Humour poems that are original and profound. Explore a brilliant collection of humour poetry that you can’t stop reading. These poems on humour are published by poets from all over the world and are sure to keep you High On Poems!
I’ve become aware I can time-travel, particle-physics has long posited this, Stephen Hawking admits it’s possible, even likely. It starts out this way, drowsing on my front room sofa TV tuned down, & in just a moment an hour and
It isn’t easy living on the nose of a moose. Especially, if the big brute is charging Through the spruce. You must think quick,when Mr. Moose decides to Drink. “Mr Moose,” tries to drown me each time. “Mr Moose”Forces his
Chanrashekhar working in an Advocate’s chamber One room insufficient, two are in possession there He jumps from one room to another for nothing Starts talk to clients in one wing, completes in other wing There where the very client is
Flicking through the paper an advert caught my eye, I hesitated slightly as I almost read right by, “Space Cadets required all across the nation” The job was made for me so I sent off my application. “Experience required” I
I’m seeking my immortal foe He must mosh hard and enjoy Edgar Allen Poe You should have a secret identity that nobody can know … Be a secret sexy super-villain, be my, John Doe! I’m now hiring, inquire within! Don’t
Once upon a day I encountered a machine capable of the most exquisite, subtle and profound expression of feeling, While its cogs and wheels turned coldly and mutely, with no heart, thought or feeling of their own. A sign on
Hail the messiah of the downtrodden soldiers of the heart and mind, Grief, chaos, anger and their friends need some counselling. So the Superman arrives with tickling serpentine fingers and darty snooker eyeballs; The cavalry of shenanigans on his nosey,
Didn’t realize when the heart swelled, a tear rolled down, then, another…. …and so on……….. What a charming guy with blue twinkling eyes! Santa spreading laughter and cheer; giving away endless memories and smiles! Immense pain wears the garb of
Solo, I am clock maker born September 22nd, a Virgo/Libra mix insane, look at my moving parts, apart yet together, holes in air, artistic perfection, mechanical misfits everywhere, life is a brass lever, a wordsmith, an artist at his craft.
Unimpressed by your lack of ambition I want to control, dictate your small mind Exploited, but fine with your position While our heads are foreign, our hearts combined Your mother, your dad grew up in this town Your father served
Dear readers, Reader’s Digests denote That readers read and clearly emote Their feelings out and try to devote Their money and time for this rowboat. The mind that reads it will surely vote Their success that is sure to roam
About the book – Ray Mootrey, first time author and poet has captured elements of new-age spirituality in an exciting post-apocalyptic science fiction fantasy. HARRY THE MOLE is an epic poem; the story of a reluctant hero who overcomes his
You captivated me, Drenched in raindrops My mind singing in joy, At the sight of you, A fragrance around me, An untold emotion, Deep in my soul. Blossoms of love, That never fades, In ethereal beauty, Of a misty glow,
The bone line travels from flesh to flesh, tears into blood. I was not crude, not blunt. Dew teasers, were my guests with luggage of pain, ready to dip to taste the language of surrender. There was no acrimony between
Was busy carving out the white clouds like stanzas, unflawed. Now I begin to fall apart. No meaning was left in a drink. You could see only your image drowning in a scented charity. At last I am watching myself.
We started the journey together Where it would end Was anyone’s guess A thousand miles we have trodden Betwixt the ups and downs We’ve seen hills turn to mountain And mighty rivers run dry We have encountered many sorrows And
Living between the deaths as a witness to a silence between the words. Leaves had fallen: yet a dry tree was still flowering exuberantly under a scorching sun. My day has come, but I was far away from shores of
Up there, the mind of saints is telegnostic And thought is superluminally telepathic; Via sensorial communications anomalous Gnosis and mind are venially synonymous. All is public fare; the personal life is dead And every thought you surfed in your head
Like a pause in pain I ring the bell of homecoming. I was ready to meet the hurricane. The alien neighbor of white fires. After the rains the slush will overwhelm the abducted silence. The celestial peace will be shattered.
In the rural South, sometimes life was cruel Robbery from the poor was legal, via dirt cheap labor In all practicality, one could say that we were going backwards In the North, city life was fearful and dangerous I was
Thankfully I was never bullied at school but for this poem I tried to put myself in the shoes of someone who was. Bullying hurts and leaves a permanent scar! Laughed at, taunted, left all alone, You tell me to
My heart stopped pumping My blood doesn’t flow though my veins I stopped felling love and hate Yes, I am passing through the Death’s Gate I lived my life Complaining about the traits, And now when the time came, Why
If Hope is the thing with feathers, perhaps Life is that stony thing, that stony Enigma. If someday, somehow, somewhere, I catch some glimpses of what makes a heart, a stone, and what makes a stone, watery before someone dies…
BEGONE ERA Memories of Childhood are like a shining diamond in the chain of events Children of different era have different set of memories Tested and cherished children’s games of one particular era are sure to supercede games of the
Fallen men the perpetrators of unspeakable crimes are doomed to suffer in silence behind the bars of infinity even as fate creates a mirage of redemption they are fooled to believe that they can embody a mortal lead a full
Dear father, Have you seen your daughter lately? You are missing a lot. You have missed a gamut of Her cuteness. I see her daily in my classroom, And she is growing into A wonderful young lady. She is smart.
*A dead letter is a letter that has never been delivered because the person to whom it was written cannot be found, and it also cannot be returned to the person who wrote it.* Dim the lights, for in darkness
If hope were mystical and only available for this present and earthly life, I would think my future to be cloudy and dark, not sunny and bright If hope were in a constant state of deferral I think my heart