Ernest,

That's a good 'un :) This isn't a critiquing forum, but I feel compelled to suggest: "All through the folders / his poems fill when born."

(robt)

Bugsy,

That is KILLER! Way to go! May I suggest "make thee hay" (instead of thy) in the penultimate line?

(robt)

Marion, any realtion to the Burns of Big Sur? Julia Pfeiffer Burns? Now THAT was a name! Fun poem too.

Michael, "truer words were never spoken." Recant! The end is Nigh!

(robt)

Robert,

Not that I know of.

To see the Fabulous Burns Family, check out our website at:
http://translations-ink.com/burns.html

And on the Shore side: Yes, Dinah was my aunt. No, not really! But when I was a kid, I used to say she was because I got tired of people always asking me if I was related to her--that is, when they weren't serenading me with "Marion, Madam Librarian".

Marion

I know I am just a new member who just got registered, but I saw this thread and could not pass up the opportunity. Self-deprecation is my speciality. Consider this my self introduction.

What dread it is to know a Chip
From which uncouth sarcasm drips.
His hair's a mess, his clothes are worn,
He truly is a societal thorn.
His writing sucks but he doesn't care,
He'll venture where few may dare.
No friends around to call his own,
Yet he never feels alone.
Lazy, boring, and mostly annoying,
and always caught in public, snoring.

I could go on, but I beleive in short and simple. I feel a lot better now. (yes, I know it sucks)

How Pleasant to Tipple with Quince

How pleasant to tipple with Quince,
Who ventures the odd line or two
While pausing for breath between drince —
If there’s nothing better to dwo.

His face is the colour of pinot,
His handlebar whiskers outré;
He used to teach Plato and Zinot,
Now he mumbles in meter all dé.

He sits with his wine by the ocean
And thinks about wenches he’s known;
He walks with a bouncy mocean
And despises the portable phown.

His domicile’s Australasian,
His spirit is Irish or worse;
He gives in at once to temptasian,
And mangles the truth in his vorse.

He mourns the passing of prayer
While claiming to be agnostic;
He offers up thanks for his hayer,
And sometimes he burns a jostic.

He can bash out a tune on the keys
In a rough imitation of Monk;
He’s ravished by sky and by treys,
But the ladies now need to be dronk.

He would dance, if he could, a pavane,
With somebody far from plebeian:
He flees the low woman or mane
Who swears with a truculent meian.

In dreams he sees hips and breasts
Emerging from ruby-red wine;
But he’s terribly genial to geasts,
And his motives are sometimes benine.

Henry wins buy a knows.

Onedirfool.

Janet

Okay, this is not usually my cup of tea, but I figured a non-met version deserves a glance too. Forgive me if I've breached the rules.

She’s a loud child in a quiet room
stifled with sinister smiles.
She is the cat that climbs the tree
where opportunity flocks.
She is the horse that plows the field
plodding a course to the clover.
She’s the old jeans you can’t throw away
pleasantly riding your ass.
She is the threading of a needle.

Might as well get in the game.


I think that I shall never see
a man who's half as bright as me.

Who can with explanations bore
the sharpest students by the score.

And make a simple grammar freak
believe that Fowler's sprung a leak.

Who'll tell you when your comma's wrong,
and beat his chest like old King Kong.

And should you prove he has it wrong,
he'll scorn your logic all day long.

Oh, countless men may stubborn be,
but God's made only one like me.