For quite a while now, Rocky and I have been fortunate enough to have received comments on some of the photos in our blogs that were composed as works of poetry - typically, limericks or haikus.  Creative and humorous, they’re starting to add up to enough to fill a small volume.  I thought I’d start posting them here as a collection, along with the associated photos.  There’s quite an inventory, so I’ll gradually go back and include older compositions as I find the time.

This is an open forum topic though, and all are welcome to add their own contributions to it.

To start off, there’s this recent photograph from our ride to Green Valley that was honored with two limericks: 

The cow waits her turn at the loo / A red loo with not a long queue / This cow's modest, you see / Out of view she must pee /Even if it's in a blue loo!   

          Jen Grumby

That thing is taunting me with red / I wish I had horns on my head / 'Cuz I really want to ram it / But I'm not a bull, dammit / If I were, that thing would be dead. 

           Gregory Garceau            

from our ride to Marana:

Gregory Garceau: 

• For a bird with a neck and tail that are gawky /It seems like the roadrunner is awfully cocky / Here it just basks in the sun / I wonder, "will it ever run?"/ It only WALKS in the video made by Rocky.

From my annual ride to bike my age in miles:

Jen Grumby:

• A gamboling Gambel's quail?! / Out gamboling amongst the kale / No money required / From this bird that's retired / Just a head feather with a tall tale.

From our ride to Arivaca Road:

Jen Grumby: 

• A badass bird with mohawk / Ain’t chirpin' no tall poppycock / Head feathers stand high / With a gleam in his eye / He struts down the winding sidewalk.

From our ride on the Tucson Loop:

Jen Grumby:

• A flamboyant bird with a mask / Catching flies is its task / Bright orange is its cape / Black mask tied at the nape / “A cartoon?", you may want to ask?

From our ride in Međimurje:

A man who rides with his milk
Is not a man of my ilk
He sings to his goat
Through the phlegm in his throat
And his trousers are made of fine silk!

          Jen Grumby

From Boulder City:

There once was a scissor-beaked grackle
Who laughed from the tree at the jackal
With a mischievous eye
From a branch way up high
He let out a cacophonous cackle

       Jen Grumby

From San Luis Obispo:

If a round dance is done in a square / While eating a chocolate eclair / Then where's the square dance? / If we have a chance / To get off our round derrière?

          Jen Grumby

From our flight home from Bologna:

Sunrise over the Dola-mites /  Not as good as the Yose-mites / Wishing I was in Tan-Zaynia / Or maybe Thighland / Or Minneanapolis, or Jeruzhulm.

Wherever I go, it'll be a Peninshula / With the Best Words and Nasty Women / Full of diversary, just like Missouria / Former home of U-licious D Grant

          Ron Suchanek

Ron, I can really appreciate your poem because I think I have heard many of those mis-pronunciations--especially when I lived in Michigan's Upper Peninshula.

I just realized that I'm not sure if my comment is going to Mr. Grumby or to Scott.  Perhaps I should have gone back and commented on Ron's poem which was originally written on Scott & Rocky's post about the flight home from Bologna.  I'm seriously confused.