And now I’m banned from tinder
And the cycle repeats itself
This time with charged batteries

So, I switch to bumble and meet B.
He’s tall, dark and mustachioed
My daddy issues personified

And maybe I should be embarrassed
that I’m closer in age to this man’s cat than him
But the sex is so good,
I’m trying to convince my therapist this is actually healing
Like I’m learning a lot about my attachment style

It’s true and it’s stupid, we can laugh, you should laugh
But in all honesty, it gave me the space to demote romantic relationships
And focus on more important things – like literally anything else

Now I’m writing a book
Getting promoted
And going back to school

I’m building community
And collecting friends
Like grandparents
Collect stamps

Pan over manchester Tennessee and you’ll find me and my best friend
Stoned, twirling with the trees

I found god, and her name is the profound depth of female friendship (or barbie)

Morgan puts on coffee when I text I’m on my way
I drop off popcorn and brownie mix when Meg texts she got her period
We turn water into vodka
pull the moon down with the bounce of our ass
And still make it to an 8 am meeting dressed in slacks

I’m on my hot girl summer
Bad bitch act

I am floating in an abundance of love
Water flooding in from every direction

And yes, Ted Lasso is the only lover I talk about on stage
But it’s not because I’m oh so in love with the way he gives me drugs

It’s because I spent the better part of three years
Walking around the internet calling my ex the love of my life
Now they are my ex
And I have to keep living my life

So, I only want to do exactly what I want to do

I’m still me and some things never change
I’m still compelled to make art
Out of the paper mache of my heart
But I can’t stand to make anymore declarative statements I think I might regret

I don’t want to write a love poem, unless it’s about my friends

Yes – I want to love, but I no longer dive head first into the concrete hoping for water

I’m living fast and loving slow
Because I refuse to get swallowed looking
For acceptance and validation between someone else’s legs
And I refuse to critique the crazy ways I’ve put myself back together again

I’m scared that I’m a narcissist
But really I think I just love myself
Quirks and all
For the first time in 25 years