This thread is to post your not-so-great poetry. The bit of short prose that doesn’t really get folks thinking that much. In general, stuff you decided not to send in to Dale.
I didn’t marry a Beatle,
Mi dog don’t ne’er go WOOF,
No war have I 'gaints ignor’nce,
No water furs my hoof.
The oil from the skin of an orange
Will clean up and polish a door hinge.
But putting them into a porringer
Will not make your oranges oranger.
(If you’re looking down upon me, Ogden Nash, eat your sainted heart out. 
)
Finding rhymes to that bright citrus,
Such crime makes my heart cringe.
Surely 'twill drive me to drink,
indeed send me on a binge,
The travesty of these lunatics
From some best forgotten fringe,
They will not understand the facts,
There is no rhyme for orange.
I’m really tired of nailing floor.
The Paslode is an awful bore.
My skin is dry, it flakes, it scales,
It’s all gooed up with Liquid Nails. ™
The worst ain’t done, it ain’t, it ain’t,
It turns out now, I have to paint.
I have this one small consolation,
I’ve quit all dinner preparation.
I can’t recall if Glenmorangie
Looks sort of orangey.
Old McDonald had a farm,
E-I-E-I-O.
But on this farm we ate that duck,
E-I-E-I-mmmmmm.
Me, when I was a child, up top of Mt. Scott. Wichita Mountains National Wildlife Refuge, Medicine Park, Oklahoma.
Sing a song of Sikh’s pants
Apothecary wry;
Foreign went he backwards
Baked in a pi.
And Winthrop eye was opened,
The Byrds began to Synge.
Wizened hat a testy Tesh
Two sat beef or ducking?
A nonsense rhyme
Is a waste of thyme
Quoth the herbal sage
Tis better to dazzle
With a sprig of basil
Than wilt upon the stage
Everyone’s a critic. 
I love this thread. 
Roses is pink
Violets is purple
Polecats stink
Like the syndrome of tunnel carpal.
Hercule Poirot’s a Belgian
And so’s a tasty waffle,
Agatha Christie was British
And so was Miss Jane Marple.
Hey, Carol!!
My humble offering – an eclectic soupçon of blank verse, best served up in stentorian voice, garnished with histrionics and bombast.
I thought, because we had been friends so long,
Forgetteth man, and stinteth God his praise;
For there thy habitation is the heart,–
Hath soiled thy splendour and defiled thy dress!
Trash of all trash?–how can a lady don it?
In honored poverty thy voice did weave
Among the ghostly moths their hunting call,
Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing
When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones,
No unsung bacchanal can charm our ears
But gentle violets weeping with the dew
The basest weed outbraves his dignity.
Yet this high cheese, by choice of fenland men,
May God curse thee, and cut thee from our soul!
Picking through my meager collection, I ran across this
Granite, grotesque
growing gracefully from
green ground
garnished with
marble, limestone and other
granite
guarding memories of
goners
Regarding Haiku: I never
Have understood why
So short; and have decided to add a
Few lines and to say hi to my sister and my brother and my parents and cousin Bradley
Back in Wilmington
(How’s the hernia?)
Stupid cows and fragile biscuits
Chronic halitosis
Makes no sense to anyone
Not even those who knows us
Got us locked outside the house
It liked to nearly froze us!
Stupid cows and fragile biscuits
Chronic halitosis!
(um diddle-iddle-iddle um diddle-ay…)
I am a little hesitant to share my best work with such a motly crew that might be over critical. Nonetheless, the 'Yale Review" is currently considering this poem for consideration in their next journal.
When at last I find my true love waiting,
I think about the parakeet at the department store.
Every time I walk by her, she whispers to me,
“Take me, Take me, home.”
Somehow, that plaintive beaknote hits home,
I am so vulerable, and I have $19.95.
The cage is simple, and it sits in my kitchen window,
Looking out on the Unitarian Church next door.
I give in to the impulse of a life mission,
I play my flute, she whistles in harmony.
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock,
Must you think aloud she said,
It’s not me;
It’s the clock.
Tick tock, tick tock, interminably,
It’s typical of you,
No need for histrionics,
That’s just what clocks do.
Will the real Walt Kelly please stand up?