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

With thanks and apologies to Fugwozzle and his Large Sicilian Family on the Metric Board.

<u>The Dream of Michael Corleone</u>

I want an inoffensive family -
not too large or small -
no obvious ethnicity;
ideally, none at all.

My cousins, uncles, aunts and I
will meet on holidays
to dine on slabs of apple pie,
white bread and mayonnaise.

The men play cards for chewing gum
The women do the dishes
If some gavone asks where we're from,
he'll soon sleep with the fishes.


Michael


[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited June 26, 2002).]

"Just when I think I'm out--they pull me back in!"

Michael, good one! The way to whack those stupid stereotypes Sicilians have had to abide for so many years.

Ciao,

------------------
Ralph

Apologies to Bob Dylan and the Hip Hop community...

TALKIN' FREEWRITE FLAMMABLE BLUES

Woke up this morning in a Restoril fog
With a synapse lapse in cerebral smog
And by the second dose of caffeine I wished I'd stayed fuzzy
The anchor morons were headlining Tiger because he
Doesn't give a damn that women aren't allowed
To play in the Masters' though the same bigot crowd
Kept his father and his father off the greens for years
That California girl was dead, they said, and the dread fed fears
Of Hispanic men who lurk around schools
Then they took a short breath and went on about fools
Who say that the market's surviving
I checked my SEP, it just keeps diving
Into depths that are chilly but it's silly to go on
And on about it, when it's such a big con
And no stripes are set out for the suits at Enron
So I put on my makeup and I would have looked cute
But the lights went out then the morons went mute
The computer whined off and the air went dead
And I ran from the dark house with a far from cool head
Late to a session to fix someone's depression
And I knew fate was messin' with me when I saw "empty"
On the gas gauge face and I had to race
To the place where I buy my Shell and all I did was a half-tank fill
When I lifted the handle out of the tank
The safety spring broke and I bathed in and drank
A couple of gallons of overpriced fuel
My eye turned red and I started to drool
My skin was stinging, my skirt was soaked
I flushed out my eyes and started to choke
And the E.R. staff said to fill these out please
And we're awfully sorry about how this place reeks
Must be that we've got some chemical leaks
They gave me more papers, then shot me for tetanus
Complained of the vapors and shone beams in my retinas
I heard them all talking about me and stalking the halls
While they sprayed with Lysol
And they offered to trade me some scrubs for my clothes
But I didn't think I would look too chic in those
And I said it's not bothering me but it seems to have you upset
So just get over it
And they lined up and smirked just like they'd never seen
A woman come in soaked with gasoline
Then the doctor went out to get drops for my eye
And I sat on exhibit just tryin' to live it
Down but he didn't come back soon so I
Just nodded and smiled as the white coats passed by
And it turns out the eye drop dispenser had crashed
Had to repair it, that was so rare it was weird, had to bear it
And next thing you know, an hour had passed
Drove to my house, stuck my clothes in plastic
Two showers later I smelled like the last chick
To leave a long shift at Aamco, damn slow
A strong whiff was drastic
Doc said light a match
I'd go up like a Roman candle
Gas pump's unlatched
'Cause there's a scandal 'bout the handle

The History Of My Mouth

After a bout of sucrose depravity,
thank God I found a dentist willing
to plug up each resulting cavity
using a gold or silver filling.

I've worn out the ivory teeth of my youth
by gnawing on chocolate or biting on ice.
People now tell me I'm long in the tooth,
but I always answer, "Oh, that would be nice!"

<FONT >Once said the seamstress with the crooked eye,
"I'd read this advertised as Reparté
In Rhyme. I think this thread has gone awry.
I'd better needle them--see what they say.
Is anybody out there talking back?
Come on, you folks. I'm waiting: Give me <FONT ><u>flack</u>!"
</FONT s></FONT f>



[This message has been edited by Joe Aimone (edited August 08, 2002).]

A seamstress I was
but I stopped because
no matter how hard
I tried to fit lard
asses in leather
pants they kept growing
and cracks kept showing
when they bent or sat
it ended like that


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

Dear Seamstress of my feet and laces,
I know you love to work in leather,
But now I see you've seen their faces
Bent down and making like foul weather.
I can't say that I blame you, dear.
A vision of such smiles upright
And in the wind such perfume near
Repels such pricking, wrong or right.
But you sew mine, and I'll sew yours,
The better to undress toujours.

Joe, that's sew sweet
In metrical feet.
But it would have been sweeter
if shorter and neater.

Henry

There once was a poet named Quince
Who was noble and wise as a prince
And desperately tried to convince
Joe that his rhymes would evince
More skill if he took Quince's hints
To give all his verses a rinse
And remove all those metrical splints
That might cause a reader to wince,
But Joe hasn't heard from him since.

Then along came Roger Slater
an awfully fine creator
of rhythms and rhymes much greater
than those of the common waiter

Let Roger make jam of the Quinces,
If he’ll mind zbaby’s defenses,
And Henry can pun to pay Peter
Whatever the signs say is meter,
And all of them give Joe a roast,
Provided they pay for the toast.


[This message has been edited by Joe Aimone (edited August 13, 2002).]

All alone by the Joe Aimone
waiting for the ding-a-ling
to let you know if he'll condone
pronunciation that will bring
a mellow tone - or is "baloney"
(while not so tony) not quite a crime?
Without my normal acrimony
I ask, "Hey, Joe - what rhyme next time?".

Until then - here's one that works it, sort of, both ways

Joe Aimone
Responds to every thread and more.
I think the guy's as phony
as mayo and baloney.
No man could do it on his own.
He depends upon the phone -
and a cozy writing mill in Bangalore.


Michael



[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited August 13, 2002).]

Ol' Quince if you've read what he's posted
it seems he likes to critique while he's toasted
he drinks back long glasses of wine
and picks and pokes at this or that line
yet often his words are quite telling
but too bad about his horrible spelling.



[This message has been edited by Melalope (edited August 13, 2002).]

Joe, for the Name of Mike!

If Joe refused to answer Cantor
About his name in all this banter--
If he should wander or should saunter,
As if he really didn't want 'er,
Past this solicitation
For name felicitation
It wouldn't be for pride or money
(Nor lack of it from alimony)
Or that his family pride doth lack a bone
For he can claim Acquinas as his own
Fourth cousin, but that cowboy speech
Has made the tongue to reach
Around the Roman-French hybridity,
The Ellis Island spelling's quiddity,
But most of all the gaping jaw
Of native English speakers' law
For placing accents, law learned best
Penultimate to mother's breast,
For quite a different harmony
Of accent; with slant rhyme
One may approximate the name,
Provided one knows dactyls, AYE moh nee.
The voice at first will wobble
To accent the correct syllable
And keep the longing vowels all long,
For each of them has its own song.
So if you're ever introduced
And then must say his name, induced
By courtesy to say it, Michael,
And he should tell you, "Sorry. Wrong."
And this should happen all night long,
For singers slowly learn new song,
Be reassured, he's not just fickle.
(And he will let
Some Juliet
Be wondering about it
As she will whisper it or shout it
In bed or round about it.)
But mostly his friends know
It's best to call him "Joe,"
For nothing rhymes with "Joseph."

[This message has been edited by Joe Aimone (edited August 14, 2002).]

You think that nothing rhymes with Joseph?
Some challenge, that, to friends and foes, if
They care to take it up: hey, phoney
Or not, I'll even rhyme Aimone!

Oh, oops, I got the accent wrong —
It's weak on MON, the AI is strong.
"Hey phoney"'s not a dactyl:
How very careless! Shame on me!
But that distressing fact'll
Deter me little, Aimone!

[This message has been edited by peterjb (edited August 14, 2002).]

Quince is the name and I am what I am;
Nobody's going to make me into jam!
And Roger, if you're not aware what a slater
Is in this hemisphere, well, I'll tell you later.

Now if we are engaging in persiflage,
All manner of banter and badinage,
Well then, here's a form you may not have tried,
Where one rhyme at least is strictly implied:

(Put on limerick ears for this)

There was a young man wrote a crit
On some verse that his ear couldn't fit;
He complained “See, the thing
Doesn't have the right swing!”
But his crit was a whole load of very dubious nonsense.

Henry

Henry, around here we call those "limeroids." Back in February we had a thread devoted to them. Here are several of mine that I'll recycle for your (possible) amusement and/or punishment for bringing up the subject (but the thread is worth checking out because many were posted that were better than these):

A man's tongue may happily sing us
Songs of what fortune can bring us,
....But women prefer
....Tongues that confer
Non-verbal pleasure by remaining silent.

An oversexed tourist from Venus
Declared just as soon as she'd seen us
....Nakedly flaunting
....Our flesh, "My how daunting!
How can men do it with only one partner?"

Intending no theft and no malice
A eunuch broke into the palace.
...."It's got to be here,"
....He said. "I'm quite clear
That this is the last place I took out my wallet."

A man who was down on his luck
Said, "My entire existence is stuck.
....I wish I were rich
....Since life's such a bitch
Without good food and someone to cook it."

Edgar told Gloucester (I quote him),
"Ripeness is all" as they smote him.
....Edgar, in fact,
....Survived the last Act,
One of the few men in the play to escape with his life.

A woman I dated forgot
That I like it cold more than hot.
....She heated the bun
....And ruined all the fun
I'd otherwise get from eating her sandwich.

As President Grant sat there drinkin'
The hard whiskey got him to thinkin',
...."As presidents go
....I'm the best one I know,
So why does the world prefer Millard Filmore?"

Aimone, a Spherean poet
has posted on Rhymed Repartee.
His wit? He hoped he cold show it
but frittered his rhymes all away
with poems of lace and of leather
and needles both crooked and old.
Then Quince wished his feet to be better
and shorter, if truth need be told.

Next Roger jumped into the fray
and exhausted his listing of rhyme
but Henry comes back right away
and responds to the scurrilous slime.
Then others come on to roast Joey
who asked to be given some flack
in verses of iamb or trochee
so he can give some of it back.

I really don't mean to be toey,
But rhyming "trochee" with "joey"!
I would have risked being showy
and worked in Helen of Troey.

And Peter would know him the "joeys"
Which has a quite Down Under noise,
While Bobby wrote history ad hominem
But failed to get hold of Joe's nominem.

[This message has been edited by Joe Aimone (edited August 15, 2002).]

If "Joeys" in fact rhymes with "noise,"
One must pronounce "Joeys" as "joise,"

Since if you pronounce it as "Joeys"
The rhymes lose their equi-po-eese.

I'm appalled at the terrible rhyming
appearing all over the place
and the meters are lacking in timing
and stumbling without any grace.

I really expected much better
when the gauntlet was thrown to the ground
so much for a worthy competitor -
can another such poet be found?

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

The problem with rhyming with "Swagman"
Is that your one choice is just "bagman,"
With criminal overtones ringing
Down alleys while churchbells are ringing.
And who can blame Rita for sparking
Instead of collecting the parking?
The priest upon whom she'd been callin'
Had grace enough to know he'd fallen.
So if our rhymes here are inferior,
Let's call out some mothers superior,
And if we're "unsavory" fellows,
I say let's beat Bob till he bellows.
And should someone show up too late ter,
My wager is it's Roger Slater--
Too busy with what he's pronouncing
To join in a good verbal trouncing.

[This message has been edited by Joe Aimone (edited August 15, 2002).]

Joey, I think you've neglected
some rhymes that you could have elected
in writing your verse about Swagman
(apart from the obvious "bagman").

Every platoon has a flagman
who runs up the flag to an anthem.
And haven't you ever gone stag, man?
Or maybe you're just too darn hanthome?

Most comedy shows have a gagman
(and some shows employ Larry Hagman).
And though I don't much like to brag, man,
I'm told that I'm quite a fine shagman.

More Flack for Joe http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif

Roger beat me to the punch
about the choice of 'Swagman' rhyme;
since it appears there are a bunch
your claim appears the only crime.
And as for seeking aid divine
to bolster failing assonance,
'tis easier to make water wine
that knocks one on his ass, perchance.
As for making me bellow, well
at least your verse has made me yelp;
and as for trouncing verbs, my swell,
I doubt that you need Roger's help.

To the contrary, Monsignor Swagman,
If I may be slightly Rogerian
And give in both herein and therein,
Except on the one point of "ragman,"
Which both had left out of our anthers
While thtumbling like thweet flower panthers
Through comedy, crime and old reruns
For new rhymes twixt peanuts and pee runs.
So let's settle down with more beer
And waylay the next who comes near.

I'd rather be beaten to the punch,
of course, than beaten by one.
And I'd rather have a liquid lunch
than a standard, boring dry one.
Jerry Swagman, thanks a bunch.
Your rhymes recall Lord Byron.



[This message has been edited by Roger Slater (edited August 15, 2002).]

Remind me to thank Joe for not rhyming 'Jerry'.
It's not a name for which rhymes would be very
polite, much less at all complimentary.

But that won't stop some folks from making their hairy
remarks, while comfortably sitting on dairy
airs and writing in verse rudimentary.

Only thinking of stopping when necessary
to run to the fridge for more beer, or ferry
themselves to the can for a ten minute tarry.

I had a hunch that after lunch
Roger would scrunch to write a bunch
of "Jerry" rhymes - thus beat him to the punch.

A Little Zonk Verse


Joining this thread from Joey and Rob
Duelling or gruelling through volley and lob,
I see Rog taking on Henry Quince at the clavier,
And Quince smashing back like a Davis Cup saviour,
And Zbaby pokes Roger with restaurant humour.
(Is she Debra the zebra, or a lemur with tumour?)
and Mel that sweet melon has Quince Jam on the ropes
for egregious spelling, bad puns, drunken tropes,
while Peter in Queensland (where Croc Files is canned)
sings the surreal with a mouth full of sand -
Well, Singapore's logged on to send a few darts,
and blow rasberries at Spheroidian farts.

But I should say Sorry to Slater and Quince
and Zbaby – don’t bait her, the anonymous minx.
and Peter the Croc who doctors with wit
and Joe-boy who’s earnest and Rob who won’t quit.
Who knows for a fact - do these poet’s exist
or does one schizo-scribe just post when s/he’s pissed?
(Just ask Henry Quince who makes that fruit plonk
And drinks as he writes his septameter zonk.)
One might speculate that Olympic Australians
are invading Erato like hopeful Pygmalions.
Reshaping the muse from an old bush-cucumber,
they talk louder and brasher (being fewer in number).
Is one Aussie computer sending multiple emails,
can one poet make a flock of bush-turkeys or quails?
Fastidious verse-makers, it just could be true.
Can any one post the clerihew of a clue?




[This message has been edited by chris (edited August 17, 2002).]