Ode to "Hit and Run Poets" in the General Thread

I didn’t think I’d ever find a place
on this board, to reveal this vile post.
I wrote it several years ago in case
some dross I proferred horrified the host.

Although I’ve learned a lot here from the guests,
I must confess I don’t post much at all.
I mostly read—-glean answers from the tests
(Or should I say the “testy”) as you brawl.

It’s not like everyone’s a misanthrope.
In fact, there’s several here that I admire--
The ones that tell the truth, while leaving hope
that I can truly write. I should aspire

to use strong nouns and verbs, don’t be cliche
when writing poems. And cut the qualifiers.
I'm fond of Alan Sullivan today.
His one-line counsel lit so many fires.

“Don’t pose in your poetry,” he said.
There’s others, like dear Robt and the Cantor
Who, although gruff, I always read their thread.
I also seek out Bug's and Rosie’s banter.

“Bottom’s Up!” to poems by Wendy V and Jody,
Henry Quince, Gywnn, David Anthony.
In General, I love Kevin Andrew Murphy.
Tim Murphy, when he’s not in agony.

I guess the point I want to make is this:
I read here like I’m auditing a class.
I won’t get credit, but I never miss
brawls, news, discussions. The sporadic ass.

Here’s the one I wrote in case you think that I forgot it –
It would have posted in disgrace if I had not been “audit”:


Thanks For All Your Help

You mensas, stay away (!) with your critiques.
Keep your lousy sense of abstract thought.
You say, “I hope I wasn’t too discouraging”…
I don’t think I need tissue, You’re the snot.

Condescending words will not divert me,
from writing—-should I leave that up to YOU?
While some of you are gracious, AND have talent,
some of you write poems that are McNew.

Plain folk like plain speech, and so I write it.
Re: the public – that is most of US.
Doggerel’s a common pet, I grant you,
but one that’s loved, and begs to be discussed.

This is a test to see –if. you.- can laugh
Instead of finding no wheat in the chaff.

[This message has been edited by ChristyElizabeth (edited July 17, 2004).]

jejeje

That's great, Christy! WTG! I'd hope to think I've spent enough time in the fields of chaff to glean some wheat.

(robt)

ChristyElizabeth
jump in and do it
for it doesn't matter
if most here eschew it
toughen your skin
pull that verse from the shelf
by failing to post here
you're hurting yourself

Until I have learned how to be a good critter,
I’ll settle for being the runt of the litter.
I’m sensitive, yes, but won’t easily bruise.
I’m responsive, receptive, and open to views.

Although I have posted a poem on occasion,
I’m not quite prepared for a full-fledged invasion.
I did what some newcomers do when they post –
I jumped in the deep-end and ended up toast.

Kevin, A.E., Tim, & EfH Alan
un-buttered me up with a flap and a talon.
Their points were well taken. Enligtening. Uncanny.
Like pouring out water for Helen. Like Annie.

Now I’m relearning each process by name.
I analyze West Wind. Tim Steele. It’s my aim
to improve and update the techniques that I use,
envisioning lovely and lyrical hues.

Dear Jerry, there is no escape from the truth.
I’ve read and I’ve written since I was a youth.
But the teacher I had was indulgent and kind.
The results were bad habits, and I fell behind.

Oh ChristyE
You mentioned me
So I'll thank thee
Laconically

Oh, Michael, you’re so dry.
You’re so dry and I know wry.
Hey, Michael. Hey Michael.


[This message has been edited by ChristyElizabeth (edited July 17, 2004).]

Words float on air
waiting for the right person to pull them down,
put them out, lay them in order of perfection.
Feelings graze on empty fields,
Running to hide when hunters with nets
of pen and ink come calling.
Poets, do not hide in forests of green.
Do not swim away in oceans of blue,
Do not fly into the sun to blind us,
Bring forth your efforts so that all may see,
May taste,
May read,
May learn.

Just like me to come in late;
Tell me if I've got this straight.
Rose stomachs trochee, spondee, iamb
but will not eat green eggs and ham.
No, broccoli. Yes, that was it,
and butchering gives Slater fits,
though Ward is quite hard on the beaver.
Zbaby pursues us, Janet says a deceiver
is best known for his claims to truth:
"I lie, therefore, I don't. That's proof."
(When you ask what Truth is, stay for an answer;
it's only good form, even if she's a dancer.)

Then Slater and Bugsy made war over Kate
(Or was it Rose?) at any rate,
it ended with Bugsy getting in Gere,
or some such thing that I read here.
I wanted to answer, in fact had a penful,
but was it half-empty or was it half zen-ful?
And somewhere here the Roman Jews
made artichokes. In other news
from correspondents theophilic,
God showed himself as crocodilic.

Now to the point of heresy,
here alligated by two or three,
I humbly propose an ecumenic
compromise, lest the endemic
irrational zeal of those who confess
the Croc God, finding the Allis less
than orthodox, lead to all-out war:
let's worship their progenitor!
Some saurian beast, no, before that, some cell
said "let their be light!" And Heaven and Hell
and gods and prophets were born that day.
"But cells don't talk," you smugly say.
QED. We bicker, God stays mum:
Incognito Ergo Sum.

I realize this humble petition
invites the Crockish Inquisition
(and the torments of that croc perdition,
chock-full of Alli-mental superstition.)
But here I stand, I can do no other,
with every man in truth my brother,
except for those who disagree,
who must endure, self-evidently,
some unhappy rebirth or some damnation
deterring further emendation
of this four-letter name to whom all must pray:
ATCG (that's DNA.)

Oy, I've done it now, I'm going to Hell.
Hey! We don't have it! Just as well!

In today's NY Times: "A handful of boys in Florida have developed lactating breasts after taking Resperdal..." [a drug recommended and sold by Janssen Pharmaceuticals for schizophrenia].

Yet Another Triumph from the Pharmaceutical Companies

Quite the glitz
if you are schiz
is a pill that wrecks
the masculine sex.
A lactating breast
in boys (no jest)—
a drug sensation!
(The goal was sedation.)
Check out AP
for this remedy
and fabulous wealth,
whether cure or stealth
(at least a bender),
by sudden gender.
Was it intent
or experiment,
and is the boy
a now-mutated
research toy,
emasculated?

Perhaps it's a ploy
to get the boy
a modeling gig--
he takes a swig
as smooth as silk
and grins, "Got milk?"
The cameras flash
on his white mustache,
promoting a scary
form of dairy.

Could this interest and elation
in maybe-chemical-castration
be envy-born, or -related?
(As for the boys, their envy's satiated.)

Sorry...sometimes I act before I think..then I think and delete.

Lo



[This message has been edited by Lo (edited July 25, 2004).]

I find myself reeling from all that's been said;
If you want to know someone, just read this thread!
I couldn't resist every separate refrain,
Though I think it's now seeping right out of my brain.

I look forward to Sunday when I face my preacher,
And tell him about my new online teacher--
I learned here that God is some form of reptile,
And that to be saved, I must not like his smile.

And Romans (or Jews) are vegans who choked,
And Roger won't kill unless he's provked,
And some girl named Kate has long been pursued
By some guy named for insects. With this I'll conclude:

I may be new here, but I'm quite amused--
I'll confess, I've gotten a little confused.



[This message has been edited by Elsie Bareta (edited September 10, 2004).]

Elsie,

My name de plume, you need to note
does not homage a critter.
It's taken from a Mark Twain quote -
for me no name is ...better.

- Bugsy

p.s.
And while I have your focus there:
Welcome to Eratosphere.

I made a stop, one time, one flight
in Georgia, USA
and met some girls who knew our 'Bug'.
Here's what they had to say:

"He's not so named because he's bright,
he's really rather thick!
He's aptly named due to the size
of his tiny little nose."

http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/wink.gif



[This message has been edited by Jerry Glenn Hartwig (edited September 28, 2004).]

Moderators,
I think Jerry's post fits a much older thread -
but please don't be annoyed.
He clearly had a plan in his head
to write a "Lameroid".

- Bugsy

[This message has been edited by Lightning Bug (edited September 28, 2004).]

I tried to Yahoo “lameroid”
and this is what I found
"Lameroid. ÂÑå óðáàíåòîâñêèå ñåðâåðà! ..."
An explanation esotreric,
certainly most profound.

Though wandering on the Sphere has often sent me searching round,
in web site dictionaries for a cryptic verb or noun
I think this word must be reserved for the Sphere underground.

The next site said
Âû ãëÿäèòå íà ëîãè êàíàëà #Icqhackers. Åñëè âû õîòèòå òàêèå æå ëîãè äëÿ ñâîåãî êàíàëà - îáðàùàéòåñü íà FreeIrcBot.com

and
ElastoMania – Ïð
îñòåíüêàÿ èãðà, íî î÷åíü èíòåðåñíàÿ

If I email Statystyki kanatu #gorlici @ IRCNet popetnit jeesoo
who’s referenced on one site, then I could ask him whether he knew
the meaning of.Ièññëåäîâàíèåì êîìïüþòåðíîé è èíôîðìàöèîííîé áåçîïàñíîñòè. Â ðàññûëêå:


To prove this word is special and is really quite distinguished,
Lameroid brings up 19 sites, and none of them in English

The last site had a lot of pretty boys subtitled "fotka."
Frustration has inspired me--
I’ll go and have some vodka.

There once was a form called a limeroid
made up by a poetic anthropoid.
But thinking up a last line
that took place of the rhyme,
was making each one of us crazy.

Get it???? Only, by agreed upon convention, the last misplaced word was supposed to be risque, if not obscene...

An artful and erotic hussy
For her pleasure, was never too fussy
To find solo joys
With electronic toys,
Which she repeatedly put in her nightstand.

Actually, the silly things became addictive. No one could write regular verse for weeks afterward



[This message has been edited by Jerry Glenn Hartwig (edited October 08, 2004).]

This versed correspondence has once again turned
into rhymed repartee with nothing much learned
about each individual’s personal plight.
If I didn’t know better I simply might
assume that no one cares for anything but
a quick witted poem about nothing – or smut.

Curmudgeon

So let us converse about Zita
who can certainly be entertaining
an adorable senorita
except when she's complaining.

Yes, dear, I know you're married, but senora doesn't rhyme. And I can always hope...*wink*

Well actually, Jerry, I’m no longer married;
I’m divorced and struggling… sometimes harried.
I do hate to think that I was complaining
and thank you for finding me so entertaining…

Oh Jerry, I guess I was pining for something
more meaningful… something inviting
to sit with and ponder… to make me re-wonder
the life that we have… I don’t want to blunder
through it… why is the grass always greener?

The grass may be greener
because there's more seed there,
but often it's only
because the dog peed there.

I went to the club
They gave me the hubub
I went and sat on the grass
And I discovered my ass
Was as green as a plum
A little different, come
See what you can do
The grass is green because I poo

The grass is not always greener
I see that… from time to time…
behind a pleasant demeanor
the yellows are often sublime…

I haven’t grass in my garden…
I haven’t a garden at all…
If so, would I think it a burden?
Don’t let it be Farecy’s call…

Zita's Sonnet


Is our neighbor’s grass truly greener? Perhaps it’s a twist
of light: like an aging magician’s flick of the wrist
time tints our yellowed dreams with faded blue,
thus overcoming the rose colored lenses of youth.
It might be our failing vision: all that exists
beyond our fence is blurry, and so resists
our attempts to see the patches that are rough;
or maybe we just don’t look close enough.

It may just be we waste so much of time
examining our own lawn’s flaws; so we find
every single spot of death, and ignore
the multititude of colors we knew before.
We never hear the discontented sigh
as our neighbor admires the way our grasses lie.




[This message has been edited by Jerry Glenn Hartwig (edited October 16, 2004).]

And when we see our neighbor’s grass is leaner,
do we not recognize we have too much?
I cannot help but think we are too eager;
we thrive on it and use it as a crutch.
Awareness isn’t found in one container,
yet all containers pass from hand to hand
transforming each into his own portrayer.
Is gratitude so hard to understand?

It may just be we have so little time
to think of where to seed and where to mow;
if every spot of life were thought as prime,
and every valley met with each plateau
and all we know would be just what it was
as perfect as the grass is… just because…

How much we have is really not the case,
but do we recognize just what we’ve got?
Shall we commiserate, and nightly pace
the floor, and stress our hearts with worry, not
about the needs of body, mind and soul,
but whether we have the things our neighbor does?
Shall we sit around and stare inside our bowl
and bemoan the fact we’ve now a little less?

Rather, let’s celebrate the fortunes that
surround us, while cherishing our memory
of richer times. Don’t covet the neighbor’s fat
purse, or lust upon his greenery;
yet if, perchance, our neighbor’s bowl is bare,
then shall we not divide our ‘haves’, and share?


Good night...


[This message has been edited by Jerry Glenn Hartwig (edited October 16, 2004).]

While ya’ll is all a talkin’,
The food is gettin’ cold.
The plates is pilin’ high,
And I ain’t yet been told

Who the heck is gunna
Be the one to wash
All these dadgum dishes.
And, don’t say ME by gosh!

But who is going to dry?
Not I!

Well I'll be derned
if it aint
Edmund C the lerned.
Ya'll don't faint!
We just caint
be swoonin' like a daisy,
actin' like we's crazy.
Get up Margeret Anne
we got us a guest on hand.
Here you are, Edmund C
Edmund C for Conti
Does you like Delmonti?
Forget them dishes for right now.
All I wanna know is how,
How do you like Delmonti?

The man from Delmonti
so often says "no",
protecting our tastebuds
to great lengths he'll go;
but I prefer fresh fruit
not stuff out a can,
I'd dress him with fresh cream
and eat up that man.

You can bet man Delmonti
has a plan to seize
for himself, every drop
of freshly squeezed




[This message has been edited by Alexander Grace (edited November 21, 2004).]

Let’s cut to the chase,
This board’s not too slow,
For I know all these here people
Have nowhere to go.

But I was just wonderin,’
Do you have something to show?
Cause I’m a poor student,
And I need some dough.

So I’ll take some donations
From any of you patrons
To a fund labeled ‘College’
‘Cause that’s where I go.

I speak as one who's still uneducated
because he was unwilling, during youth,
to work his ass off. Though I seem frustrated,
what I'm about to say is just the truth.

The men and women I admire most
are those who worked and earned their way through college,
enduring hardships. They can rightly boast
that nothing stopped them, in their quest for knowledge.

The folks who built this nation earned their money
by putting forth some effort. So don’t ask
for hand-outs. I am sure it must sound funny,
but building character's a worth-while task.

Worthwhile?
To sit and listen to the badgering professors
And to acknowledge their thoughts with a smile?

Worthwhile?
To fight in the lines just to find a class
But when I reach the end they don’t have my file.

Worthwhile,
Is banging my head against the cheap plaster
Of my overpriced apartment and its moldy tile.

Worthwhile-
At printing out papers and highlighting passages
Burning my braincells for mile after mile.

Worthwhile
Character sure is entirely too much work.
In fact, I think this character thing is just going out of style.

http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/wink.gif

Nicole,

I shudder at what all these "-ile" rhymes foretell -
you're making a file for a new villanelle.

- Bugsy

Hippity-hoppity
Zita my Z-baby;
where have you gone to?
Where's your reply?

Dragging me into this
verse-conversational!
Failing to answer - six
weeks have gone by!

Bugsy,

Villanelle?
Hell!
Dr. Peich asked me to write one four days ago,
But thus far I haven’t had much to show.
However, you’ve given me a clue,
I can try again thanks to you!

-Nicole

PS-
Verse isn’t my calling,
More like my down-falling.

Nicole, don't fall over yourself for a rhyme,
just hum it and play it and it'll be fine.
for teachers we try hard, we rack our poor brains
but teachers are people, just paid for our gains;
so why not surprise him with muffins instead?
'a sweet for a sweetie, dear sir' he'll go red!

Oh Jerry, my darling,
I thank you for this!
I seriously thought
that I was not missed…

To see that you’ve counted
the weeks that have passed;
I came straight to this -
what I’ve missed - at long last.

P.S.

I suppose I should have
some stories to share
for where I have gone…
but I’m not quite there.

P.S.S.

Hello, to all!

Apologies for not knowing the proper dashes