The Unbeatable Foe

Pens can be mightier than swords
but sometimes they're no use.
You cannot win a war with words
when your enemy's obtuse.

Something donned on me today ...

"Don" is a title of respect,
as in Don Quixote, Don Juan, or even Don Corleone.
So, how do you explain:
Donald Duck, Donald Trump (Dona nobis pacem)
Don Ho, Don Rickles, Donny Osmond, Donna Summer,
Don and Donna, Donder & Blitzen, Jelly Donuts
and "Don we now our gay apparel" ?
Don't it kinda make you wonder? Don't it, though?
(Sorry for the redundancy.)
I'm no John Donne but day is done
and I'm all done with this dumb* poem.
Done, done, done, DONE!
____
* Tomorrow, I may ponder Dumb & Dumber, Dominos
Dom Perignon, Dom DeLuis, FemDom, the Carrier Dome, Domestic Violence and Dominic vobiscum.

In Defense of German Lyrics

I used to think that German was
not lyrical at all, because
it has so many "achts" and "ichts" and "unzes".
But Brahm's could write a melody
to shame those guys from Italy.
I like the words to some of Brahms's tunes's.

*** especially, "Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen." 
As the self-appointed poet laureate of the Syracuse University Oratorio Society, I composed the first five lines on the way to a rehearsal. Then it took a week to come up with the final rhyme.  I was too stubborn to make it easy by changing line three. "Semper procedamus" .. or should I say, "Weiter, immer weiter"?

Practicing the Practice of Medicine

A PATIENT

AT A TEACHING HOSPITAL

is a canary in an over-sized Johnny,

singing the same old song, ad nauseum, in an antiseptic aviary,

to a pecking order consisting of dozens of very nice people,

wearing scrubs or lab coats and stethoscope necklaces,

so that they look like they must know something,

but fearfully confined to their assigned role,

never “the right person to ask”, and

apparently way too busy rotating

to actually talk with one another

as we used to do before the coup

when computers took control

of all communication,

or so it seems to me
from my perch.

Equal space will be afforded 

to responsible spokespersons with an opposing point of view, 

as long as their response is in the shape of R2D2 or C3P0, 

rather than the shape of Yoda. 

VERDI'S REQUIEM

 (with apologies to his countrymen, 
                        especially the Gambino Family)

A composer whose name was "Giuseppe"

Wrote a Requiem ever-so-peppy.

When heard by the Pope,

He shook his head "Nope!",

"I'm-a supposed to be-a sad, 
                                    but I'm-a heppy!?"

LOOKING YOUTHFUL: Another Semi-Serious Sonnet

If you want to look young, just consider the crayon.

There are some that will alwaysok new.

With tips that stay sharp and wrappers that stay on;

But not Red, Yellow, Purple or Blue.

Likewise, Orange and Green are quite quickly worn down

'Til just a dull stub doth remain.

Even gloomier shades, like the Black and the Brown,

Are soon sticks made of wax on the wane.

Yet the Okra, the White and perhaps the Chartreuse,

With their wrappers that haven't been torn,

Simply stay in their box for they don't get much use,

So their points hardly ever look worn.

But what pride can you take appearing so youthful,

If it means that you're not very useful?

Author's Comment:

Many well-preserved people lead useful lives.  In fact, keeping busy helps keeps you young.  This poem refers to those among us who value appearance only  ~  and don't look deeper.   I'd like to incorporate this point into the poem ...  but who ever heard of a sonnet with three stanzas?

Life is NOT Just a Bowl of Cherries...

(Click Picture to Enlarge)

Life is NOT Just a Bowl of Cherries. 
Sometimes Life is a Bowl of Berries.
Sometimes Life is a String of Pearls.
Sometimes Life is a Bag of Squirrels.
Sometimes Life is a Bowl of Warm Piss.
Life is What Happens ~  It is What It Is.

Impressed Yet Distressed ~ Counting the Ways: #10 and #11

You bet
I'm impressed,
for you are very kind.
I must confess, as well,
I find you very sweet ... Dear Heart.

But yet
I'm distressed
for in my foolish mind
I just pressed (oh, hell!)
Control, Alt, Delete ... Re-Start.

All the Forest Creatures

All the forest creatures, 

     small and great,

          held their furry or feathery breath

as Prince Franklin hovered

     over the tranquil, nubile waif on her mossy bed,

          still asleep despite the lightning and thunder,

and with his trembling, noble hands, 

     descending like parachutes toward her snow-white 

          (actually off-white, yet still virginal) bosom -- 

Franklin suddenly pushed the buttons on the paddles

     that he had wired to a tin-foil kite,

          and authoritatively yelled “Clear!”,

scaring the droppings 

     out of all the forest creatures, 

          small and great.

THE SABBATH STORY

With all creation manifested
On the seventh day God rested
At least that’s what we’re taught the Good Book sayeth.
We have observed the Sabbath Day
Watching Namath or McNabbath play
(God was unemployed per se, 'til day the e-ighth.)

Jews and Seventh Day Adventists
Except the bankers and the dentists
Were so zealous they began their work on Sunday.
They tried to start their work week over
But couldn’t sell it to Jehovah
(So, they’re saddled with a Sabbath off by one day.)

They do all their chores on Sunday
Sabbath Saturday is fun day
In the Fall they watch a lot of college ball.
If they could have they’re druthers, though
They’d watch Peyton or his brother throw
(Pro games they wouldn't get to see at all.)

But Lo! A would-be savior came
Howard Cosell of boxing fame
Before he died, he saved them, somewhat, from their plight.
If you believe this Sabbath story
Give Howard thanks and praise and glory
(For his gift of one more game, on Monday night.)

An Invitation to Repeat Visitors

Welcome back, whoever you are.

If you come to visit from time to time
to my humble attempts at rhythm and rhyme,
A "Follower" I invite you to be.
It would feel most rewarding to me,
For, as a poet, I don't earn a dime.

You only need to register with an email address, to protect us bloggers from anonymous abusive comments.   You won't get any spam.  It would sure be inspiring to know that somebody out there actually reads some of this stuff.    I'd just like too know if it piques anyone's interest.   Comments are always welcome (even slightly abusive ones if they're the least bit constructive).
Lavish praise and unbridled admiration are preferred, of course.

   Thanks !

Shall I Compare Thee ...? Counting the Ways #9

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Well, art thou sticky and hot?
Thank God, the former you're not;
and the latter I consider OK.

A PCYNICAL PSALM

Note:  The P is silent, as in swimming.


This is the day the Lord has made;
but let's not get too overjoyed.
For minute by minute it's destined to fade;
and once it's gone by, it's destroyed.


This little gem is just a reminder that I'm still on the planet.
I've been busy writing music -- soon to be presented on DrSpeedbump.com

The RIME of the ANCIENT MARINER: a review

Attention Deficit University
presents

The TOME of the ANCIENT MARINER:
A NEVER-ENDING STORY by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Reviewed in a Single Quatrain

In Freshman English Lit'rature
there assigned once to me,
by a long dead bard, a twittering rime,
which never stoppest doth he.


[Note: My propensity for picking on poets
with depression and addiction
is coincidence with a cause.
It seems that it's awfully hard to avoid them. ]

EDGAR ALLAN POETRY

RAVING

Once when I was feeling cheery, I found a poem, bleak and dreary
by a man who died at fortyish, more than a hundred years before.
While I started fairly happy, suddenly I felt real crappy
and soon I got plenty sappy, sappy as his metaphor.
"This is pitiful," I muttered, "to be sappy as a metaphor."
I read this verse, and nothing more:

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door —
Only this, and nothing more."

In ENGLISH CLASS

My English teacher is The Lord of Nerds.
He claims he knows a lot of words
that rhyme with no other.
"Try me", I muttered.
This heated exchange then occurred.

"Surely you can't rhyme 'elephant'."
"Professor", I touted, "the Hell I can't!"
"Nice try", he told me,
He gave me a 'C'.
At least it was better than 'pelican'.

"You won't even come close with 'month'."
"Oh yeth", I lisped, "I'm no dunth".
"Well, how about 'orange'?"
"Will you thettle for 'porridge'?
He anthered with groanth and thum grunth.

LIFE is Just Like BASEBALL ...

Life is just like Baseball ...
          except, in LIFE, you never know:
How many strikes or outs you're entitled to,
How many balls, how many innings there will be, or
How many pitches of unknown objects
          might come flying at you, all at the same time,
          from different directions.
You can't trust that umpires even try to be fair, or
          that the people who were your teammates yesterday
          are on your side again today.

In LIFE, as in BASEBALL,
There will be opportunities you swing at --
And some that you'll let go by, for better or worse.
Of course, if you screw up on 60% of your turns at bat,
You won't get a trophy like a hitter with a .400 batting average.
Let's hope this Game, the only one underway,
          won't be called due to inclement weather
          like Fire, Ice or another annoying Flood.
There might not be another game after this one.
If there is, it could be like curling or cage fighting.

Suit up, Rookie!
You're in the Big League now.
Pick up your bat.
Step up to the plate.
Just do your Best.
That's all that the Coach and the Fans expect of you.
You might bring some Joy to Mudville today --
Or maybe not.
Either way, if LIFE is truly like BASEBALL,
It's OK to spit.

YARD WORK

The man who lives next door to me
Mows his lawn obsessively
And then he'll fertilize it, so
All the faster it will grow
And once again he'll have to mow.
This makes no sense at all to me.

But wait! There's more ...

He complains about the work, but still
He rakes the leaves so they won't won't kill
The grass he wishes would not grow,
The grass I know he loathes to mow!
I don't rake or mow and never will.
So, he calls me an imbecile.

Go figure.

THREE KAYAKING MEMORIES Actually four, counting my picture.

---

© V. J. Lucid, 2010

ONE

Kayak on roof-rack.
A strap goes 'snap'
My craft is aft.


TWO

The ocean is vast, I'm but a speck
who's lost in fog near Rocky Neck.

My first solo kayak trek,
and I've misplaced the Kennebec!

Yet, I don't fear another wreck.
Plastic Jesus is on the deck.

THREE

A following sea
bigger than me.
I'll surf a bit ...
a breach -- oh, shit!
Foam in my face,
forgot to brace.
Turning turtle ...
kersplash, glub,
o
o
o
o
o
o
o
gurgle!


NEVERMORE!

---

HOW TO WRITE A REALLY BAD POEM

Attention Deficit University
presents another lecture
by Dr Speedbump
(This one is about something he does quite well)

How to Write a Really Bad Poem

PREFACE

If you want to write verse,
you can't do much worse
than to do what I'm doing today.
I sure hope that you
won't write like I do.
It's OK, though, to do what I say.

Lesson 1 - RHYME

If you choose to write verse in rhyme
Coming close will sometimes squeak by 'em
Emily Dickenson
got an exemption,
But we seek perfection each time.

Lesson 2 - RHYTHM

Some would-be poets beat a drum:
ta-TUM ta-TUM ta-TUM ta-TUM.
Others care only about rhyming
and don't mind if a line (due to too many words or not enough)

lacks timing.

In sum,
ta-TUM ta-TUM ad infinitum
eventually becomes as bothersome
as no rhythm.

Lesson 3 - ALLITERATION

Alliteration is a little like chili sauce.
Since the same starting sound sure sounds spiffy in spots,
It's a dandy device
that does add some spice.
But dinner's destroyed if you use lots and lots.

Lesson 4 - ORIGINALITY

Metaphors are the heart of good verse
Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Similes ought to be as
fresh as a summer 'bree-az'.
So please do not beat a dead horse.

You won't make an impression with obvious rhymes
and hackneyed expressions that are older than Time.
Like making 'Love' rhyme with 'Dove',
or 'Under Heaven Above'
So sing a new song, instead of poems like mine. 

CONCLUSION

          A poem might be bad due to sloppy technique.
          Yet proper technique is not all that you seek.
          For a poem that's good, you need something to say:
          A feeling or image that you wish to convey.
          You must make it your own -- you must make it unique.

           Ask yourself why you want to write poetry
           If you hope to achieve notoriety,
           here are some tricks you might try.
           Try being an addict or a bona fide lunatic
           Then wait for a century after you die.
       
           If it simply brings you joy to compose
           and you find it boring to write in prose.
                                Don't stop!

  

Class Dismissed

o