Rhymes, Rants & Accolades from North Central BC

Archive for October, 2016

BREEM- silly poem #10

Creative writing project, based on when we moved to town.

“BREEM”: “a term applied to the female swine
when she desires the male…”

Said Porky Pig, “We’ve p-packed to go,
Our p-place has s-sold, we can’t say ‘no’
Petunia b-blames me for the move,
Though I recall a d-different groove.

“At Christmas t-time she s-spouted words
Which at the t-time I thought absurd
‘We’re out-of-t-town,’ she w-whined and moaned
‘I’m missing f-fun and g-games,’ she groaned.

“’The r-roads are icy,’” was her pitch,
“Our c-car may end up in the d-ditch,
And think of all the money g-gleaned
From b-bank account on gasoline!’”

“So now our p-property’s changed hands,
Our s-stuff is in the m-moving van,
Petunia’s having t-tearful fits,
And I’ve been in some n-nasty snits.

“Who d-dreamed up this idea?” I asked,
‘Twas y-you, not m-me, who m-multitasked.
You p-painted, s-scrubbed, p-put up the sign,
‘House for s-sale.’ – ‘twas yours, not mine!”

“But n-now we’ve f-finally acquiesced,
We’re in our c-comfy, c-cosy nest
Petunia’s says it’s like a d-dream
And I am p-pleased – she’s in her breem!”

Snakey Bill & The Beer Strike of /78 (Silly poem #9)


From out of the hills came Snakey Bill,
One hot day in July,
He was drenched with sweat, his clothes were wet,
His throat was parched and dry.

He’d searched for gold but the trail was cold,
His luck was bad this year,
The blazing heat almost had him beat,
And he’d run plumb out of beer.

The sign on the door of the liquor store,
Made Snakey’s blood run cold,
The sign proclaimed in language plain,
“The Beer Has All Been Sold”

A voice that spoke in a husky croak,
Said, “I hate to be a bore,
But if you want some suds,
You’ll have to trudge,
A thousand miles or more!”

‘Twas his old pal Dan, looking sad and wan,
“It’s awfully hot this year!
I hear there’s a drought in the hills about?”
Said Snakey, “The drought’s down here.”

He heard a shout and the news was out,
“They’re selling beer at nine!
A case apiece ‘til sales have ceased.”
And Snakey stood in the line.

He almost cried when the boxes he spied,
Were cases of twenty-four,
The money he’d saved for the beer he craved,
Was enough for a dozen, no more!

His thirst unslaked, he walked to the lake
Water was down below,
It had wet his tongue when he was young,
But that was years ago!

The bank was steep and the lake was deep,
He’d drink some if he could,
And I heard him yell just after he fell,
“Water tastes real good!”

I knew I’d drown if I jumped down,
To save poor Snakey Bill,
But I saw his smile – you could see it a mile,
When he finally drank his fill!

There’s a grave on the hill for Snakey Bill,
And they planted after the strike,
A case of beer, but I’m thinkin’ here,
‘Twas WATER he really liked!

CRAFT FAIRS (silly poem #8)

Craft Fairs! Craft Fairs! How I love those Craft Fairs!

Foodstuff and clothing and goodies galore
Tables that stretch as far as the door!
Trinkets created from metals and stone
Buttons from antlers, chopsticks from bone

Statues of animals carved out of wood
Meticulously finished to look as they should
The tables that fold are ones I have bought
Those fashioned from twigs have mosaic tops

Cathy has artwork – amazing displays
She will hold workshops on upcoming days
Bonnie’s cloth diapers for wee babies’ rumps
No need for Pampers which end up in dumps

Jean’s Jams and Jellies – a popular series
Are missing a favourite cause no huckleberries!
Tables with Tupperware, decorative themes
Lots of cosmetics, cleaners and creams

Intricate needlework – embroidery, lace
Pottery ‘n glassware stylishly spaced
There’s healing and helping – holistic boutiques
Take home a pamphlet describing techniques

The Cancer Group’s here – there’s Historical stuff
But if you are leaving ‘cause that’s not enough
Stop in the hallway and have a good look
I’ll show you displays of my latest book.

Whitey, The North Shore Moose (silly poem #7)

“WHITEY” The North Shore Moose (Silly poem#7)

A funny thing happened to me on the way,
To a moose-hunting venture that ended today.
I spied a cow moose with the whitest of fur,
“Twas North Shore “Whitey”
I’d heard about her.
The folks who reside on that side of the lake,
Are proud of their Whitey,
Mother Nature’s mistake.

An ancestor of hers with white pigmentation,
Had been shot by a hunter who stirred indignation.
A petition was raised in pertinent places,
To exempt all white moose
From moose-hunting chases.
But nothing official had yet ruled it cheatin’
To prevent poor old Whitey
From ending up eaten.

And today as I stared at that moose by the road,
I reached for my rifle and prepared to load.
I remembered the weeks I had hunted in vain,
For illusive bull moose in the snow and the rain,
As the season progressed
My frustration got worse,
And I thought of the cow-tag
I had in my purse.

I looked at ol’ Whitey and she looked at me,
And I saw that her eyes were as brown as could be.
And the tears in those eyes that I saw today,
Made me tear up my cow-tag and throw it away.
With my camera instead,
I shot her ‘neath the trees,
She smiled as she posed,
And I’m sure she said, “Cheese!”

The Life & Death of Minnie Mouse (silly poem#6)

(A eulogy for a resident mouse)

Deep within the tunnelled woodwork,
Of an old but sturdy house,
Behind the kitchen sink and cupboard,
Dwells the family of a mouse,
Sixteen children and a spouse,
Make their home there in that house.

Commuting daily ‘cross the carpets,
To the stairway in the hall,
Beneath the crumbling cement casing,
Minnie Mouse works at the mall,
In a rodent restaurant small,
Below the stairway in the hall.

Now she scampers happ’ly homeward,
With just reward for drudging days,
Paycheque clutched tight
In her cheekbones,
She has finally got a raise,
Proud she is and proud displays,
As she scurries through the maze.

But a lean and hungry housecat,
Waits for her upon the stair,
When she exits from the mouse hole,
He will have his supper there,
Later, those of hers who care,
Find her paycheque on the stair…

DISCRIMINATION (silly poem #5)


A man that I know
Is both kind and he’s wise,
On discrimination
He’s made these replies.
“The world is my neighbour,”
He solemnly sighs,
“All races are equal,
All colours and size.”

He speaks from the heart
But the words are all lies.

The houseguest’s small brain
Cannot analyse
The hate and the anger
Alive in those eyes,
From hand raised in fury
She fearfully shies,
“I need warmth, I need shelter,”
She silently cries.

“I’m different, I’m black,
You’re kind and you’re wise!”

The murderous slap
Is a dreadful surprise,
“Oh why is my form
Such a shape you despise?
Her diminutive body
Its swiftness belies,
And speed is an asset
You well may surmise.

All alone with a man,
Who seeks her demise.

“Asleep in your bedroom
Your nightlight implies,
That you need a companion
In whatever guise,
Your love and affection
I may yet realise,”
The houseguest caresses
The man as he lies.

From slumber awakened
He opens his eyes.

Of sleeping once more
He assumes the disguise,
With eyelids a-droop
But with breath on the rise,
His guest flaunts her body
With innocent plies,
A slap of his hand
And she instantly dies,

The last of a species
Of late autumn flies .

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC -silly poem #4


Aha! You may have pharyngitis,
Or else a case of tonsillitis,
Hope you don’t get laryngitis,
Or an inflamed adenitis.

If you drink milk, tuberculosis
Germs abound, and brucellosis
Birds can give you psittacosis,
And beware of halitosis.

Do you itch? That’s dermatitis,
If you ache, that’s arthritis,
Or possibly it is bursitis.
Blood clots often cause phlebitis.

You may be a diabetic,
Your liver could be hepatitic,
I hope your kidneys not nephritic,
Your headache may be meningitic.

Your diet can be carcinogenic,
Poor blood can mean you are anaemic,
Or if it’s poisoned, bactermenic,
Hope your lungs aren’t emphysemic.

Take some pills, some Aureomycin,
Some Penicillin, Streptomycin,
For your skin some Magnamycin,
For your cold some Tetracycline,

Take this pill for streptococcus,
And this one’s for staphylococcus,
As I fled her rantings raucous,
I heard her call the doctor’s office.



A goose and a duck were both single,
So together they thought they would mingle,
But he honked and she quacked,
And they didn’t get back,
‘Til both had become bilingual!

There once was a man from Endako,
Whose living was made with a backhoe,
With this rig he did dig,
A hole that was big,
‘twas sad ‘cause he never came back, oh!

A robot that cleaned up the messes,
Of nuclear science successes,
Was put out to rust,
When it grumbled and fussed,
‘Bout hazardous waste in excesses!


With apologies to the author of
“A Passionate Shepherd To His Love”

Unplug with me the sink and tub,
Where hairy folk their bodies rub,
With lotions, soaps, oils and gel,
Deodorized, to quell the smell.

And we will sit upon the john,
Seeing the grease and grime upon,
The porcelain and in the drain,
The strands of hair that yet remain.

And I will make you pointed hats,
And aeroplanes to throw at cats,
Paper flowers I will issue,
Fashioned all from toilet tissue.

A gorgeous gown of soft chenille,
Made from the towels that I will steal,
And jewellery at your feet I’ll toss,
All woven out of dental floss.

Grease traps full of grimy things,
Plumbing leaks and bathtub rings,
If these don’t make you “ick” or “ugh”
Then come with me and help unplug.

A cutting torch, a roll of wire,
Toilet plunger, wrenches, pliers,
If all these tools for me you’ll lug,
Then come with me and help unplug.

OCTOBER (Silly poem#1)

Now that it’s October,
And for sure our summer’s over,
I dig up my window boxes,
Pillage petals, roots and stalks ‘n,
Fling the foliage on the ground;
Dead plants lying all around.

Replace them with some flowering bulbs;
With thoughts of springtime I indulge.
I tuck them in the rich black earth,
Which was my summer flowers’ turf.
Mound them high with peat moss fill
To protect from winters’ chill.

When snow ‘n ice encase the world
And darkness through the days unfurl,
My flowering bulbs may not survive,
But Northerners like me will thrive.
One thing always helps us cope
In winter we subsist on hope!

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