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.
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.
Maize
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.
Rhymers
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.
Flight
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.
Irrigation—shrub.
.
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.
Contemplation:
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
