In my family, for christmas, we write poems. They go with the presents, and are usually funny, varying in length, occasionally set to music, and supposedly give hints to the gift. This year, as I've been laid off (and am trying to look on the bright side of this happenstance) I have a great deal of time to write these poems, and have decided to play with sonnets some. Since I haven't written a sonnet in forever, and never one that actually followed the traditional uh, format (as in, quatrain, quatrain, quatrain, TURN, couplet) I decided I needed some practice. So I wrote a little piece about masturbation. Why masturbation? Why not. Anyway, it makes me laugh, and I thought it might amuse others Smile

(I should mention, this is a Shakespearean sonnet, because I like the little heroic couplet ending those have.)

In morning as in night, my very own
hand dips beneath the sheets and covers of
this bed- as its squeaks counterpoint my moan
in this sacrilegious song of self love.
There’s no need for another here, no more
arousing could it be, to have my hand
replac’d by one who barely knows the lore
of the clitoris, the “uncharted” land.
How rude the fingers of those who have not,
before now, learn’d the ways to bring a girl
to pleasure. Clumsily they seek the spot
and catching fingers scrape, but miss the pearl.
But still, it might be nice to have someone
to cuddle, when we ended the real fun.

Now, anyone else want to share some terrible poetry they've written?

It's really very fun.

Kaisar Ryu's picture


I do not believe
Poetry lies within me
To a great extent

MeiLin's picture
Kaisar Ryu's picture


I try to entertain with my dogdey doggerel, but it is nothing compared to the woldly wordplay found in Mith's missive.

MeiLin's picture

Most High

all the time. Smile So I'll skip that part. But I like your poem, a lot!

Capriox's picture


I dabbled in journalism
one year.
I dabbled in fiction
many years.
Story telling is more fun
unencumbered by facts.

Zandu Ink's picture


There once was a guy from the city
Who knew he wer'nt poetry witty.
He'd spout from his head
Irish blessings instead
And end his limmerick wrong.

Mith's picture


I like the surprise ending Blum 3 I think messing with standard forms that people know is one if the most interesting things poets can do, it shows skill, wit, humor, etc...

Anyway, I always used to forget the actualy rules for a lymrick, until I learned, and promptly memorized, the "there once was a man from nantucket, whose cock was so long he could suck it, etc"

Vandole's picture


I went through a poetry phase to vent my feelings back in high school. I ought to return to it someday, but the truth is I find little inspiration in my life right now. Suffering makes good art, after all. It's a little prose-y and a little sappy too. This is one of the best of the lot:

Your hair blocks your eyes from me,
But I know that you can see,
That you make me smile,
If only for a little while.
If you would just come near,
I’d tell you what you want to hear,
But fear has me paralysed,
Afraid of what I’ve analyzed.
There’s no need for diagnosis,
I’m trapped within hypnosis,
It’s sad but it’s true,
I’m addicted to you.

I’ve got low self-esteem,
So all I do is dream,
And you and me in love,
That’s all I’m thinking of,
In my dreams I’ve no fear,
I’m with you, my dear,
There’s nothing I can do,
So addicted to you.

Then finally I spy a chance
My query: will you dance?
Please say yes and set me free
Now girl, don’t you see?
My heart is beating fast.
Please just let this last.
I need to see this through.
I’m addicted to you.

Hmm... I should write my girlfriend some sappy poetry some time.

Capriox's picture


Join the crowd; I think a *lot* of people dabble in poetry in high school as they work their way through hormone-intensified/new feelings. I know that all of my poetry is either high school emoting or from the one creative writing class I took in college, anyway!

Mith's picture


It was eighth grade through sophmore year for me, writing poetry. Now I do prose mostly, except at Christmas.

But poetry is totally a teenage thing.

(as in teenagers like to do it, not that they are good at it, or are the only ones who wrote it...)

TheBoy's picture


was that a haiku?

minnow's picture

Technically, it was
Though lacking in great substance
The form was correct

TheBoy's picture


I do know the form.
Rhetorical questions are
not your strong suit, eh?


kawaiikune's picture


instead of sending out a letter or regular Christmas cards, my dad would write a poem about what we'd been up to in the past year. Each person in my family usually got a four-line stanza to themselves, with maybe an intro and conclusion about what the whole family had been up to. They were always brief and really kind of cute.

I wrote my share of terrible high-school poetry, but my favorite was poet was always e.e. cummings. I also always loved limericks. My favorite, until I learned about the man from Nantucket, was:

An epicure, dining at Crewe,
Found quite a large mouse in his stew;
Said the waiter: "Don't shout
And wave it about,
Or the rest will be wanting one, too!"

There is apparently a variation that involves a lady finding an elephant's wang in her stew, but I was unfamiliar with that version until recently.

Marri's picture


I don't really write poetry, but I enjoy amusing poems. Well, except for one brief moment in high school where I was so blindingly furious at a friend for cheating on my friend/his girlfriend that I needed *some* sort of outlet, but didn't want to face him directly because he and her were supposed to be secret. So I wasn't supposed to know that he was dating her, much less that he'd cheated. Instead of yelling at him, I wrote a bitchy rhymed poem and sent it to the girlfriend to make her giggle. Worked out better, I think. No idea where it went, someday I'll hunt it down and resend it to her to make her grin.

Though I did write my mother a poem for Mother's Day at her request, since she didn't want presents. I wrote a short little thing making fun of her for always buying more plants for the garden whenever she passes a greenhouse and then claiming they "jumped in the car."

In the back of the garden there grows,
in neatly planted and well-tended rows,
the plants that come from near and afar
to sneak past my mother and jump in her car

It doesn't even have a proper meter, but it makes me snicker anyway.

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