[It seems I've invented(?) a verse form for play
and all may indulge yourselves here without pay;
Be good and kind and gentle souls,
For no one wants sanctions or protocols.]


There's a wo in "woman,"
A wo in "workingman";
The wo in "woebegone" to ken,
I wish thee'd go, be gone again!

There's just one man in "Manhattan,"
A soul mon in "premonitory";
But two came running with "recommend,"
And all with memento mori.

Terese

I like to post fresh poems, although
what follows I wrote long ago
in a newfangled form invented by Coe.
Just a few ditties, and here they go:

There's an ex in "expressive,"
an ex in "expresso."
A third ex? Excessive.
Two exes? Less so.

There's a hip in "hippopotamus."
"Hip-hip hooray" has two hips.
Before I joined up with Anonymous,
I suppered on double mint juleps.

There's a jewel to be found in a "julep,"
a ewe to be found in a "jewel,"
a yo to be found in a "you" but
only a foo! in a "fool."

There's a lad inside Milady
as well as in Philadelphia.
The first part she takes gladly
but the second part is hell for her.

Aye, there's the rub—in "rubbery"!
Another found in "rubric"—
But the rub in rubifacient
Should never be seen as cherubic.

Some feel a pub is for pubis,
Some take it right out in public;
And though they are right-wing Republican,
They're often exquisitely pubic.

There's a tub in any blow-tube,
Another tub in tuberous;
But the tub with floating stubble
Transmits tuberculosis.

Terese

[This message has been edited by Terese Coe (edited January 22, 2002).]

Who put the 'hum' into hummus?
Who stuck 'tabu' on tabuleh?
Who stuffed the 'oft' in the kofta?
I can tell you, it wasn't yours truly.

Who sliced the 'ham' on Mohammed?
Who made him 'duller', Abdullah?
Who mentioned 'shway' to poor Shoaib?
You can bet that it wasn't a Mullah.

Who bought the 'buy' in Dubai?
Who made the 'queue' in Kuwait?
Who stole the 'dough' down in Doha?
It was the Saudi out buying a ‘date’.

'Tis a Mystery to Me

Erato's got a private room--
whatever could be hidden there?
An orgy or a pile of gold?
Wondrous treasures to behold?
A witch, perhaps, or alligator?
I bet Bluebeard's the moderator.

An empty room, sterile, bare,
concrete floor, a lumpy cot,
bare bulb, a table, chamber pot--
Bad poets, you may wind up there!
The single window has iron bars;
no mail from home, no visitors,
just a Big Chief tablet, anthology,
Roget's Thesaurus, and the OED.
The only way to be set free
is writing better poetry.

CT

I’ll tell you Tom, what’s in there
though you are rather young—
a life form that is sure to scare
still on the lowest rung.

It’s a lowly thing most men disdain
and wish they’d never seen,
for fear it will infect your brain
it’s kept in quarantine.

It breaks out sometimes (like a rash)
and gets onto a page
then all the critics have a bash
and all the poets rage.

Tom, get yourself an antidote,
but in the meantime praise.
Erato folk who say, I quote—
“We’ve locked up all cliches!”

Does writing better poetry
really set the poet free?

I fear it merely adds a lock
to chains that bind him round the clock

and make him more a slave to his
unwieldy bride who promises

to keep him well supplied with rhyme
so he can re-create the crime

that landed him in jail to start:
blood in the pen, but not the heart.

If you please
could you tell me
the name of the anthology?

If it is good
I think I would
like to take a leisured peeper.

The place sounds fine
and compared to mine,
I'm sure the rent is cheaper.


[This message has been edited by nyctom (edited January 22, 2002).]

The difference is, if you don't pay
your rent you're not allowed to stay.
The poets Carol talks about
must keep on paying to get out.