What is this?

I go away just past a day
The board erupts in rime!
Now if I may I'll have my say
(to un-lose all this time).

Since I've been gone an on-ee-on
has stirred up Charles' bowels,
Joe's Freudian fun has been undone
by Beaton's fishy fowls,

and Terese's booth served up untruth
(I have the smoking gun)
For Roger, sooth, has got no tooth!
(page ten - last post less one)

A Rogerian Concession

It’s good to know
That Roger’s so filled
With sweetness and light
He broods with his bird.

It’s kindness to show
The soft tongue can build
What beak can then bite
Until the hen’s stirred.

(For this cup of Joe
The best milk is spilled
With honeys at night
When coo serves for word.)

TN, you seem to have assumed
The gypsies' booth was mine;
I merely theorized that gypsies'
Balls were sybilline

Enough to be consulted for a
Reading as to which
Of brainy, candid, sentimental,
Roger holds the niche.

Terese

<font >Odelette to the Literalist Critic

He's looking for Grapenuts™ in the stewpot;
he's thinking of gales on Oberon—
he's probably going to open the hood
when he oils the wagon he travels upon.

(Sometimes he feels a shudder sleeping;
sometimes he hears a ghost that stares;
sometimes he ponders a quantum theory
while shitting bricks under oaks by bears.)

You'd think he has given his heart to Satan;
you'd look for hope that Satan's just fiddling—
you'd certainly like to trust in his mood,
but his ass and his ears collude. (He's middling.)






[This message has been edited by Curtis Gale Weeks (edited December 08, 2002).]

Oubliette for the Paperless Poet

He's looking for onions in the chamber pot;
he's thinking of gales from under ‘im—
he's never going to close his mouth
but chew on his matter, smut on his chin.

(Sometimes he feels a ripper coming;
sometimes he whiffs at his own odors;
sometimes he poses en toilette
while sniffing at fingers for readers.)

You'd can’t believe his saint self-image;
you can’t believe in his ebullience—
you wish his mother’d done her job,
accessing Roe v. Wade. (Such brilliance.)

Onionette of the Flautist Scholar

He's thinking of piping his better's pot;
he's looking for junipers on the moon—
he's surely aware his weed will rot,
given the matter, if not too soon...

(Sometimes he feels a garlic swooning;
sometimes he sniffs his mother's glue;
sometimes he blows his high-pitched crooning,
while sniffling lingers and tears accrue.)

You'd swear his reed was limp with spit;
you'd wonder why he used a reed—
you'd love his musical theory if it
weren't dopey and sleepy and sneezy. (Indeed.)

The Barman Chucks a Wobbly

This pom, a lair, he wants a stubby.
Gives the Australian salute
But pervs, wearing just togs, a lippy.
(The mappa Tassie showed right through it.)

She sees a doodle who’s got heaps,
Gives him a pash. Says, “Waggin school?”
“There goes a queer to root,” I quips.
“Now say, come off the grass, you dill.”

But amber fluid or no, a joey
Can't get a curtsey from the dog.
It's all just piss and vinegar
For weeks on end. I'm still agog.

Agog, you say? How much agog?
I come and read much blather;
The latest 'bout a pissing dog
(or pissing joey, rather).

Now on the eve of Christmas Eve,
though it might be unfitting,
I will suggest the dog should rest
and we should start a flyting.

So raise your dukes and your rebukes
and start the insults flying
and Santa Claus will give applause
(or lumps of coal for trying).

[This message has been edited by Kevin Andrew Murphy (edited December 23, 2002).]

Happy New Year one and all!
Even though we’ve had the ball
tossing back and forth,

wonder if we’ve lost our thirst;
we’ve not ’parteed since the first
signs of winter’s worth.

Been around, more on than off,
weathered through that choking cough.
How about you folks?

Spring is coming any day
think we’d have a lot to say
–certainly some jokes!


April Fools’ anyone?

Young versifiers frequently seem less intense,
fleshing metaphors with sexual innuendoes,
and sound like young 'uns tinkering with new Nintendos,
but reveal a longing for sated concupiscence.

I don’t recall my days of innuendo;
before anyone ever thought to invent
the computer, PDA or Nintendo -
and I never learned what concupiscence meant.

I’ve learned what “concupiscence” means (just now),
but what I cannot figure out is how
it can be sated? How is it related
to age or versifiers, as you’ve stated?

I’m left to wonder, too, what age are you?
If you’re not speaking for yourself, how do
you speak with such an air of confidence?
Do you remember being less intense?


------------------
zz

Actually, as a youth
I was extremely intense,
but I finally managed some sense
and loosened up, forsooth. *

The closer I get to death,
that much more ardent I
intend to be, and will try
to 'die' with my last breath.

So I never intend to be placid -
concupiscence is now the word; **
and despite what you may have heard
my innuendo's not flacid.

*Cut me some slack - I'm doing this on the fly (no pun intended)
** Can we read the first foot as anapestic, please *grin*



[This message has been edited by Jerry Glenn Hartwig (edited April 01, 2003).]

Actually, Jerry, you’ve got all the slack,
those questions I posed were for arioch.


------------------
zz

Innuendo is better when it comes in threes
and I die and I die and I die,
but concupiscence has delighful suspense
and I fry and I fry and I fry.


I wanted to ask: has rhymed repartee
ever made sense or is it just me?

Has rhymed repartee ever made sense
or is it merely me?
It's a chance to get rid of the junk in our heads
and flirt - harmlessly.

*wink*

Does it all have to make sense,
Or can we just talk bull-
If it's rubbish that you want,
We Irish plainly rule,

Me and Olly from the north,
Can versify away,
He has more skill than I've got,
As plain as night and day.

Pass it onto tne next poet,
Sorry I'm not flirty,
But writing on the school P.C.,
I just can't be dirty!

Cheers, Gus

I really do not get you, Gus;
now I'll call no man a fool,
but I'll ask you plain, with little fuss,
just what do the Irish rule?

*grin*

[This message has been edited by Jerry Glenn Hartwig (edited April 02, 2003).]

Renata, it’s better to fry
after you die, I suppose.
The sense of your short-rhymed reply:
one innuendo –blows?

Frankly, Jerry, I have to disagree,
repartee prompts my greatest poetry.
That’s no come on, so don’t you wink at me! http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/wink.gif



------------------
zz

Now Jerry, I hear what you say,
What do the Irish rule?
It's plain this little Irish lad,
Must take you back to school.

First we came and settled where,
The gold was said to be,
But stayed because the hops
And barley were wonderful quality.

And all the presidents democrat,
Still make their Irish claims,
From J.F.K. to Cigar Bill,
They really should be Liams.

And Paddy's day in N.Y.C.,
Parades and banners flyin'
Drinking beer and throwing up,
Because it's got green dye in!

So Irish rule in many ways,
Most of all when it comes to brew,
Cos American beer is all the same,
Like making love in a canoe!

http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif Gus

Clean Verse

Though some say my verse is dyspeptic,
I claim that it's too antiseptic.
Who cares what I mean
when my words are so clean?
My innocence brings out the skeptic.

Now Roger, that's simply not true,
Your verse is often so blue,
it's hard to distinguish
if you're speaking English.
It's a wonder more people don't sue.



[This message has been edited by Renate (edited April 10, 2003).]

Renate, my dear, I implore -
That critical digit withdraw
Till you've had a good look
In your rudiments book
For the grammar and spelling of you're.

I've added an apostrophe, Ereme,
and I trust that you're edit is free.
Would you help with the digit
it's making me fidget
like some latter-day bourgeousie.

The digit to which I allude
Is the finger you chose to protrude
At poor Roger Slater.
(He'll sort you out later
For saying his poems are rude.)

His poems, as any may see,
Are wholesome as wholesome can be,
And he grammars and spells
In a way that excels.
(And he'd be the first to agree.)



[This message has been edited by EREME (edited April 10, 2003).]

Joan, what you wrote is quite splendid.
I'm honored that you have defended
my schoolmarmish verses
that never use curses,
for which my true thanks are extended.

Ereme would surrender her life
to protect poor Roger from strife
the way they agree
is something to see
I pronounce them now husband and wife

Dear Zita I think you're mistaken
and making too much of a fuss;
who knows with whom I am taken?
I might have been winking at Gus!

Gus:

So the Irish, you think, are superior
'cause of beer, extra-marital affairs
of presidents somewhat inferior
who behave with juvenile cares.

So an Irishman near started nuclear war
while another one lied to his Congress,
his wife and his party about a cigar
and screwed all involved - plus the dress.


So as to the St Paddy's Day great charade
with its stupified revelers drinking green beer
we try to take pity and throw a parade
to give those poor Irishmen something to cheer.

[This message has been edited by Jerry Glenn Hartwig (edited April 10, 2003).]

Joan your verse is punctiliously qwerty,
but I prefer limericks dirty.
Roger Robert's smut's famous,
a poetic Janus.
See my digital flailings are flirty.

***********

Renata, it’s better to fry
after you die, I suppose.

ZZ are you suggesting hell's a better place to be?
It may be unavoidable after this debauchery.



[This message has been edited by Renate (edited April 10, 2003).]

If you call this debauchery
you've lived a life serene;
this is mild compared to what
this forum's previously seen.

I’m still stuck on “concupiscent,”
And have been for several days,
But now I recall just what it meant
And where I encountered the phrase.
It’s an “Emperor of Ice Cream” word,
The tone was misanthropical,
Though it would’ve been “concupiscent Kurds,”
Had the poet been more topical.



[This message has been edited by FOsen (edited April 10, 2003).]

I’m called upon to answer
some questions I can not,
like who’s the versed romancer
and whether hell’s too hot…

well, wink at whom you will
and fuss too much for Gus,
just right your rimes and shill;
no one will mind a cuss.



------------------
zz

Having seen the fair island of Zenda
Ireland can crumble apart;
for she holds me there, as a prisoner
though not bodily, but chained 'round my heart.

*wink*



[This message has been edited by Jerry Glenn Hartwig (edited April 11, 2003).]

From Tinkerbell
to kiss and tell
– by way of hell

:P

Oh! What despairing agony!
That I should get such sass;
I thought Cupid struck my heart,
but it merely pains my derriere.




[This message has been edited by Jerry Glenn Hartwig (edited April 12, 2003).]

Oh woe is me,
Alas alack,
My Irish roots are under attack,

Funny versing,
Jerry winking,
These have really got me thinking,

Do I submit,
To this flirting,
Or will my heart just end up hurting?

Texas sunshine,
Brains are baking,
Is this a mistake he's making?

Irish weather,
Damp and dripping,
Fertile ground for aimless quipping,

Hell and Heaven,
Vice versa,
Don't think this could be much worsa!

Gus (actually, and sadly, much better quality than I post in the serious section!!!!!)

Renate,

I would like to get back to that subject of Hell.
What I meant to reveal was that I could not tell
if it’s better or not. I’ll admit, since I think
that there isn’t a hell as you say, we don’t sync
(on that subject).

If I thought of a hell it would be in plain sight,
not imagined or fabled, instilling such fright
into psyches or sinners that they could regret
having sinned. It would be a sight hard to forget
(with an affect)

such as famine or hand-to-hand combat. Alas,
some have seen from a distance what others surpass,
and have witnessed or felt through compassion; and yet,
there’s more fear for a farther off ludicrous threat.
(no one’s perfect)




------------------
zz

To read this thread,
slows down my tread.
Wonderful it is to follow,
trust, no one in a hollow.

The seam of my pants split,
I'm carks to laugh about it.
I want to know where's Nigel
Sure topes with beer San Miguel.

Kickoffs with Duchess Taylor,
A challenge mere to neighbor.
No one turns down a request,
such members with eagerness.

A few women rouse interest
to find out if Nigel is nice.
I am sure he'll be too honest,
For him to tell us cognize.

Thread long, even Napoleon
to dear Josephine, his queen.
From his private collections,
we gauge size of his erection.

I learn to do exercise,
all I need is to practise.
Eyes worn out and bromidic,
C. Taylor, check if I'm right.

Jeanette Dunn

Dear Zita,
Hell's just a word, no more, no less.
But in truth I do confess
it is twelve prunes
and a litre of water.

All the other things you said,
are beyond dread.



[This message has been edited by Renate (edited April 24, 2003).]