Poetry to the Stars

Sometimes, I think, when in doubt or in love,
We might request some help from up above.
I believe that we could all do much worse
Than write a poem to the universe.

There may be no answer where the stars spin,
But our reflective questions echo within.
Sometimes the answer we already know;
We just need us to say, I told you so.

Habbie for the Bardie - Bonnie Burns Birthday

Habbie for the Bardie

Sona Co-là-breith, Robbie

Ne’er the blackguard I would need be,
O Bardie, for me to be like ye,
Nor seen those things then you did see,
     Far and long ago,
‘Though I wish my dreams were as free
     To put on a show.

I did not dance and prance with lasses,
Nor sow my seed amongst the masses,
Nor spend nights clinking drinking glasses,
     In youth too well spent,
To tell others what an ass is,
     Seen as a belle gent.

So many from you have found pleasure,
Reading through your Scottish treasure.
My grasp sometimes cannot be sure,
     Puzzling through a line.
But blest be your graven leisure –
     You need not read mine.

---

For previously posted purlioned poetic posing:

Gang Aft Agley

Planning of Whippets

I live my life in snippets
With the focus of whippets,
Chasing rabbits around the track.
If I had a longer span
And was one to make a plan,
I’d notice the success I lack.

But keeping my goals so short
Gives me success of a sort,
Making me a contented man.
I puzzle from clue to clue,
Bites well sized for me to chew,
With no need to see the whole span.

When you need to see the end,
With in its blank, you portend
Failure before the effort began.
You may hesitate too long,
Fearing outcome will be wrong,
And you do not do things you can.

Do not fear you won’t finish
For the chances will diminish
For all projects you never start.
You also may be like me
And best achieve by degree --
Doing, not being done, is art.

The Wit of Nonsense

(tune: The Sound of Silence
(Paul Simon, 1964))

Hello, out there, my old friend
I hope to rhyme for you again
Because boredom is on me sinking
And its onset has me thinking
How new memories haunt my brain
With an odd refrain
Of the wit of nonsense

In the weird world I ponder in
Thoughts can make me moan or grin
Twists will unwind under my skull
That might only amuse a laughing gull
But they may blossom and bloom from within
When allowed to begin
To show the wit of nonsense

When I start I do not know
Where the strolling troll will go
Stopping for tea with a witch
Swapping gossip with a snitch
His adventure is in to where he walks
And to whom he talks
With the wit of nonsense

“Friends,” I say, “I apologize;
Nonsense seems a lot like lies;
Read my rhymes that I might please you;
I tease my wits that I might seize you
With a chuckle you did not expect
From the wit of nonsense.”

I know none may clap and praise
All the silliness that I raise
And your brain may flash its warning
That this drivel is for avoiding
And the blog calls, “The words of this poet
Are written just for the fun
And maybe a pun
By a nitwit of nonsense.”

Idle Minds Are a Silly Waste

Subduing grass into a lawn
Is a task to induce a yawn.
My mind let loose by humdrum pace
Switches from off to idly race.

Idle minds are silly for me,
A chance to flee reality.
Perhaps I should ponder deeply,
But instead I buy grins cheaply.

I hear little voices in my head
And catch a bit of what is said.
Some pass with only a low hum;
The unlucky seed a poem.

“My support doesn’t mean we agree;
My vote with you means you owe me.”

“I saw an angel late last night;
Hope it’s not me he came to smite.”

“I love to write a foolish verse;
Although a curse, it could be worse.”

“A llama walks into a bar --
How is this joke going so far?”

I might write one down, once inside,
To find what further it does hide.
Mostly I think me to amuse --
Often it’s my friends I abuse.

So, if I give you, friend, the choice,
Of my exploring of which voice,
Would you dare say which I should grow,
Or simply say, oh no, please, no!

Nobody stopped me, so:

============================

Politics make strange bedfellows,
It pairs up tubas with cellos.
If you think Reps work for your good,
You might not question where they stood.
In the hallway, just yesterday,
I heard one to another say,
“My support doesn’t mean we agree;
My vote with you means you owe me.”

--------------------------

‘Though it might seem best to believe
The stories which the churchmen weave,
Some tales I’ve heard from the pulpit
Were too strange for me to gulp it.
I mean to them no disrespect
If their teachings I must reject.
I saw an angel late last night;
Hope it’s not me he came to smite.

--------------------------

When all I hear is the old clock,
Voices in my brain start to talk.
They fill the silent spaces between
What is now and what may have been.

It seems likely they like to lie,
But, to tell the truth, so do I.
A fudge here and a flourish there
Will give a truth some room to spare.

I love to write a foolish verse;
Although a curse, it could be worse.
I mostly know what I made up,
And let you choose if you will sup.

--------------------------

A llama walks into a bar --
How is this joke going so far?
Said, I meant to be here sooner,
But was dating a vicuna.
Due to arid Andean air,
She doesn't drink very much up there.
She would not come in here with me,
And this is where the joke should be.

--------------------------

National No Rhyme (Nor Reason) Day

It cannot be done, so why try.
Refractory rhymes make us cry.
They just want to be left alone,
Not with words few have ever known.

We might re-elect a Truman,
But with no rhyme won’t a Woman?

Are the spores in that yon Sporange
Ever so slight shades of Orange?

Smash Concord grapes with your Curple
And your butt cheeks will turn Purple.

A hurdle can kill your Spirit,
Or lift it up when you Clear it.

Sweep lung comes from cleaning Chimneys;
Exercise bikes give me Gym knees.

With the “ninth” “month” in the middle,
Win the “silver” “pint” for this riddle.

Better Poetry Thru Engineering

Rich careers as an English major,
Likely as a five foot six cager,
Too improbable for some to hope,
So they become engineers to cope.

‘Though hidden are these poetic souls,
Who choose tech skills to pay their life tolls,
They are neither lost nor fully gone
When a chance for a rhyme comes along.

We try to follow the rule of thumb --
If not clever, do not be too dumb.
For a poem, choose who will judge it --
A careful choice will let you fudge it.

Between the lab of a thought so sage
Are strewn many hurdles to the page.
In theory the concept was quite clear
As it bounced incomplete ear-to-ear.

But now one must work out all the kinks
To produce from what one merely thinks.
Consult the tables, see what can work,
Twist it to fit, and give it a jerk.

So maybe it is not what you meant,
Your original thought is quite bent.
But now you have a real thing to fly,
So put it out there - give it a try.

A Poetic Fishing License

Is it the poet’s job to preserve yore,
To make up rhymes for Icarus and Thor?
I have never learned to read nor speak
In either ancient Latin or Greek.
And of my knowledge in bygone Old Norse
Can be said it is infinitely worse.

It is my good luck to have translations
Created by the former generations.
And for you, there’s Google to draw upon
When a myth comes from an old pantheon.
Need you know Helios from Apollo
When one is better the rhyme to follow?

Maybe my little secret I’ll tell you --
I fight through reading many poets too.
Greco-Roman, Norse, Chinese, or Bible,
With names so exotically tribal,
Without my ready wikipedia
They go in and out like diarrhea.

So maybe, poets, it isn’t our duty
To create such esoteric beauty.
Forgive the past poets and their old ways
And use the language we use nowadays.
Although, in a century, perhaps two,
They will need to look up what you wrote too.

My Career as a Scribe

No longer do they ask I take minutes
In the committee meetings I attend.
I guess they did not like to begin its
Next meeting with the verses which I penned.

Or maybe ‘cause I left some motion out
When for a key word I could find no rhyme.
Reading of minutes preceded a shout
That how I record was a waste of time.

Now I sit and just quietly doodle,
While others take assiduous notes.
With luck I won’t even use my noodle,
And I can pay no attention to votes.

Ode to Ogden

Nash wrote four line limicks --
The change gave him some kicks.
Some thought them too short
But less rhyme made them quicks.

When I use Ogden’s form,
With less than is my norm,
Thoughts must be kept small --
Just a minor brainstorm.

But it’s good exercise
To hold thoughts down in size.
Concise sounds like smart
When none knows otherwise.

Happy Limerick Day

There once was an Englishman named Lear
Who composed poems too witty to bear
He is responsible
For so much runcible
‘Cause it was such a good word to hear.

If you ever wrote a limerick
Thinking you had a wit oh so slick,
Likely you soon did find
And to it was resigned
Even friends think you’re a lunatic

Poet on the Loose

Poet on the Loose

Who is this man with rhymes in mind,

Intent purpose his thoughts to bind

In knotted puzzles for you to find

To free ideas he has entwined?

Why can he not in plain speech say

Messages that he has to convey?

Instead they dance in quiet ballet

As he frolics in his word play.

Why does he hide in twists and turns

In that dark maze of his concerns,

And plays as a wee Robbie Burns

To lure you with images he churns?

He will not yet answer you here,

As he beats the drum in your ear.

Follow that trickster to his bier

Only to watch him disappear.

Ridiculosity

Ridiculosity

I often strive to be absurd,

Tho' my messages challenge comprehension,

In my wish at least to be heard,

If only as my latest pretension.

I fear to fall short at banal,

Unable to capture others' attention,

To see them flee my teapot squall,

My triteness lacking enough dimension.

I mind not if at me you laugh

With that little note of condescension.

I'll ride bareback on a giraffe

To play on you my specious invention.

I try to wake in you a thought,

Standing brightly apart from convention.

I hope that I will not be caught

When you think of the jest's full extension.