Young Writers Society

This does not need reviews; this is a game-type activity.

I am a freak for poetry. I love to read it, write it, and savor the words in black and white (and pink, in Rosey's case). But so often, poetry gets so dark and dreary and heavy on the heart; that's why I think it's time we spark up a softer fire in the poetry forums, and that's what this thread will be for!

What we'll do on this thread is really, really simple.

We will write light-hearted poetry about anything we want (keeping it PG, o' course), ranging from puppies in the sunshine to stingy Biology professors slipping on banana peels!

I'll try to get us started!

Aet was an astronaut,
the kind up on the moon,
but he played a game called Portal 2
all morning, night, and noon.

Aet's wife, she didn't think
his pass-time was quite healthy,
so she divorced him, called a trial,
and now she's super wealthy.

So Lumi has me writing rhyming shtick
And it's supposed to be funny and slick
Then again as I always say, free verse can be better
So maybe I should practice what I preach
But man, what a terrible limerick.

Oh, and

Portal 2 is so wonderfully perfect,
the best game in the world is Portal 2

Rhymes because Portal 2 rhymes with perfect.

I’m terrified of panda bears
Though I cannot tell you why.
Yes I’m terrified of panda bears,
The Ailuropoda melanoleuca.

You may ask why I am so afraid
Of those mild-mannered, Chinese bears.
Yes, you may ask why I am so afraid
Of those cuddly raccoon-faced bears.

You see I’m terrified of panda bears.
It’s quite ridiculous you must think.
Because I’m terrified of panda bears,
Yet I live in Hawaii.

I told you I'd post eventually Lumi! Not brilliant but the concept seems crazy enough I suppose.

There once was a bear called Pooh
Up his nose a bee once flew
It buzzed and it stung
Until out if flung
With a loud, slimy ‘Achoo’


No, this is not a limerick!

This is really more of a riddle than anything else but watching my classmates' confused faces when they tried to figure out was sure funneh!

I vary in length
language, accent, and age.
I pray at an alter of confusion
and I bathe at the pool Confounding.
You'll find my purlieu is often leather bound,
wrapped in paperback, or furrowed in stone.
I will trouble your lucid mind
until you clarify me.
What am I?

My name is Margaret Thatcher
I changed a lot of things too soon
Me and Ronald Reagan loved
We should've got a friggin' room

Because it is PG, I used friggin' instead, in place of...that other word

So this is supposedly light and funny,
Let's imagine bathtubs made of money,
Not filled with money, made of it,
So you can bathe in it and feel real slick.

Because slick is how we like to be,
You don't like it? Give it to me,
See I thought that you would see
That it would add to your treasury.

They say when you used to walk
through the streets of Katmandu
in thin bikini garb,
they'd look at you funny.

Palaces around you
were plated in gold.
And when you walked by with your tall skinny companion,
the palace guards laughed.
And they were wearing funny tall black hats.

You wanted to cower in shame --
you only roamed the city because
you wanted to understand their laughter.
You were too proud to cry.

You told yourself they weren't laughing
at you.

And then you heard them say
in a language you did not understand,
"That guy dressed up
his pet bulldog
like Miley Cyrus."

For Noel, my bad - bad - kitty.

Your fur as white as the dandruff,
Atop that odd kid's head.
Nose as pink as pimples,
cute claws that I still must dread.

You love my socks,
you love my shoes.
But most of all,
you love my room.

I can tell by the way
you ripped up everything,
left my favorite blanket
in shreds of tiny string.

And by the surprise in my shoes
I can tell you love me too.
Let me return the favor,
by cleaning up this poo.

Noel darling dear,
please just remember one thing,
I'm the one with the cat nip,
Your master with the string.

So next time you decide
To ruin things like a troll,
expect to be trapped inside
a box with no air holes.

Sincerely,

Jennah. Your loving owner.

I remember my first time driving.
I got my right of passage as a man,
and my mom got that bay window
she's always wanted.

Thinking of what to type,
Thinking of going on Skype,
Thinking 'bout something funny-
My dad dressed as a bunny.

Thinking 'bout good times
That could make me type some rhymes
Instead of chewing on my gum
And writing something dum'.

Looking up at the screen,
Oh! Two minutes it's been!
'Got to get back on Skype,
My last line, I type.


(--That awkward moment when I make reference to Skype, when I don't even have an account --)

I've never been a poet,
and I really truly know it.
I start one off
with cliche stuff,
then end the annoying limerick.