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.