Ah, the dear clerihew
May be here very new,
Or it may be old hat
For the matter of that.
But I'll have a crack
Hoping someone comes back.


Singapore Chris's
Rhyme tries but misses.
And can someone please tell me what the hell this clerihew
Is supposed to be giving a clue to?

Chris has the advantange of having a name
That rhymes with an adjective, simple and tame:
One just trots it out to say which one means.
Just so are his verses no meat and all beans,
A bloodless and weak vegetarian art
Whose power invisible strikes nose not heart.

I think Chris is right, that perceptive chap.
Only one Aussie is posting this stuff.
As he implies with impeccable wit
No two Australians could think up this verse.


Hey - is this a clerihoid?




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

Poetry's Not a Religion

I asked whether form follows function
and the thread held on through disjunction,
but it struck me like a rag soaked with hyssop
that the Heathen have disdain for the Bishop.

Oh believers do we labor in vain
if those Catholic bells bring out such disdain?
Seems they lack universal appeal,
since they inspire some personal spiels.

Fear not for our verse in the lurch,
for our Letters do not spell out “church.”
So if poetry gets like religion
then adjust all resentments a smidgen.

For the Scriptures speak not of verse metrics
nor Free Verse as the spawn of some heretics.
No, the doctor we envy’s not Seuss –
shall his metrical play earn the noose?

Around envy of well-published jerks
cirrhosis of spirit will lurk.
The cure is to write up more poems
to enlighten our spiritual homes.

From the “Bells” and the “Fire” spring joy,
make neither a Draco Malfoy.
CNN often shows us the starving,
now there’s a cause for us arming.

If there’s wisdom to glean from the Prophets,
it’s unity achieved through some “Stop its.”
Such as don’t dust it up like we’re knaves,
since everyone’s bound for the grave.

Amidst all the name rhyming I’ve read
Only one word got stuck in my head…
Chris has sent me an apology,
somewhere before Vic’s doxology.
So, “accepted”, I say –being nice
and polite is a Spherean vice.
I hope they don’t hold it against me,
I’m ninety-percent minx, ten banshee!
Thank ye

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

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

zbaby, the question remains
for us who think less with our brains
than with our more questionable parts
just what that "z," baby, imparts.
A sleepy sweet infant that snores,
Or her, more grown up, one ignores?
Some Frenchified article
right at the starticle?
The name of a maker of tissue
for what from ze baby must issue?
(You thus a poster child
for what is soft and mild?)
But more than the just scatological,
you've raised up some ghosts genealogical--
(not to mention etymological
if not entirely logical)
for "minx" which comes from "mynx"
which comes from "minnekijn," methinks,
refers to what ladies in Dutch
call all canine lap beasts, dog or bitch,
meaning "my little loved one" or "darling"
with irony we know to mean "snarling."
And that's just nine tenths of your due,
but something's supernatural too--
at least ten percent, as you say,
lets you tell us who dies today.
When I put together all this,
to object to you would be a "Miss."
No matter how fierce you might seem,
It can't be as bad as your scream.

If wit demands brevity,
Why this strained levity
paid out by the yard?

There's me and zBaby,
and that Peterjb;
you others need maybe
a boundary guard.

Let's try to be comical
yet still economical;
it can't be that hard.

****** *****


Miminy Piminy,
Robert the Swagman's
guess is too dim.

I post as everyone,
hyperdeceptively,
even as him.

*****

Henry, I thought we were pals...
Why chastise me for chatting up the gals?

Some Clerihews of Apology in Search of Brevity


Joe laments I have no heart
and must resort to vego art.
It's true I don't take any whale or birdy.
Better to be slight than wordy.

*

Joe's lit-crit is strong and sturdy.
He must be swallowing whale and birdy,
and tiger penis, yak with fleas
just like the Chinese.

*

Joe Alimone
was all alone -
the Thread was dead - he asked for flack.
This is the karmic kick-back.

*

Thanks Joe,
now I'll bestow
the dead poet's laurel wreath -
you flushed us turkeys from the heath.




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

I may not be much for brevity,
But turkeys can count on longevity--
A turkey gun's best on the shelf
Except when it's used on oneself.

This much I think I know
of our dear friendly Joe

When you spank him with mirth
He'll respond to you with girth

The rhyme, each line a winner
Past breakfast, lunch time, till dinner


But lonesome is the thread
Our Joe wishes dead

Part subject from post
Then you can boast

Of Joe’s own hex
The symbol ‘X’.


As free verse is my bag,
don't think me a hag...
meters do quite defy me!
But I love to rhyme,
and have a good time
So how could ya'll deny me?


What rhymes with melalope? Anyone??? LOL!!!

PS
Joe?
But more than the just scatological,
you've raised up some ghosts genealogical--
(not to mention etymological
if not entirely logical)"

How could you forgo, ?
"Gynecological" http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/biggrin.gif


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

Hoggity Poggity
Henry the Quincer
must think us sod
And seems to believe he
Omni-celestially
Posts like a God.



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

Zbaby, anonymous minx
beware Alimone, the lynx.

To answer not falser
with several answers
is like cutting in
on several dancers--
one's head starts to spin
like a waltzer.

Melalope
rhymes with calliope,
more or less--
one of my favorite muses;
or else Melalope
fits envelope, antelope,
what have you, unless:
Melalope
rhymes with a-gallop--
Which carousel horse is the loser?

Now as to my reticence
to get into medicines
that might have been zbaby's bag,
I wouldn't presume
to step in the room
when a devil like she's on the wash.

I read and I learn
but from what I discern
I have some concern
over which words to spurn

Alimone will save
those turkeys from brave
hunters, since all they’ve
learned is how to stave

Henry’s an aussie
who seems rather saucy
a delicacy
when whisked until glossy

As for Melalope
She can eat cantaloupe
beside antelope
on an alpine slope

Chris, thanks for warning
me, I won’t be fawning
cause I’m still yawning
on this Sunday morning…







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

"To answer not falser
with several answers
is like cutting in
on several dancers--
one's head starts to spin
like a waltzer."

Joe likes cheese on which to dine
when he is done with all that WHINE.

As of right now we do deeply thank you
but if you prefer, Roger can spank you.

Spare the rod and spoil the child.
Yes, it's a saying all of us know.
But Mel's advice doesn't drive me wild.
I'd rather spare the rod and spoil Joe.

I owe thanks to Roger--I'm not into spanking,
At least not with rods, which I prefer cranking
Not fellow to fellow. I much prefer flanking
Envelopment strategies, women outranking
All men in such matters for me and my pranking.


[This message has been edited by Joe Aimone (edited August 18, 2002).]

THE ORPHAN

Permission granted by the Pope,
they slapped me when I was three,
and so I have, to quote Bob Hope,
spanks for the memory.

Testimonials from the Front Line

I.

Not navel-gazing--not gazing, but grazing;
not terribly touching, but barely touching,
or the feasting on fleas, and the foolish clutching
mites to be shared (but moving--Amazing!--
someone somewhere): BANNED POSToh such such and suching!

Tell me, sonny:
how can one
excise fun
and still be funny?

Having fun and being funny
should run together like bread and honey,
but often don't, I must admit.
They are mis-matched as love and money.

Thoughts of a lowly primate

From atop an
Ivory verbiage tower
Condemned by mites
Do I need a shower?
*Like grazing bovines
atop Henry’s belly?
I think I'd prefer his
toe jam or jelly!*
I did not mean
to offend the steeples
Of thou high
and sensible
metrical peoples
Is lack
of order
simply
considered
crass?
Well those who
think
so
can kiss my cathedral chopped up verse.




[This message has been edited by Melalope (edited August 18, 2002).]

How did you know, sweet Melie,
About those cows on my belly?
Was it that clue, "navel grazing"?
An odd but a clairvoyant phrasing.

With wandering ruminant cattle,
all over your tum, it's a battle,
And sometimes I find
That fluff of a kind,
Like cotton
But rather more smelly
Has formed in my belly-
Button.

Henry, I must say you remind me
Of something I though left behind me,
'Tis a romantic bit of fluff
One quoted in a lady's muff,
A verse I mis-hear ringing now:
"I wandered, lonely as a cow..."

Belly lint, you sure can't beat it.
But please sir, just don't eat it.

Please understand that there's no lint
in belly buttons, Mel,
a point I illustrate by dint
of this little doggerel:


MEDITATION

When I sit and contemplate
my navel, as is faddish,
the only thing I find is salt
in which I dip my radish.

Though I may not find inner peace
as lotus-like I scrunch,
my sense of inner hunger dies
as I consume my lunch.

On meditation I can rant
but not with that communal slant…
If inner conflicts don’t exist
then how can anyone get pissed?

Since I was left behind
before I had turned six,
I learned a certain kind
of tension quelling tricks:

I taught myself exactly how
to breathe and focus
on it; the fuzzy static “now”
went in my nose
and out it.

Having fun and being funny
man’s priority,
eating plenty bread and honey
quite religiously;

But having fun and being serious
what a paradox!
I meditate until delirious
wearing only socks.

Bad Spelling


Meditation, masturbation?
Nope - Melalope's our medication,
plus navel lint for witches' potion,
dandruff snow or snake-bite lotion,
yak fleas, frog knees -
French or Chinese,
witchety grub, dead flies and bees.
Stir them, fry them,
will them, whir them,
add any backbone under heaven.
Throw in Zz's holy socks,
a lopped-off thumb from Goldilocks,
a turkey feather, gizzard of partridge,
Joe Alimone's spent twelve-bore cartridge.
Add a spoon of Henry's jam
(this soup won't taste like pea and ham),
add Blob, add Thing, some Gretal, some Hansel
and stir with Roger's cyber-pencil.

Make a paste, apply to forehead,
chaunt this spell, go off to bed
and you will dream of poison arrows,
and atom bombs dropping on tiny sparrows.
This stuff's BAD - the doves will duel -
a recipe for rhymer's gruel.




[This message has been edited by chris (edited August 19, 2002).]

Addendum to the Perfect Receipt

Now season it to taste: have Chris
Wring in his drop of scentless water.



[This message has been edited by Joe Aimone (edited August 19, 2002).]

On the metrical scale I've been weighed and found wanting.
The image of Chris' gruel, indeed, quite haunting!

No worse I suppose then bovines grazing lint, earwax and such.
I tried the spell Chris!But you can see, it didn't help much.

The recipe that I see here
is not for making rhymes appear;
it’s one for using any word
in context with all those absurd
notions. And it won’t make potions
or lotions that I’d dare to use,
but still, Chris, a very nice ruse.

Poets of the modern realm unite!
Forsake your rhythms, swear off your rhymes;
Renounce those ancient artful crimes!

Let us write prosaic
With pictures quite mosaic
But no hint of archaic
We're in the modern times
Tra-la!

There are no rotten lines,
Fa-la!

We're in the modern times
Hoorah!!!

[This message has been edited by Carl Sundell (edited August 21, 2002).]

Carl the anarchist
begs for more sloppy verse??!!
Beware! Beware! Chris may step in
with a hex, or curse!

A Rubai of Karmic Returns

How could I throw a hex on Mr Sundell.
I've only scentless water here to sell.
Beware the shaman's hand that points the bone.
The spell may boomerang on loopy Mel.


More Manacled Sentiments


Banished from this Rhymers' Repartee,
poor Free-Verse swings upon the poetree.

Yet is Free-Verse - a coffin or a curse?
shouting a hurse! my kingdom for a hurse!

We are hypocritical to whit!
We've smoked Free-Verse and other Beepbop Shit.

Neither's easy Carl - let both hang out.
Fixed ir Free, it's hard to catch a trout.

Learn the metrical locks and rhyming tools,
then like Houdini wriggle free from rules.



[This message has been edited by chris (edited August 22, 2002).]

Chris

"How could I throw a hex on Mr Sundell.
I've only scentless water here to sell."

"Scentless water" here indeed!
You rhymists multiply and feed
so fast on concocted sing-song rhymes
that bishops warn of Global Ending Times.

Now do get thee hence with thy rhymes so dense!
And not again let Echo rule thy Sense!

Invitation was sent to one and all--
Who is it that’s saying who shan’t play ball?

Our world will not end from unpleasant rhymes,
but more so, it may through religious crimes.

I adore the rules and breaking them too,
this thread’s the place where we can come to screw

around, mid other poet minds, sublime.
Remember all, it’s to have a good time…

So tell us a story, forget yourselves,
leave your criticisms up on those shelves

--with all your quick-witted quotable digs.
Let us get back to our repartee jigs.

zbaby

"Our world will not end from unpleasant rhymes,
but more so, it may through religious crimes."

The Vatican fires no nuclear warhead;
But liberals also are known for blood shed.

Uncle Sam, in his blue star-spangled pants,
writes poems to rhyme and sing a war dance.

If freedom's not to finally perish,
in our verses we should freedom cherish.




[This message has been edited by Carl Sundell (edited August 22, 2002).]

I thought that Uncle Sam’s pants
were red and white striped;
and that the liberals’ prance
was not what I’d griped

about. Nor did I mention,
in particular,
any single religion…
The concern thus far

is that our human nature
allows us to think
that one must be the greater.
Then, we’d be in sync

with one god and one leader…
-completely insane-
Would you follow one keeper
in spite of their bane?



[This message has been edited by zbaby (edited August 22, 2002).]

Ah, zbaby, to you I yield the field.
I never think religions are the same.
Now go, put up your sword and shield;
Challenge one whose faith is far more lame.