Showing posts from March, 2015

A Wednesday quickie

Said the dealer to the truckers, “Our rigs run on diesel. The trucks sold by others won’t pull ten tons, but these’ll.”

Sweets are bad, m'kay? A Proto-Queron

The date is Mayish, 2009. I am starting to develop a poetry form. The first proto-queron came in at 15 rather than 17 lines and had this rhyme scheme: ababa bcbca cdcdb. The content here is pretty fluffy. The exercise was more about the rhyme and syllabification (6 per line, m'kay?).  In no other poem I recall writing did I use the phrase "Neener-neener-neener," so that's something. ** Sweets are bad, m’kay? Sugary treats are bad Because they taste so good. Whenever you have had, you always know you should have eaten greens instead, but almost no one would opt for something greener although it’s understood vegetables are leaner and make you better fed. Keep your system cleaner and eat in tune with truth. Say “Neener-neener-neener” to that old sweet tooth and you’ll be glad you did.

Maurnold X. Thurbin Pans Movies in Verse: Bedtime Stories

Flashback! Lately I've been pulling out older poems that never saw much light of day, but that I'm fond of. This poem circa 2009 is—okay, check out this concept: it's a movie review in rhymed couplets by the fictitious poet Maurnold X. Thurbin, a creation of The Filthy Critic . Many years ago—back in the 20th century—I wrote video reviews as Gooden Worsted in an alcove off of Filthy's site, which site garnered attention by making it into Rolling Stone and garnering nods from author Stephen King.  Filthy's angle is that he uses a lot of profanity while delivering very incisive reviews that actually have a lot of integrity. Gooden's angle was that every film rated between nine and ten stars, and all pans were backhanded. Maurnold's angle was to be the rhymed couplets thing. This is the only prototype I wrote. I'd say you should go watch Bedtime Stories so you know what's going on in the review... but don't.    Maurno

A Lithuanian Proverb (sneak peek)

A Lithuanian Proverb When your drop a glass of wine in Lithuania or bump a porcelain knickknack, shattering it, they say Kamatka lapotcha, coka pooya schmoo. No. I don’t remember the actual phrase at all, but the meaning is to the effect that the earth— reality—shifted around you, and you didn’t notice so naturally, you didn’t keep up; and it’s not wholly your fault that the teapot or peanut dish didn’t align with you and only exists in shards now. You and the world knock like misaligned gears. The machine will right itself somehow—or explode, destroying everything and leaving nothing— Kidding! Things hardly ever fly hysterically apart that way. You might fall against an aquarium, killing ten red fish, then slip on one and bang noggins with the magistrate you were trying to petition. A different saying applies in that case to the effect that earth has shaken you like a sled dog shakes knots into its harness, whi

Mired Divine, A sonnet

Going back into the oldish files for some poems that were lost in the pile. Here at least they'll breathe once more.  This poem came from a time when I'd nearly given up on poetry for the first time in 20+ years. With my daughter at 3 years old, and my career as a copywriter picking up speed, I was losing track of why I pursued the ephemeral art at all. But thanks to meeting Poetic Asides , I found a respark and have continued with the practice unabated ever since. 30 years now! This poem is about us humans. "Mired Divine" Such mucky bubbles we all are with monkey grace and dirt and arm, tied into our tangled blankets needful as massage — and thankless — under the airships of our dreams bursting through Moissanite ceilings, dropping our soiled gabardine we spoiled in rain and gasoline … We’re puddles rainbowed with feeling waking as angels, but screaming, inventing stores of penny pranks, rumbling ohms and ums and flatu