PRIME RHYME, NO FIB (AND THAT’S THE RIB)

How about something I’ve not done for some time:
Post a post so sublime, it don’t do nothing but rhyme.
If I chose prose that’s verbose — longer than a rose is not a nose —
What woes ‘twould expose, such that who knows how big it grows?

Thus I propose, pun in hand, to avoid overflows
And sink to new lows, to the confusion of my foes.
So, friends, meat my poems that may stop on a dime;
Just remember this tickler: not all ribs are prime.

I WILL ONLY STOOP SO LOW

I don’t do windows;
I don’t do lawns —
But when I doo-doo,
I do do johns.

AGE BE FOR BEAUTY

Bald is beautiful —
Or, so they say —
But my head is only
Bald half-way.

Thus, I look forward,
The more I age,
To looking better
At every stage.

POST MORT ‘EM

The world, it go to pot;
Life literate is shot.
O, woe is my bon mot….
Bon mort, and thanks a lot!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LET’S CALL IT A DAY

Half the world doesn’t see how the other half can see anything funny in what it laughs at. –Evan Esar

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As if there isn’t enough funny business going on in the world, today is INTERNATIONAL MOMENT OF LAUGHTER DAY. I don’t know who came up with this day (actually, I do…. but he’s not famous, so let’s let him rest in peace, even if he’s still with us). My point is, what is this world coming to if anyone and their Aunt Charlie can proclaim a DAY (an INTERNATIONAL day, no less) and expect it to be recognized? Well, I have half a mind to proclaim a DAY myself, which certainly makes me qualified. INTERNATIONAL HALF-WIT DAY, that’s what I’ll call it. I wonder if The Donald, if he hears of it, will deny it’s in his honor.

Meanwhile, back at the wench, it’s time for those poems I promised last time:

BUSYBODY BERATES BUSY BODY; BEELZEBUB BLASÉ

“Say, have you been, sir, to Kathmandu?”
“Nay, but I have sinned, sir, in Timbuktu.”
“A tale of sin, sir? What did you do?”
“Sailors would blush, sir, if I told you.”
“My lips are hushed, sir — how ’bout a clue?”
“Maidens of sin, sir, were none too few.”
“May God rescind, sir, the sins you knew.”
“I do not pray, sir, those sins to rue.”
“Then may you pay, sir, the devil’s due!”
“Satan would say, sir, c’est entre nous!”

THE ORIENT EXCESS

One fine night in old Hong Kong,
White-skinned lady meet Mr. Wong.
Mr. Wong say, “You fine missy.
Let me favor you with kissy.”
White-skinned lady say not to bother —
Wong old enough to be her father.
Mr. Wong say, “But I got money.”
White-skinned lady say, “Kiss me, honey!”
Well, one fine thing lead to another;
Next time, Wong bring older brother.
This time, lady draw line tight:
“You know two Wongs don’t make a white.”

And with that, ladies, what do you say….

TWO BAD

Well, no one has blasphemed against the one-line poems in my last post, so by all that is holy, I should forget about my threat to up the ante with a post of two-line poems this time around. Ha ha — I’ll forget when Hell freezes over! Although no one commented to complain, I expect the thought crossed the minds of some….and even if it didn’t, the very suspicion demands consequences. Consequently, I am left with no choice but to proceed with the poems I intended to post anyway, and it serves you right!

My first two-line poem is unWitt(er)ingly brought to you by….

SPIES LIKE US*

We measure success
one imposter at a time.

*If this title sounds familiar, but you can’t quite ‘picture’ it….there’s always Google! Ha ha ha!

THIS IS A TITLE

Sometimes a poem
is entitled to be obvious.

ENVIRONMENTALLY CORRECT [previously published]

Poems don’t grow on trees….
however, some are recycled.

HEARING I’M PAIRED

Poetry is that
conversation we could not
otherwise have had.
–Cid Corman, Kyoto, Japan

Sorry I do
not speak haiku.

We interrupt this post for another commercial:

OBSESSION

buy Calvin Klein.
Sell futures.

GIVE ME THAT OLD-TIME RELIGION

Of course God knows everything —
He’s been around forever.

WHAT GOD TOLD ADAM AND EVE

You don’t want to know
(so, on with the show).

IS THIS GREAT POETRY, OR WHAT?

The power of suggestion
is that it begs the question.

Is this a great job, or what? But apparently not everyone shares my view:

OLD TESTAMENT RE-VIEW

Take this Job
and shove it.

FINNEGAN’S DYING WISH

Wake me when it’s over
(re Joyce).

We conclude with….

TWO MORE POEMS BY MISTERMUSE

One
short.

 

 

A TOWERING FIGURE IN POETRY

April is NATIONAL POETRY MONTH (as decreed by the Academy of American Poets in 1996). Can there be any doubt that a poet of my stature* would be expected to contribute a poem to the celebration?

*about 5′ 7″

As it happens, I had a poem in my April 20 post, but that doesn’t count….unless I say it does, which I don’t, because I’ve composed a new poem for the occasion (or any occasion, for that matter). The point is that this occasion happens to be at hand and is sufficiently worthy of a work of such distingué distinktion:

ONCE A POET

Once I wrote poems;
Writing poems was fun.
Once I wrote poems;
Now I write none.

Once I wrote poems;
Poems were my life.
Once I wrote poems;
Then I met my wife.

I’m just joking, of course;
I still write, as you see —
For my wife loves my poems,
And I still loves she*.

*That end word was going to be me, but that might be the end of me, so I reconsidered.

Thank you very much, ladies and sentimentalmen. I’m glad you appreciate the heartfelt passion and savoir fairy that went into said poem. Your defecating applause on this historic day warms my cockles to the core. This calls for a curtain call. But I don’t have another new poem handy, so how about two oldies that survived previous publication:

RHYME GONE TO HELL

I don’t comprehend
why poems that rhyme
must, most of the time,
just rhyme at line’s end.
Who so decreed it to, as though it needed
to? And would it spell

nonsense if most rhymes
commence where lines start?
Dare we call it art?
Where I’m at, at times,
is: does it matter where rhyme is, if indeed
it’s where mine is? Hell!!!

TRYING TIMES

Forgive me, please, my verse you’ve read —
Much better works are in my head….
–  But they’ll remain there
–  Until the brain there
Learns how to extract gold from lead.

But enough about me. Let us close on a serious quote from ex-Chancellor of the aforementioned Academy of American Poets, Pulitzer Prize-winning poet/novelist, Robert Penn Warren, who was fittingly born (April, 1905) in what would become National Poetry Month:
Historical sense and poetic sense should not, in the end, be contradictory, for if poetry is the little myth we make, history is the big myth we live, and in our living, constantly remake.

 

 

CANADIAN CAPERS

I suppose I might’ve waited until July 1 (Canada Day) to publish this post, but winter cold seems more fitting than summer heat for conjuring up Canadian karma. Even in January, having traveled its provinces by car from Nova Scotia to British Columbia in my younger days, I can draw on many warm memories of America’s northern neighbor — not to mention one or two bordering on boorish (experiences at entry points). But that’s ancient history. So, rather than bore you with vacation stories, I’ve decided to bore you with a few neighbor-ly poems:

JOGGING ON THE BEACH AT JOGGINS

On the fossil beach at Joggins,*
One finds fossil bods and noggins
Washed up from the Bay of Fundy**
On tides higher than born-agains on Sunday.

*Joggins, Nova Scotia
**haunt of the world’s highest tides

BEEN THERE, DUMB THAT

Lost on my way to old Kamloops,*
I came upon two nincompoops.
When I asked where I was, I knew they were dumb:
They advised me to return where I just came from.

*Kamloops, British Columbia

SNOW CANADA

Snow may fall, in fall, in places;
Like autumn leaves, it leaves its traces.
Come May, there may still traces be;
But may I say, it leaves….eventually.

In departing, I was going to leave you with a clip of an old song called CANADIAN CAPERS, but as I was clipping along, I came across this old cartoon of the same name (it’s not aces, but it’s funny in places):

 

AND THEN YOU DIE….

The trouble with experience is that so few people are born with it.
–Evan Esar

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THE LATE SHOW

Experience is the best teacher —
Of that, there is little doubt.
But many a thing learned by experience,
It’s too late to do anything about.

WIN SOME, LOSE SOME

Know this as you slog
Through life like a migrant:
Sometimes you’re the dog,
And sometimes the hydrant.

 

BEWARE OF TOURISTS!

Spring is here and summer is near.
Comes that time of the year
Tourists can be a pain in the rear.

But some are like me, so be of good cheer —
I’m not as ill-bred as I may appear
(if I ever doubt it, I look in the mirror).

Now, money is something I know you hold dear,
So if you’ll take my tip, get your ass in gear
And earn it like me — do I make myself clear?

ENDEMIC SPECIES

What time do they let the animals out of the park?
–sightseer at Denali National Park

Park rangers (we bet) know
Why nature lovers grieve —
Animals are ‘let go’….
But the tourists won’t leave.

BLUE NOSE TOURS RED-LIGHT DISTRICT

Whores!

 

TITLE POWER (THE UN-TOLD STORY)

IS THIS A GREAT POEM, OR WHAT?

The power of suggestion
is that it begs the question.

UNTITLED

This poem’s title is Untitled —
Not because it is untitled,
But because I am entitled
To entitle it Untitled.

If I’d not titled it Untitled,
It would truly be untitled,
Which would make me unentitled
To entitle it Untitled.

So it is vital, if untitled,
Not to title it Untitled,
And to leave the title idled,
As a title is entitled.

 

READY, SET, GOING TWO PIECES

 

LITTLE-READ WRITING HABIT

A poem a day
Keeps the poet awake.

GREAT POEMS NEED GREAT READERS

Sign here _______________________

BRIEF CASES

MORE THAN ENOUGH LINES FOR A POEM?

Three or two —
When one
Will do.

NOT ENOUGH LINES FOR A POEM?

One.
Two’s poetry.
Three’s allowed.