Just Some Poems

Back in high school (1986-1989), I wrote some funny poetry, and some bad poetry, and some funny bad poetry.  It’s kind of like the Plan 9 From Outer Space of poetry.  Enjoy!

– Eric Lemonholm

Just Some Poems by Eric P Holm (Lemonholm): The High School Years


Primate Malevolence

Orangutan Bran Flakes,

I sprinkle you with sugar

hoping to tame your ferocious ways.

It is of no avail. Oh!

A splash of milk has destroyed

your defenses—boggy mush!



Kinshasa, you light from afar

all the roses upon my cheek.

Every tear that falls

is blessed by your care.

How faintly do I hear

your bounteous aroma.

Your soul, like a fig, is ripe.


Old Friend

The Sea is my friend.

I love to watch it roll.

We sit in the evening

trading the wisdom of eternity.

He enters the sleep of time.

Joy-happy, I eat a fish.



A kernel of corn upon the winds

flutters to and fro.

Its amber sheen blinds my sight

as it alights upon my brow.


Desert Thirst

Yellow weeds whistle in the faint breeze.

The sun shades the land with scorch.

A coyote howls—I need Kool-Aid.





Poem Thoughts

I know not why I’m sitting here,

writing a poem true.

I would rather hitch up a steer

and ride to the old lady’s shoe.


Flying Fruit Nasalities

A melon green falling from the sky

whistles as it goes.

I look up to see it fly,

and it lands upon my nose.


The Mariner

I hitch my wagon to a clam

nestled in the deep blue sea.

My wagon red, bombarded by a ham,

sinks like a falling tree.


Rice Bowl

One day I found a bowl of rice

and I ate it then and there.

You probably wouldn’t think me nice

If I pulled a kiwi fruit’s hair.


I Aint John

“My name is John,” I once did say,

though I knew it wasn’t true.

For my lie I truly did pay;

I was eaten by a gnu.



If I were to fly away now,

I really wouldn’t know how.

I would try and try

to reach to the sky,

but the moon is just for cows.


Alien Eating Habits

Bundles of bungee cords for breakfast.

An avocado and mole on rye.

Thank goodness dinner comes last.

I’ll have an Inuit pie.



Eric P. Holm’s Haiku Haven

Glorious sunlight!

You warm my breast in Summer

Like a curd of cheese.

The woman has no form.

She dances inside my head.

Her name is Moonbeam.


I traverse the night.

Forms streak through the pitch– darkly.

Alone, I search on.


I feel nature’s call.

It wrenches at my innards.



Wind coils about me.

Its tendrils draw me closer.

Eternal whisper.


Fettucini Waves.

Death calls, tearing at my soul.

Solitary Shrew.


Sorrow in the breeze.

Flowers bloom, only to die.

Improbable mold.


The moss proclaims, lush.

Spring is a fetus—new,

and yet eternal.

Life is in the air.

It is seen in all nature.

Elusive to some.


Man is the evil.

In the world, he shines darkly.

But love makes him pure.


Pea pod in the sun.

Greener than the hopping toad;

A fabaceous sheen.


The moon dances gay

on a melancholy cloud,

cheering it with glow.


Cattails line the marsh

as sentinels so peaceful;

motionless, they march.


And the spotty dog

howls at the loneliness

of the night so chill.


A Haiku is written

to be considered by all

as a bull’s behind.


Oh HappyMorning!

You greet me as an old friend—

­a smile for breakfast.


A radiant squid

floats upon the murky depths.

I grab—it is mine!


The aroma wafts

A nasal delight for all

As skunkweed stew boils


The truculent fish

gnaws daringly upon my toes

as I dance with Squid.


Pigeon, flying high.

How can you soar so freely?

A gift answers– white.


Fungus on my bread—

why do you not taste sunshine?

I toast—goodbye Friend!

Glancing at the world,

there is love and there is hate.

I contribute both.


Cauliflower clouds

Mourn the starved and the slaughtered

With many sad tears


The wretched ones cry

to be heard but not answered.

Wealthy ears are deaf.


So many proclaim,

“Intolerable existence!”

I laugh, “You are wrong!”


Coniferous shrub,

You’re the kettledrum of life.

I am labyrinth.


I see a lentil.

It is calling me onward.

The legume of death.


What a funky beat!

When dung beetles start clicking,

Dead opossums rise.


Winter cold draws nigh

I feel it up in my nose—

Spacious labyrinth.


A beauty so fine,

Prancing through the lichen—

a Lollygagging lamebrain.


Beetle on my pie.

Oh, you make me very sad!

Eating my love food.


The Sun shines morning.

Its bright rays go unnoticed—

Lint between my toes.


Just Some More Poems by Eric P Holm

Biblical Lament

Oh Ai, Village of Death!

Who is there to weep your passing?

Your families gone, your love forever lost.

Who is there to mourn your destruction?

Your tel—it is empty; your fields—they are barren.

Who will rebuild your fallen walls?

Oh Ai, Village of Death!

Upon your grave blooms a tiny flower.

Death of Green Lily

A Green Lily

upon the wet grass

is stamped down

by a passing shoe.

Viewing all,

the Sycamore Tree

mourns the loss

of her light-hearted friend.

Jade Pines

The Northern Pines

are clothed in jade.

They point heavenward,

but their scaled cones

fall to the ground.

Wood Thought

The hound was a felt-

­tipped blur in the wood,

bounding past,

shattering seclusion.

A skittering rabbit

dove into its burrow.


Which one am I?

Pitiful Slug Blues

Contented Lovebirds fly into the Sun

to be seen nevermore.

I, a lowly Slug, travel the road of

mortals; praying for wings, receiving none.

Carrot Love?

Love is a carrot in the ear.

The splits—a nuclear palm.

A keyring folly flutters in the air.

A plum pudding thumbnail gnashing

the bovine effervescence,

I ride a gentle tear.

Just Plain Love

I sound the alarm of love.

It clangors upon the moor.

My wandering thoughts do focus

upon the singularity of our joy.

Gale winds blowing forever apart,

but love a taut bond be;

Eternal Spark.

Poems from freshman year of College

The tall, creased oak guards

the stones sown to remember.

I return his stare.


If my nose was as

large as a locomotive,

I would sneeze outdoors.


The frosty morning

tells of the cold approaching,

breathing cotton balls.


To write a poem one needs first to think

of truth and meaning, or the verse will stink a

rotten foulness, brimming full of ill; I’d rather

read of trusty Jack and Jill.


Herbal Tea Cakes

I asked for Herbal Tea

Cakes at the store

upon the corner, but they

had none.

I made my own,

and they were good.


(With Matthew Conlan, on the occasion of Kim’s wedding:)

Digging in the dirt

Rosicrucian barley soup

Searching for my angst

Print Friendly, PDF & Email