​The dog show is this afternoon.
I’m entering Ramona.
I’m hoping that she’ll win the class
For dog most like its owner.
 
I’ve brushed her till she’s shiny
And dyed my hair to match.
We’ve both got green scarves round our necks.
There’s really just one catch –
 
And that’s the little problem
That the judges must ignore.
They must believe my pet’s a dog
And not a dinosaur.

When you're very, very small,
With no hopes of growing tall,
You can either be a mouse,
Who hides inside a little house,
Feeling scared and ill-at-ease,
Or...
You can go in search of cheese.

You can wake and seize the day,
If that feels the better way.
With bravery and sense of fun,
Leave the dark and find the sun.
Strap on your sword and fancy hat
Then...
Step outside and face the cat.
​

This little cat is quite greedy,
This little cat wants some more,
This little cat needs to stop eating mice,
​Coz he sicks them up over the floor.

P.S. This is my actual real life cat, and that is his actual real life behaviour. 

A wonky wobbly house on a shroomy roomy stump,
Became the happy home of a crooked cat called Flump.
 
She zig zagged up the steps, and tapped the rickety door
Then stretched her crooked tail wonkily across the floor
  
A spindly spooky spider (who was always in a grump),
Slid down for a quick chat with the cat that they called Flump.

‘Are you lost here crooked cat? For I’ve not seen you before.
‘I’m new, but I belong here. This is my new home I’m sure.’  
   
The front door then slid open, with a crash, a bang and thump.
An old man stepped outside, his back bent and in a hump.
 
The man peered at the cat. ‘Reow,’ Flump purred a tender roar
‘You’re a lovely crooked kitty. What I’ve always hankered for.’
 
Then the cat jumped in the man’s arms and snuggled in a lump.
And the two went back inside the wobbly house upon the stump.
​

We are The Cat Choir all ready for hire.

We are The Cat Choir
all ready for hire.
Haven’t you heard of us yet?

We’ve won ‘Cat Club Choice’
and ‘Best Feline Voice.’
We’re really quite hard to forget.

Soft, glistening furs
and melodic purrs
Will soothe you and mesmerise.

To enjoy our wails
just step on our tails.
It helps us to harmonise.

Our fee is fine fish
served in a deep dish.
We make each performance unique.

​Book us for your gig
whether small or big.
Just call our agent, Miss Squeak!

​You cannot trust a cat who’ll wear
A fur coat stolen from a bear.
Just think what such a cat might do
to every fur coat in the zoo!
 
And when it comes to food and drink,
He’ll steal that too, so stop and think –
Just don’t keep in your garden pond
The silver fish of which he’s fond.
 
He’ll tiptoe softly on two feet
To creep unnoticed down your street.
He’ll wait until you turn your back
Then slip in for a sneaky snack.
 
You will not catch him feasting. He
Is much too sly to let you see.
He does not eat the fish right then
But pockets it and leaves again.
 

Kevin was the coolest cat.
The coolest in the group
of existential poets
with a taste for chicken soup.

He pondered on philosophies
of who am I and why?
He pondered till his head hurt
and he began to cry.

His poet friends all rallied round,
they cooked his favourite soup.
Kev choked upon a chicken bone
and exited the group.

More poems by Em Lynas

My son’s flowers
Are sun flowers
He grew them all from seed,
Tucked them deep into the earth,
Provided all they need.

My son’s flowers
Are sun flowers
They raced towards the sky,
Grew out green and leafy hands
High fived as he walked by.

My son’s flowers
Are sun flowers
Their petals soon unfurled,
Into the shy and youthful dawn
Of a bright and hopeful world.

My son’s flowers
Are sun flowers
They stood with pride and grace,
Then turned their newly opened blooms
To his wide and open face.

My son’s flowers
Are sun flowers
They’ve known him from the start,
He fed their roots, he fed their stems
And now they feed his heart.
​

I’m a sombrero sporting skeleton,
A gaucho wearing ghoul.
My bones shake like maracas,
As I dead dance like a fool.
 
I play morbid mariachi,
In a zany zombie band.
We’ll be playing by the tombstones,
Do stop by and lend a hand.
 
We’ll be grooving in the graveyard,
Banging bongos with my bones,
Playing poltergeisty panpipes,
While we’re singing ghostly groans.
 
We’re the best spooky rancheros,
On guitar and that’s a fact.
So why are we still gigging,
At the Undead Taco Shack?
​

The singer sang
And the drummers drummed
And the cymbols clashed
And the guitars strummed

My toe bones tapped
And my knee bones knocked
And my hip bones clicked
And my backbone rocked

The trumpets blew
And the panpipes trilled
And the whistles squealed
And my bones were thrilled

My skeleton danced
And I whirled and swirled
And my dance went wild
And my bones were twirled

Then my torso twisted
And my joints objected
And pop, crack, clatter
They disconnected!

I love flowers but they don’t love me
they bring me out in itches,
perhaps they’ve each and every one
been planted by some witches.

They make me sneeze they make me wheeze
they make me want to cry
they make my ear begin to ache
they make my eyes run dry.

But maybe it’s the petals
which always give me pain,
for though they’re lovely sunflowers
they feel like acid rain.

I think I’ll leave the blooms to you
before I start to faint.
So stick your flowers in a vase-
I’ll grow my own with paint.

I’m just a simple painter but
my dreams fill up the sky.
You should dream big, dream BIG, my child.
Come let me tell you why.

When everything is going wrong,
I’m downcast and alone.
I dream I’m the best artist that
the world has ever known.

I paint these little pictures now,
for fun for you and me
but dream that maybe one day
the whole, wide world will see.

When others trample on your hopes
and laugh and sneer and moan,
it is because they wish they had
ambition of their own.

​So, when you’ve dreamed and dreamed until
your heart is set to soar,
just gently close your eyes my child
and dream a little more.

Am I a chair
with a woven seat?
Am I a field
of cypress and wheat?

Am I a star
in the desolate night?
Am I the moon,
or a crow taking flight?

Is the sunflower mine
or the poppy, or rose,
the potato, or olive -
Does anyone know?

I’m yellow on yellow,
I'm brushstrokes of light,
a creator, a painter,
a flame burning bright.

Am I Picasso,
Chagall, or Cezanne ...?

No.

I’m just me, V.V.G.
I'm the Sunflower Man.

​Just write a funny rhyme, they said,
About this woman in a bed.
But when I peep into the room
I see not fun but doom and gloom.
She looks quite creepy, could be dead,
This woman lying in the bed!
 
Her eyes are open now and she
Has got her beady eye on me.
I do not like her angry stare –
I do not see what’s funny there.
Oh wait – that woman in the bed
Has traffic lights wound round her head!

This month Laurence Anholt author/illustrator of the Anholt's Artists series (Frances Lincoln Ltd) has dropped by the funeverse with some artistic images to inspire our funnybones and crank up our creativity. We'll be posting soon!

Find out more about Laurence Anholt

It's time to hibernate.
Now, have you washed your paws?
Have you brushed your fur and teeth
and really scrubbed your claws?

It's time to hibernate,
so snuggle down in bed
and I can read a Beary Tale
while you hug little Ted.

It's time to hibernate
and rest your tired eyes.
We'll sing our special lullaby
beneath the star-filled skies.

It's time to hibernate
so let me say, 'Goodnight'.
I'll waken you when Spring is here.

Don't let the bed bugs bite!

Poem ©2017 Jo Dearden
​Image ©2017 Yuval Zommer