Tiger bone waterfall

In the hills in Southeast Asia, there is a waterfall

It is not gigantic, nor especially tall,

But it has beauty, like no other

Given by the bones of an old tiger mother.

Bones in the plunge pool, buried long ago

By monks in robes, careful and slow.

Bones of a goddess, colossal and fierce,

Beautiful, strong, with eyes that pierce.

God that died in a war of gods

Struck down by the god of war’s bamboo rods.

What little magic is left in the bones

Gives the waterfall and its smoothed-out stones

A verdant green glow, vivid and alive,

The plants all around cannot but thrive.

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Folk song surprise

I knew vaguely the tune to an old folk song,

My knowledge of the lyrics was not that strong.

Who cares, it can’t be that bad, right?

A happy melody and rhythm and it sounds really bright.

After singing it twice for practice, I discover,

Much of the content tells of a lover

Who dances with everyone, and rapes a girl

Stabs his brother and steals her pearl.

On the way home he meets their old mom

Calls her a hag, greets her with his palm,

Goes home full with pride of a night well spent…

Well, I’m glad the past is the past and away it went.

Gold rush coroner

In the gold rush days of yore

Were, well, let’s just say, not a bore.

No law, no police no civilization,

Far in the wilds, death and starvation.

The stories they told of how people died

Did not hold water, I think mostly they lied.

Some are hilarious, they just make no sense,

Like this one assumes that the hearer is dense:

“A person found dead in the river in the vale

Cause of death: drowning, sex: male.”

(Makes sense so far, not much to it,

But hear what comes next to see what doesn’t fit.)

“Cause of drowning: a bullet hole in the head,

That made him fall down and he drownded dead.”

Now, I’m not a doctor, but a headshot might,

Be the actual reason why he did bite

The dust as he did, I’m just saying:

Somebody over there did some pretty foul playing.

The lamp in the fog

There’s a lone street lamp somewhere in the fog.

Lighting the way through the murderous bog.

Without it everyone would be hopelessly lost,

Dead in the swamp, covered by frost.

The lamp is famous, loved by all,

Travelers obey its luminous call.

The lives it saves too numerous to count

Shames the Grim Reaper, making him dismount.

The lone street lamp, always alight,

Was brought down due to one man’s spite.

The emperor of La La Land was on his way

Through the deadly swamp on a very sunny day.

Thinking, like emperors are wont to do,

Of his own magnificence, not of me or you.

Completely lost in these enticing thoughts

He collided with the lamp while dreaming of yachts.

Irately proclaimed it had no business there

With the weather so sunny and clear as air.

With some men with unrefined hands

Ensured the life-saving lamp no longer stands,

The emperor was not pleased, men like him never are.

Travelers no more return without the guiding star.

Barbarian eggplant vampire chutney

Some people say that limericks are the lazy person’s DIY solution to poetry. They might be correct, as I tend to be quite lazy and I wrote three just now. However, I like limericks, as the form and rhythm are beautiful, and I hope that a surprising topic choice ensures that they are something more than a bunch of clichés. Don’t pay any attention to the fact that the form is all over the place. Or to the fact that the rhymes are ham-fisted. Otherwise they’re pretty ok. Maybe.

 

I bought a car made of chutney.

The seats covers and seats, they were muttoney.

It drove fine in the cold,

But in May the blue mold,

Made it smell like an unwashed, old butt… -ney.

 

The comfy coffin of a vampire child,

Disowns all things brutal and wild.

He’s had flat screens installed

And you know he skype-called

His old-fashioned dad, now exiled.

 

A tomato, the one you eat with cheese,

Is “barbarian eggplant” in literal Chinese.

No wonder it’s red,

As it strikes its foes dead,

And steals their provisions with ease.

Pollinating

Ow! That was almost a liter of me!

It’s almost as if you weren’t really a bee

Pollinating my earlobes with good intent

But a neck-biting bloodsucker fresh from lent.

But I trust you Alucard, my dear friend,

You must be a bee with the way you ascend,

With a buzz of your two large leather wings,

Not really a buzz, hmm, funny things…

It was nice to see my friend once more,

But, boy oh boy, does my neck feel sore.

I’ll have to pay more mind to how I lie

Now when I nap, or as I try,

As I feel tired and just a bit faint,

Which makes me snore without a restraint.

Being pollinated takes its toll,

But I have to play my designated role.

Pissing in a river

Imagine a culture where you get prestige,

By pissing in a river.

You’d become the local liege

If you were a good giver.

Arbitrary? Yes indeed.

Harmful for those downstream,

Like a persistent weed.

An enduring, random cultural theme.

We don’t do this to impress our brothers,

Thinking we’re on the upswing.

But we have cars and phones and others;

Is it not the same thing?