facts

it costs the poet, having too much wit
love it and he finds a course to blather—
one will skew historic facts to fit
the gods and goddesses which he would flatter

but the wit, never falsifying, snickers—
his facts are true (but too refined) and touch
quickly upon the matter; so do stickers
for our bumpers—sadly, there's the clutch

for when Masters spout the facts the facts are theirs
(but may be true or not—depends on whether
an argument can safely misguide stares)
they up the rhetoric, blend All together

now mind you, bards (still listen to the Two—
for lies with awe-full truth can bring a profit)
you should show us how to laugh; or how to rue
making a mistake, and how we can play off it

I say lose the geeky fancies or make facts
either hold to truth or polish up your acts

BANNED POST

Joyce Nomar suggested on Gazebo that I write a monorhyme sonnet using words she provided as the rhyme words. In the unlikely event that anyone cares, I post here a copy of my attempt to meet her challenge:


RHYMES BY JOYCE

..... "Now try one with bet, debt, fete, get,
<FONT >.......jet, let, met, net, pet, tete a tete,
...... vet, wet, and maybe more!" --Joyce Nower </FONT s>


I once was rich. I owned a private jet.
Each year I earned ten million dollars, net.
I fed foie gras to every household pet
(they were attended by a private vet),
was frequently invited to some fete
where I was guest of honor and I met
heads of state who craved a tete a tete
to see how much of my money they could get.

But then I made a giant, costly bet
that ended up as my life's main regret.
It threw me underwater, soaked me wet
with oceans of too-quickly-mounting debt.
Someday, I hope, my creditors will let
me back onto dry land. But none has yet.


[This message has been edited by Roger Slater (edited May 08, 2002).]

You'll find me...

You'll find me living in the cave by the lake,
singing to the moon and scribbling my opera
in the mud—if it works, then it works. My mistake
was in wanting to write with old bone, etc.
Now that I know I smeared ashes and blood, it's a
little like learning that God is a fake.

Dead prose, dead poetry speaks with a lisp
and a pop!, a clarion will-o'-the-wisp.

Do not grieve at my absence, nor cry for my sake.
—The nights here are quiet, and the air is crisp.

You'll find me, too ...

You'll find me living in the lake by the cave,
howling at the moon and reviewing my rave
of your opera: "Melting a snowman's head",
it sounds like Nietzsche saying Santa is dead.

Dead Critics' Society, dead raves with a lisp
Page 5: A slaughter of the Will-O'-the-Wisp.

Grieve at my absence. Cry for your own sake.
—The days are not quiet, my skin turns to crisp.

-----

-Svein Olav

[This message has been edited by Solan (edited May 24, 2002).]

You'll find us...

You'll find us dancing on the floor at the rave,
scanning the room and noting the plethora
of tweaked out clones: a continuous wave
of mistaken identities seeking anaphora
as a means of union: a plebeian agora—
like Plato's innocents lost in the Cave.

Dead hopes, dead memories speak with a lisp
and with poppers (a modern Will-O'-the-Wisp.)

Do not grieve at their absence, nor join their enclave;
do not grieve for our nights, for their music is crisp.

BANNED POST

You'll not find me...

Cause I’ll be scrubbing floors, on all fours, like a slave,
scraping melted candle wax from that table cloth –a
hand-me-down from a great-great-in-law, who gave
it to her daughter, who then gave it to her son’s fiancée,
whose dowry consisted of some dead gold miner’s cave–
wondering where the hell all that gold is today.

Dead dreams, squandered fortunes, speak with a lisp
and sweaty forehead –blow at a wet wisp.

Do not grieve in my absence, there are others to deprave;
do not grieve in the night, for their sheets will be crisp.


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



[This message has been edited by zbaby (edited May 26, 2002).]

<FONT >I can't find myself...

I lost my way at the rave in the cave,
Too many pills to which I'm now slave
had me scratching my name into the dance floor
but of the spelling I wasn't too sure,
I couldn't quite grasp it - like will-o'-the-wisp
leading the curious into the crisp
night on the moor under the moon -
I could hear death playing a tune.

Renate</FONT s>




[This message has been edited by Renate (edited May 26, 2002).]

Jim Hayes wrote a funny sonnet which he posted on "Deep End" in the voice of Mrs. Shakespeare writing to Cosmopolitan to complain that her husband was no good in bed. I wrote this response from Cosmo:

COSMO RESPONDS


I pity you your problems with the Bard.
There's something in the water found in Avon
That tends to keep the men from getting hard
No matter how their horny women rave on,
And Shakespeare drinks his water all day long
While jotting famous verses with his quill,
So all he can provide you with is song
Though you would far prefer his iron Will.

But harken now to what I am advising:
Swipe his water glass and give him stout.
Then, like to the lark at break of day arising,
His will will will you pleasure till you shout,
"Oh shake your spear at me, my darling mate,
Until you're sure I've passed through heaven's gate."

On the auspicious occasion of England beating the Argentinians in the group F 'Group of death' - a poem:

Ahem...


Hear the English come and go
not talking about Di-e-go.

Hail, hail, King amongst men,
Sven-Goran Eriksson!


I thank you...

For all the Svens and Sveins and Swains
I modestly accept your prayers.
The Kingdom will extol these banes
to Argentinian football players.

------------------

-Svein Olav