Lawnmowing limericks at WIZ

I have a clown phobia and a  lawnmower phobia.   If you want to  drive me over the edge,  hire a clown and send  him to mow my lawn.  

But since it isn’t technically clown  season and is most definitely lawnmowing season, I thought it would be interesting, and  hopefully fun, to  try a lawnmowing limerick thread.    If you would like to contribute, here are the rules:

1. Your poem must scan and rhyme  according to good limerick form:   a more-or-less  anapestic line pattern, 3-3-2-2-3, rhyme scheme a a b b a.     Example:

There was an old soldier of Bister
Went walking one day with his sister,
When a cow at one poke
Tossed her into an oak,
Before the old gentleman missed her.
                                                                  Nursery Rhymes, Mother Goose

2.    Clever/humorous is good; tasteless/off-colored  is bad.   See WIZ’s submissions guide.

3.   Your limerick must address the humor, ironies, or  downright absurdities  of growing and mowing grass lawns.   Or, if you’re a lawnmowing enthusiast, write a limerick  defending this most  noisy and noxious  warm weather  ritual.

4.   Add your limerick to this thread in the comments section of this post.   That way, we’ll have them lined up to be read in succession.

My first:

The grass lawn is a curious invention;
Out West, a most wondrous convention.
There folks force it to grow,
And then they’re forced to mow,
And to Roundup them weeds, not to mention.

Field Notes #3

April 21, 2009 (pre-Earth Day)

Today, as I head out for the trail into the canyon that will take me past the dead coyote, I decide to  call that trail Coyote Trail, or maybe Coyote Way, to remember that coyote mouldering at the trailhead.   As I pass those remains, I try to satisfy my curiosity about the animal’s gender, but the back legs are frozen together in a rigor of modesty.   A cloud of black flies on and around the carcass goes a-buzz at my intrusion into its community  feast and fur-lined creche. Continue reading “Field Notes #3”

Spring

by William Blake

Sound the flute!
Now it’s mute!
Bird’s delight,
Day and night,
Nightingale,
In the dale,
Lark in sky,
Merrily,
Merrily merrily, to welcome in the year.

Little boy,
Full of joy;
Little girl,
Sweet and small;
Cock does crow,
So do you;
Merry voice,
Infant noise;
Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year.

Little lamb,
Here I am;
Come and lick
My white neck;
Let me pull
Your soft wool;
Let me kiss
Your soft face;
Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year.

 

Submitted by Eric Jepson.

Morning Walk, Spring 2009

by theric jepson

Worm on the sidewalk
as the sun comes out €”

How did they miss him?
How’d he escape breakfast?

A gentle flick to the
dirt under a bush,
and walk on.

May he survive.

 

To find more theric, sift here.