Humor Poem, NaPoMo, NaPoWriMo

NaPoWriMo: Worst Poem Ever

I trace your ribs
In cerulean ink
Dewdrops of blue
On the skin
A connect-the-dots
That somehow
Resembles a unicorn
In calligraphy lines
A unicorn with the stripes
Of your bones
A child of myth
And the Serengeti
A mythical zebra with a horn

They must have had unicorns
In the Serengeti too
And your ribs
And my ink
Must have been
What their pelts looked like
On the walls of mythical hunters

If they had pottery
In the mythical Serengeti
And this cerulean ink
Would stick
I would trace your ribs
On the pottery too
While you are sleeping
The rise and fall of your abdomen
With your sacred breath
The reason the lines would be blurred
Not my tears, my love
Not my tears

-M. Ashley

Humor Poem, NaPoMo, NaPoWriMo, Poetry

NaPoWriMo: We Talked a Lot of Shit When I Worked at WalMart

Where we gassed and gabbed
we ground our cigarettes out

on the concrete window ledge
in front of the bustling store—

in front of our managers, what
kind of fuck did we give? Our

feet and backs were killing us and
somebody pissed in the fitting room

again. Someone left a dirty diaper
open in a shopping cart. Literal

shit. You customers deserved
every dirty thing we said.

-M. Ashley

Humor Poem, NaPoMo, NaPoWriMo, Poetry

NaPoWriMo: Controlled Substances

My pharmacist’s assistant boyfriend
gained weight.
It brings us closer as our fingers
touch over the Hydrocodone
and our wrinkles show
and our noses shine
under the fluorescent lights.

I say in a low voice
“You know they’re for my mother.”

He leans forward and says
so gently
“I know. I remember you.”

I tell him they’re for my mother every time
to prompt his sweet nothing.
I am unashamed. I flounce
out of the pharmacy with my narcotics
swinging my hips.

-M. Ashley

Humor Poem, Love, Love Poems, Poetry

Sulfur Kiss

We put up with a certain level of
Gross from our lovers and
Farting on each other in bed and
Giggling about it and
Don’t you dare Dutch oven me
Again… Chester!
Can be as intimate as
The world’s sweetest
Sulfur kiss.

-M. Ashley

Find me on TikTok at: MNAshleyPoetry

Find me on TikTok at: MNAshleyPoetry

Formal Verse, Humor Poem, Memoir Poem, Poetry

Fruiting Body

Apple, pear, banana, orange, I
Used to be, profoundly, a pear—all
Ass and belly. My thighs were righteous
Too. Not that my boobs were small, per se,
Just smaller than the juicy bottom.

But I lost the weight—all the weight—and
More—and became ingloriously
An un-curved banana. I didn’t even
Know women could be bananas. That
Wasn’t ever on my lifelong, plus-
Sized, orange shaped radar. But there an
Inglorious banana was I
Standing at the mirror, bemoaning
My, let’s call them, “sugar spots.” My poor,
Pear peel, made for curves, never quite fit
The banana right, and was far too
Thin skinned for the picking. Picking and
Picking. Constantly picking. My best

Friend said that, skinny as I was, I
Resembled more an apple on a
Toothpick, (you see I have this giant
Melon head). She’s not that sour. I asked
Her in advance to tell me when my
Apple—melon—toothpick—weirdly-un-
healthy-looking-fresh-fruit-hors-d’oeuvre
Situation got out of hand. I

Rejected the banana. Or I
Should say the part of me that wakes up
At 1:30 every morning and
Eats guilty lemon Oreos in
The come-hither glow of an open
Refrigerator rejects the damn
Banana. The part of me that thinks—

The part that guilts innocent lemon
Oreos—dug her heels in, clung tight
To the un-curviness of it all,
The good clothes, the Big Why, fitting
My flat ass into tight spaces for
once, and managed to think, pick, fret, pick,
constantly picking—pick its way to
Gaining back a third of what I lost.

I did not become a pear again.
I became a fatter banana.

Peace unto the fatter banana.
My melon head is, again, to scale.
Let lemon Oreos be pardoned.
Let me slip comfortably into my
New, thicker peel. Let me savor all
My sugar spots. Let me go un-picked.

-M.

66 Day Poetry Habit, Humor Poem, Poetry

Critics Rightly Observe My Poetry Often Lacks Context

It could be anything
An orange peel
Sunset on a fractured path
Sunrise
On a fractured path
Cellulite on a fake-tanned
Thigh gone terribly wrong

Funky cheese

See here. See here. See here.
I’ve got my pointer out
Round the borders with every
Line-measure of words

But
Did you notice
Never on the actual
Thing

My frustration is quantifiable
I’ve made a chart
See here. See here. See here.
Just to the left of the
Glowing picture screen

Reader
I think we have both
Lost touch

It might have been longing
It might have been
Sunset on a fractured heart
Or some such
Trite shit as that

I give
Give up with me
Let’s call it

Funky cheese

Put our heads down on our desks
And take a nap

Poetry sucks anyway

-M.
(Day 4 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)