Aardvarks in the Clouds
and Other Flights of Fancy
55 Humorous Poems
by John Howard Reid
Other Books of Poetry in This Series:
Anyone for Love? by John Howard Reid
Love and City Dreaming by Margaret Havill Reid
Song of the Wayward Wind by Margaret Havill Reid
Escape to Paradise & Other Poetic Fancies by John Howard Reid
A Salute to Spanish Poetry: 100 Masterpieces from Spain & Latin America
rendered into English by John Howard Reid
Rosalía de Castro: Selected Poems
rendered into English verse by John Howard Reid
Aardvarks in the Clouds
and Other Flights of Fancy
55 Humorous Poems
by
John Howard Reid
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 by John Howard Reid
All rights reserved
johnreid@mail.qango.com
All people, places and events in these poems are totally fictitious and bear no relationships whatever to real people, places or events.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Boyhood Ambitions (1): What I do NOT Want To Be When I Grow Up
Boyhood Ambitions (2): What I Want To Be When I Grow Up
Favorite Nursery Rhymes Re-Visited
Great Words in Poetry (1) Palimpsests!
Great Words in Poetry (2) Logarithm!
Great Words in Poetry (3) Iconoclast!
Great Words in Poetry (4) Popinjay!
Great Words in Poetry (5) Epicure!
Great Words in Poetry (6) Ostracize!
Great Words in Poetry (7) Fulminating!
Great Words in Poetry (8) Osculatory!
Hunting with Nearest and Dearest in the Five-and-Ten
I Read a Captivating Book Once
Shopping for an Overcoat in a Department Store
Sitting on Top of the Poetic Heap
Things That Go Wrong (1) Trains
Things That Go Wrong (2) More Trains
Things That Go Wrong (3) Poet and Rhyme
Waiting for the Twelve Thirty-Five
You Can Never Win a Dollar in the Slots
Aardvarks in the Clouds
All I want for Christmas is an aardvark, Comely.
How can you talk so dumbly, Cholomondely!
Where on earth would we put an aardvark?
What do you even feed an aardvark?
Aardvarks eat ants, darling. Ants!
You’re always complaining about these ants.
My aardvark would eat them all up.
All of them. Like magic. Without a hiccup!
Then what would we do?
Buy ants from the zoo?
We wouldn’t have to go that far.
Just next door. Mrs Farquhar.
She has ants too.
A lot closer than the zoo.
If you think I’m going begging
to Mrs Farquhar – How about you lending
me some ants? – You’re dead wrong.
I’m not asking you to go to Hong Kong,
but just next door. You’d think she’d be glad
to get rid of her ants. Jolly glad!
As a matter of fact, the whole street
is full of ants, my sweet.
The whole neighborhood.
We’ll charge heaps for our aardvark! Robin Hood
never had it so good.
I’ve invented a whole new livelihood!
A whole new way to lose money, you mean?
In any event, coddling an aardvark is not my scene,
even if he made us as rich as the queen.
I’ll have no aardvark in my demesne!
Think of all the prestige you’d gain.
Life would be skittles and vintage champagne.
No country club can qualify without a fashion leader,
so why not Alice Aardvark and Comely Zeeforneeder?
But where would we put her? Where does Alice sleep?
Any old place, so long as it’s good and deep.
She likes to burrow in the ground
and there she’ll hide until she’s found.
But we’ll buy her a cage like a regular jail
with bars and cement and a postbox for mail.
I can see the fans lined up in queues
just waiting to learn all her aardvark news.
Oh, Cholomondely, you’re so right with your aardvark views,
why did you waste my time with all those feeding issues?
We’ll buy her ants by the ton, if need be,
as we laze in the sun on our country club spree.
We’ll buy her a mate – isn’t that a good idea?
We’ll have aardvarks upright, aardvarks sincere,
Aardvarks for Vienna, aardvarks for Cashmere,
aardvarks for high society, aardvarks for Tangier,
aardvarks for rallies, aardvarks for campaigns,
aardvarks for endorsements, aardvarks for trains,
aardvarks for go-aheads, aardvarks for brains,
aardvarks for R. and R., aardvarks for planes.
Aardvarks for toothaches, aardvarks for rest cures,
aardvarks for conventions, aardvarks for brochures.
Yes, we’ll have aardvarks for singles, couples and crowds.
Aardvarks for the whole world to see. Aardvarks in the clouds.
Ace in the Clouds
It’s hard to play whist
when you’ve just kissed
your opponent. Yes,
well one of the press
anyway. We drew cards.
I’m loaded with Miss lards-
of-weight instead of Miss fancy free.
Now even the cards are against me.
Spades are trumps. What can I play?
Even an ace can’t play an ace if he has none to parlay.
I hold a deuce and a three. Not my lucky day!
Maybe my partner will win this round?
A hope unsound! She’s playing a four.
Six rounds more
and we’ve not won once.
Now Miss Kissable hunts
with a vengeance
and as a consequence
I’m well and truly up the creek.
I wish I were a Sikh.
Sikhs don’t play cards, I understand.
They’re right! Cards are a menace. Should be banned!
They’re simply a way to lose money.
And when I lose money, I don’t find it funny.
But maybe Miss Kissable will prove a generous winner?
No such luck! She and partner are off with the cash
quick as a flash.
My wallet stays perceptibly thinner.
Up in the Clouds
Up in the clouds,
a town of delight,
a city of lambent light
where wild buffalo roam,
and nothing is ever peaceful
(thank Thunder for that);
a copious lake haven where
illusionists have no allusions
and neighbors in whatever pickle
are never caught short of a nickel.
Glum Merrymen Unite!
It takes all types
to make a merryman feel numb –
a carnival of pins and stripes,
a pressure of thumb,
a blank stare,
a lost foil
in a rival’s chair,
or a royal
roast
in The Poughkeepsie Post.
You scramble the point
of half your riddles,
fail to anoint
your victuals
with raucous repartee,
or mollify the wrath –
with a friendly fee
(half a golden calf) –
of agents and straw-boss friends,
planted inebriates and loose ends.
What to align
to stay afloat
in this messy mine
of a multiplex moat?
Jokes don’t fall
from tearful trees
or cunningly crawl
from a bee’s knees!
Heaven can’t be stayed
for clowns of every brand and shade.
There has to be a way –
a path of saving grace,
a failsafe roundelay
to keep the rubes in place!
You can shell
out till you burst,
you can bribe home or hell,
you’ll never stay the thirst
or halt half the ravaging bands
of multicolored, multiplexed hands!
Unless! Unless you modify.
No longer act the clown,
but feign sagacity – solidify
a new you with gown and frown,
waxing wisdom to the moppets,
breezing nonsense into drama,
pacing pleonastic peans to the Hobbits
and hard-hat haiku to the Dalai Lama!
Thus the merryman becomes this present age,
a revolving sage of wisdom on dear old Destiny’s stage!
Signs on the Line
When hobbyists
gain hold of
a railway line,
they don’t care
an éclair
if trains are
not there!
Worcester
to a brick,
trains will
run late –
why create
schedules if
Jimbo can wait?
“Is a fare fair,
or is it unfair
to pay in here
wads of cash,
if all my rash
plans end up
in the trash?”
“But, Jimbo, lad,
regard the pleasure
your ears will enjoy
while you stand and
wait, ticket in hand,
enjoying the thrill
of our stokers’ band!
“Think of the measures,
the real-life treasures
of men who deny
worldly pursuits
to map out routes,
enroll volunteers
and other galoots.
“If your only aim
is to journey on time,
why bother with
the hobbyists’ line
and your leisure assign
to moaning your ditty,
our trains are not fine?”
He hit the hobble,
laid bare my bluff.
I guess he knew why
I made this complaint.
I just wanted to paint
myself a silver gray
in lines rather feint.
“No shelter I find
from wind or sun,
hail or snow on the
railroad concourse.
I’d rather tear myself hoarse
stoking coal in a boiler! Sign
me up for your volunteer force!”
Hunting with Nearest and Dearest
in the Five-and-Ten:
A Recitative
They don’t call it the five-and-ten any more.
Now it’s your local Fun and Reject Store
where slashed prices and bargains galore
jostle for space in a tiny embrace
where cash – no credit – is king.
Now every buyer can find their thing,
no matter what fidgety item they bring
to mind. My mother seeks a curtain ring
to match the one that was somehow lost.
As for me, I don’t mind whatever the cost
so long as it’s under $1 or less. I’ll not be bossed
around by daughters small or even wives loomed large.
Do you smalls hear me, Frosty, Kim, and you, my Marge?
I’ll not pay more than one dollar to follow your holler!
Sock it to ’em today! as my old doctor would say.
Lend Me Your Chipmunk
Lend me your chipmunk, dear!
Have no fear! I’ll bring him back
within a year – and none the worse
for wear and weather: His “chips” all
intact, and his “munk” as prayerfully
hooded as a grasshopper’s green or
an elephant’s naughty-nosed sheen.
Prayerful creatures, chipmunks, I’ve heard
tell. Hoi, belay! What’s that, you say?
No “monk” in chipmunk. Nor “friar”,
either! He sells no chips and mocks
no monks? Why call him a “chip
monk” then? What does he do?
Howl at the moon on birthdays soon?
Partner the silver spoon in a dishware
sale? Raffle tin cups on street corners
or play leapfrog in forget-me-not lane
with Noah, the arkist: Mr Menagerie?
Go on, on! Lend me your chipmunk, dear!
I’ll put him to good use: Use him as bait
for an elephant’s mate, or set him aside
for a squirrel’s bride, or tempt the tide
as guide to the all-waxing side of me.
Harbor your chipmunk, befriend an absentee!
Note this ticket, miss. Clip it to your wicket!
Chipmunks forever! The only way to lick it!
You Can Never Win a Dollar in the Slots
No matter how you holler
You can never win a dollar
Playing sucker with no luck-a
Unless you toss a ton of moolah
in the slots
Why read about the slot’s instant millionaires
When their affairs don’t interest you one jot
You know it’s all a come-on for upstairs
Sapheads like yourself, with as much
chance as a cantor to clutch the lot
So slot yourself an ache of grief
Watch dollars shrink to dimes
Pretend you know just one
More throw will make
this thief your Santa
Sad to see bad times
When just one more
Throw – you really
Know – will make
an able millionaire
Able to pay off debts
Able to stave off arrests
Formulate palimpsests
And liquidate despair
thus make all square
50 Little Pumpkin Seeds
Fifty little pumpkin seeds
planted in a line:
Wouldn’t it be wonderful
if all turned out just fine?
Fifty little pumpkin seeds!
Yes, wouldn’t it be nifty
if lots of tiny spouts appeared
from every one of the fifty?
Would you believe, only seven —
not thirty, forty or even eleven —
sprouts rejoiced in the summer sun?
But even eleven is better than one!
Alas, one teeny sprout found
itself on rocky ground,
wedged in between two sticks.
Now there are only six!
Six little pumpkin sprouts, all alive
and waving in the breeze!
One caught a chill, began to sneeze.
Now there are only five!
Five little pumpkin sprouts,
tenderly fit and strong —
pigs buried their snouts
in two, ending my joyful song.
Three little pumpkin sprouts
reaching high to the summer sky.
A wicked storm spouts
heavy rain. Goodbye sprout. Goodbye!
Two little pumpkin sprouts
now figure on a snail’s menu.
He slides up to the nearest nowts
and thus this thief begins to chew!
One little pumpkin sprout
is all that I have left.
Summer’s sun’s so hot no doubt
he’ll soon leave me quite bereft!
Our Butcher
Our butcher isn’t a butcher any more!
Transformed his shop to a candy store,
now chops up sweets instead of meats
and showers no more piles of sawdust
on the floor.
Right now he caters to kiddie capers
where licorice is the customer’s wish,
while curly snakes replace barbecues,
chocolate-coated sweets, sirloin steaks.
Lollies Galore is the name of the store.
Quite a change from Butcher’s Meat
That’s Great To Eat! Customers new
are a younger and more unruly crew.
No more facing the dawn to slice
up shoulders, or racing the clock
to meet meat wagons, or jacking
the price to cover spoils, or rock
slacking customer confidence in a
mesh of refrigerated less than fresh!
Now it’s off to work with a hearty limber!
Off with a bang, in place of that whimper!
Off nice and late ’stead of racing the sunny.
Off with the apron, and on with the money!
On Judging Bad Poetry
When eyes have bad poetry
thrust into their gaze,
our soul shivers and shakes
while minds thread a maze
of hail storms and quakes,
thoughts idle, yet ablaze,
passions passionate as snakes,
hostilities insidious, tremulous aches,
past participles oblivious, grammatical mistakes.
How can it all happen? Has heaven closed its gates?
Is this our reward for dictionaries anonymous, ingrates
ascending, pluperfects never ending, iniquitous tête-à- têtes?
Grandma’s Windless Windlass
Why pay for water
when it’s free?
was grandma’s
constant cry.
Any fool but
a blind fool
could see
right clear
by day or
night that
rain falls
free from
God’s own
sky!
But dad
always had
a ready reply:
Tried
a tank,
remember?
Dismantled
last December!
Rusted right away.
Nothing you can do
or say
will keep Master Rust
at bay!
But my
Grandma
was a born
scorner, always
wrapped up in an
alternative corner.
You always give up
far too easy, Breezy!
Why not drain it into our
old well? Dried up years ago.
All you need do is make it really