Firstly hello... http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif

I have read and enjoyed all the posts... and I thank you...

From the suggested topic, and Kate Bennedict's challenge... the first thing that came to my mind was diaper changing...

I went on the see the other suggestions... toenails (I happened to have had mine polished, just today), mouse droppings and the rest... very funny

This is what came of my wording diaper changes...


From sleeping sound, straight to aloft
I face the dizzy dawn.
Atop a dresser padded soft,
I lay the sweetest spawn.

Dormant cries softened, by routine
I hush the crinkled brow.
With baby’s ass nicely clean,
I restore the sleep now.


Ironically found this link with a fingernail poem… crazy… http://www.conspire.org/ … under contents-poetry-melissa ahart-fingernail

I would also venture to say that anything can be put into a poem... but must it be?? this opens the debate of moral obligation versus freedom of artistic expression

lol... hello again

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

The Dichotomy of Diet

Me with my refined
white sugar
You with your ground
flax seed

You will plant tulips
on my grave, won't you
dear?

Print the book---I'll send the money.
Hugh, your poetry is funny!

The Difficult Art

There is a hobby I have found
to be difficult surviving,
called: taking my eyes off the road
to read a book while driving.

This evil game, (and so it is)
is quite a sport to master,
for when the story's tension builds
I can't help driving faster

And when the author traffics in
collisions of description,
line by line safe braking distance
quickly turns to fiction.

My car becomes a reading chair
on roads as tales unfold,
"Of mice and men" is layman's fare,
"Ulysses" for the bold.

Cervantes is a laughing gas:
such mirth and charm and wit;
I'm unaware of streets I pass
or who I might have hit.

And when I'm lost amid the Psalms
and David's godly fervor
I pray you never cross the streets
that my car runneth over.

I confess it's bad behavior
and bordering on crime,
but often it is time well-spent
instead of wasting time.


Greg



[This message has been edited by diprinzio (edited May 11, 2002).]

Who, me? Nah, I prefer more serious verse, much like Swinburne.

If love were what the whip is,
And I were like the chains,
Our lives would be erotic
With leather gear exotic,
For sweet a nipple clip is
And punishment with canes;
If love were what the whip is
And I were like the chains.

Older Streams

The bifurcation of a stream
that doesn't flow smoothly,
as once it did,
lacks the clarity of its youth,
and occasionally finds its route
impeded by stones,
sometimes occurs in nature.

As a result,
the sibling streams
miss the reservoir completely
And merely soak
the surrounding environs

Jerry,

This one's pretty good, deserves careful scrutiny, imo. Why's it posted here?

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

Curtis

I'm pleased you find some merit to 'Older Streams'. If you think the subject matter appropriate, even for a humorous piece, I'll copy it over to FV and see how it can be improved.

Jerry

I dare anyone to write a poem on the history of the universe from start to finish in less than twenty lines.

VICIOUS CIRCLE

All the time it was a stinking,
miserable, bifurcating lie.
Circles are really amiable,
not vicious like you and I!

There. Now for a serious dare. Write a poem of less than twenty lines on the history of the universe from start to finish.

Bang! Fading whimper -
Of celestial concern,
not much in between.

Swagman,

A minimalist?

Sundell

Never used to be until I started posting here. This began as an epic....

Wait.. I thought you said twenty words or less!

[This message has been edited by Robert Swagman (edited June 28, 2002).]

This was such a fertile thread I thought I'd revive it!

I grind my brain, but nothing’s out
too sacred here to write about.
Disgusting topics have arose
but everybody’s covered those
from beastial sex and naval jelly
to body parts both coarse and smelly.
The only topic left’s too sick
to write about - that’s politics.

Good one, Jerry. Nothing's as unspeakably filthy as politics. This was inspired by a current post on the deep end:

Oh, Doctor!

It causes me to be confused
and feel it must be used.
My brain works for a Nobel Prize—
it’s always on the rise.
If only I could have it cut,
I would escape this rut.
Before the lawyers try to stop us,
please amputate my penis!

Jeesh, Ralph - you got us started on body parts again!


Now Peter was a sickly child
Not the type to take off wild
Or sow his seeds just anywhere
Until one day he saw a pair
On Peggy Sue, now twenty-one.
He blushed with thoughts of carnal fun
With such delights as those full-blown;
‘My,’ she said, ‘how much you’ve grown!’

Here's one from my bottom drawer turned down by the only editor who ever saw it http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif


The reason some doctors wear gloves
Is not out of hatred or love
But to plainly disrobe
Your dignity and probe
The part of you that ain't above

Though it's said Oscar Wilde was a fag
Whose talents had started to lag
When they threw him in jail
For wagging his tail,
There were many still tailing the wag.

When Oscar was born, angels smiled
to glimpse such a sweet little child!
.....Their grins turned to laughter
.....years later, just after
it turned out that Oscar was Wilde!

The worst of the topics for “outing”
is the one that ignites the most shouting.
Without naming names
or throwing flash flames,
I flout their half-truths free of doubting.

I never can find the wrong reason
for sharing the voices of treason.
It’s all propaganda,
I’ll move to Uganda!
I’ve heard it’s a temperate region…



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

I can try...


Flush


I held her hair as she leaned to the bowl
and tossed her guts another time or three.
"But for the grace of God that would be me,"
I thought, and wondered at the whole
unlikely night, the meeting in the bar,
the proffered drink, the glance, the smile, the nod,
"God, but she has the most divine, unreal, voluptuous bod,"
time flew, drinks drained, I led her to my car.

That was, I think, tomorrow seven years.
Now kneeling in a splash of gastric juice,
my arms embracing white, my head bent low,
I feel her hand brush back my flopping fears.
(How could I ever see in arms a noose?)
She hits the flush, I watch the waters flow.

That's a heck of a good poem Dan, a not uncommon scenario but rarely so well treated. It should be posted at Deep End for critique and consideration.

Jim

Sigmoidoscopy

He who having used the outer light,
can return to the inner light,
is thereby preserved from all harm.
Lao Tzu


She said an artist would love this,
the gastroenterologist.
What, the entry or the exit?
This Ansel Adams of the anus,
connoisseur of horizonless pink inscapes,
probes, probes, and probes,
blasting air into the tunnel
to illuminate its turns,
the slick translucencies
that wall the creeping capillaries
straining to be purple on my palette.

"Doctor, are those yellow spots corn?"

"No," she answers, "this looks terrific,
they're just pieces of fecal matter."

Never did I dream that fecal matter
would highlight the only
film in which I've starred:
Olson, in His Own Colon,
for fifteen minutes famous,
but alone, so alone,
on the outside looking in.


Bob

This Ansel Adams of the anus,>>>


I'd call this brilliant, but I'd be too ashamed,
O Shameless One.

still laffing,
wendy

Joe Leaphorn, where are you?

Joe, Joe, what have they done?
Maybe they've been too long in the sun?
Good Lord, you were wearing a suit and a tie!
What do they think, you're an FBI guy?

Joe, Joe , can't believe what I've seen
Jim teaching you? You being green?
Your carryall has become a sedan,
your map disappeared and you don't know your clan.

Joe, Joe, I'm in total despair.
For two months I've waited for this show to air
'cause Hillerman's stories are beyond compare
and page turners. Man, it just isn't fair!

It's not just this "Skinwalkers" gobledygook,
a movie will never come close to the book.

------------------
Sharon P.
http://get-me.to/chinaberries

if clawson can post previously written work, i will follow his example with this poem about tax preparation.

peter d


Villanelle: April 15

Two hundred clients see me every year.
They call or e-mail, and we set a date
as, month by month, the filing deadline nears.

The organized, the ones who face their fears,
the ones due refunds (federal and state) --
I meet those clients early in the year.

Our sessions are relaxed -- my schedule's clear.
They've added their receipts; they're never late.
The calls come faster when the deadline's near.

Slow filers are predictable, though dear:
next time, they vow, they won't procrastinate.
April brings half my clients for the year.

In heart-to-hearts that no one else will hear
I jot down notes, ask questions, calculate,
hand them their tax forms as the deadline nears.

I've come to feel they always will appear --
old, young, singles, couples gay and straight --
That I'll see all two hundred every year.
But decades pass, and sterner deadlines near.


(published in 96 Inc, 1999)

Stumbled across this thing in my writing directory. Seemed to fit in here.


Feces, feces everywhere
Nor anyplace to step,
Odiferous reminders of
The neighbors' darling Shep.



[This message has been edited by Dan Scheltema (edited January 28, 2003).]

I am going to take the challenge in a different direction, not that I am not a fan of scatlogical subjects. (Some of my favorite shit.) It strikes me that the things we, or at any rate I, have the greatest difficulty writing poems about are those most serious events in life about which so much has been written, and so much has become cliche that we have simply, most of the time, to accept triteness, knowing that it's the thought that counts. The worst are the happy occasions, for there is no convenient profundity in them, though there is plenty available in unhappy ones, often enough. So we write about death with relish, for example. (Quite a pickle I've put myself in.) One such subject is the serious contemplation of marriage. I can only offer a little epigrammatic advice that sums a tortuous life's wisdom, if it can be called that. I do at least believe what I am saying in this poem. That would be the challenge: write a poem about marriage in which one expresses what one finally, truly thinks about some aspect of it--not some transient feeling about it, but lasting sentiments, borne of trial and error after error after error, and a good deal of observation of the miseries of others. Call me a sexist if you must, but I further dare anyone to write a poem expressing the exact opposite sentiments.


A Warning to Bachelors

The old maids care the most about the wedding.
Wise women care the most about the bedding.
The maiden cares the most--Ah! Can you guess?
Too true: she cares the most about the dress.

Because I cannot meet the challenge…

A Warning to Bachelorettes

The old farts care the most about the inning.
While swordsmen care the most about the winning.
The stallion cares the most about-- you guessed it!
So sad: he cares the most about the grit.

But you are a great source of inspiration!


A Warning to Husbands

The old wives’ tales are nearly always true:
That honey’s sweetest that is licked by you.
Your lily’s gelded. You must beard your pride
And be domesticated, kneel, and ride!


A Warning to Wives

Admit you are dissatisfied to linger
With no more company than ring and finger.
Do not expect to fix a fixer upper.
It’s better to eat crow than a cold supper.


A Short Warning to Boyfriends

Relax. That noise you hear is just the spring
That snaps the mouse’s neck, poor little thing.


A Short Warning to Girlfriends

Go lead to water first your happy horse
Then let it run to death. Forget divorce.


A General Admonition

There is a universal suction
About all things in reproduction.


And Don’t Forget

The fun’s
Soon done.

How sweet of you to say, thank you!

A Comfort to Husbands

The old wives’ tale is very seldom true:
You can get the milk with an IOU.
The contract’s signed, and even bona fide,
now all you have to do is sneak and hide!

A Comfort to Wives

Admit to nothing, never, but know how
To budget shop and tenderize the cow
Meat that’s on sale. Remember, keep the ring
Upon your finger, that’s the only string.

A Discomfort to Boyfriends

Head’s up. That noise you hear is just her faking;
Her O is not for real –it’s poor lovemaking.

A Discomfort to Girlfriends

Your horse drinks from the same old sipping well
but ties his reigns at any old motel

A General Announcement

There is no universal sanction
against the art of self-expansion.

And Do Forget

What’s mine
Is mine



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

Hello - I'm new here and just a bit nervous. But here goes.
Some while ago, just before Christmastime, I broke my little finger, left hand. This gave rise to the following parodic sonnet. (The 'Z' in line 2 is, of course, the English 'Zed'.)

Sonnet: To my Little Finger

How do I need thee? Let me count the ways:
I need thee for the Q, the A, the Z,
And have to seek for other words instead
To type about Art's Quaquaversal Maze.
I need thee for arpeggios and scales.
When sipping china tea from china cup
I need thee pointing, delicately, up.
I need thee when my calculator fails.
And when at last the Festive Feast is o'er,
The lack of thee then shall I most bemoan -
Sans thee, how may I pull that chevron bone
To wish that life return to thee once more?
So many ways I need thee, yet I see -
To count them all I cannot count on thee.

Ereme, this is great! If you want critique on it I suggest launching it over at the Deep End, though I can't really find any nits to pick except that you might include the word "broken" in the title so you can do away with the explanation. Welcome aboard!

Carol

I agree, it's quite wonderful. Is quaquaversal a real word? Not in my dictionary, but I'm not bothered. I recently had a similar experience with the little finger on my right hand, which remain a bit sore even now (six weeks later), but I failed to turn my suffering into art. Send this to Light Quarterly?

This is delightful, Ereme. I am sure that Robert is envious that even the parodies of Miss Barrett's chestnuts are better than those of his.

But as to Roger's wonder, which is not to say his poor finger, I suspect that "quaquaversal" is a neologism for aesthetes in re the mise en abime of the autotelic character of subjective universal judgement of the well wrought urn, among other objects of scholarly scrutiny.

Or it could be a word with common use to describe a fake doctor, in this case named Art, changing his mind so very often, for the common use of "maze" as a verb down South, in the mouth of my Grandma from Arkansas, God rest her soul and tongue, is, as my Webster's Third has it, "Chiefly Southern U.S. 1. To bewilder or astonish." But my maze--Shut my mouth!--is that a Yorkshire musician should speak with a Southern drawl. Nuff zed, I should guess, to you Neh Yawkehs.

Carol, Roger, Joe,
Gosh, thank you for your kind remarks - you certainly know how to make a person feel welcome!
Roger - what's Light Quarterly?
Joe - I'm neither that clever nor yet that devious! (Quaquaversal: dipping outwards in all directions from a centre; facing or bending all ways.)
All I did was hunt for a word that seemed to fit in with what I was writing about.
Thanks, all.
Ereme

Dear Ereme

I have just come across your delightful sonnet, "To my Little Finger". What a wonderfully amusing, inventive and skilful piece!

Best wishes!

Clive Watkins

I hesitate to post a mere impromptu sonnet in this exalted forum, but here goes:

Sonnet for a Sock Disappeared in the Dryer

So light, so fluffy, and so delicate,
You were so soft and pleasant on my feet -
Ah, memories that stay forever sweet
Of your white fibers (that ne'er shrank when wet)!
How tenderly you warmed my chilly toes,
How beautifully you adorned my heel -
I feel a sorrow that will never heal,
I'm weeping like a full-strength garden hose.
The dryer took you, long before your hour.
You disappeared into the gaping void
Beyond all time, from this world's cares withdrawn.
And I will weep for you, o Sockhood's flower;
All forms of happiness I will avoid,
For my white sock is now forever gone.


I apologize for the awkward points in the sonnet (namely, line 4 and line 13). It's hard to do this on the spur of the moment.

Larisa

If this is impromptu, larisa, then obviously it's a medium with which you are well familiar. As you say, you know where the weak spots are and, clearly, could polish them up with no difficulty; therefore there's little point in putting forward suggestions that probably wouldn't match up to your own ideas.
That said - heel/heal is a homonym, not a rhyme, and void/avoid is the same rhyme-ending, but I'm sure you realise that!
Well done!
Ereme
(p.s. -I love 'Sockhood's flower'!)

[This message has been edited by EREME (edited February 08, 2003).]

What a delightful thread, full of gems.
I'd missed it till Ereme directed me here; now I'll spend an hour or two enjoying it.
I love your sonnet, Ereme, even speaking as a two-fingered typist.
Prompted by the manhole cover that started the thread, here's my take on another utility:

My Bulkhead Light

My bulkhead light was broken;
I broke it yesterday.
I never meant to break it;
Alas alackaday!

It served me well and truly;
It made the darkness bright.
'Twas hammer-blow that laid it low
And robbed me of my light.

I hied me down to Do It All
And hailed the Overseer:
"Where will I find a bulkhead light?"
"We keep them over here."

My bulkhead light is mended;
I mended it today.
'Twill never be the same, though;
Alas alackaday!

Come all ye Home Improvements men,
Take heed and learn from me:
A bulkhead light costs seven pounds,
Including V.A.T.