Writing poetry is easy
If Longfellow is your model.
Henry Wadsworth -- him I speak of,
He who wrote of Hiawatha,
Happy Indian Hiawatha
In a meter like the present,
Vomited upon the paper.
I could write of Chiff and Fipple,
write of buzzy Generations,
of Susatos like recorders,
of the contest made by Bloomfield
Giving CDs out as prizes.
I could write about Weekenders,
Staunch supporter of tradition,
And the spats he has with Gilder,
Gilder of the liberal leaning.
I would write about Cranberry
But it doesn't fit the meter,
(hard to fit sometimes, the meter,
As it splats upon the paper).
Wooden whistles by Paul Busman,
by podiatrist Paul Busman,
(see how nice that fits the meter),
Wooden whistles sound less chiffy
and don't chirp like those of metal,
those of rusting, clanking metal.
(But the metal fits the meter.)
Let us not forget the Lambchop
Fuzzy, wooly, lamby Lambchop.
Lambchop also fits the meter
As the poem lumbers onward.
And there's Dale, who speaks so Wisely,
moderator on vacation,
head of Three Fish Enterprises
and Red Wolverine Productions.
(Yes, I know I've got that backwards
but it doesn't fit the meter
if I do not re-arrange it.)
Those of you I've yet to mention --
emmline, Cynthia, c-skinner,
izzy, reasonable Walden,
Peter Laban, Martin Milner,
Jerry Freeman whistle tweaker,
dubhlinn, Redwolf, Flyingcursor
nanohedron and the wombat
and the many other chiffers --
none of you will fit the meter
by yourselves. But you will fit it
if I lump you all together.
Now it's time to end the poem
written in this simple manner,
this most tedious of meters.
Guinness beckons; I must go now.
Crazy for the blue white and red
Crazy for the blue white and red
And yellow fringe
Crazy for the blue white red and yellow
Heya, gonzo! I like it! Poststructural, pre-apocalyptic, self-referential chiffboard poetry, on leaden metered feet. If you have to ask, you'll never know.
Last edited by Bloomfield on Thu May 11, 2006 12:33 am, edited 1 time in total.
Tell us something.: I used to be a regular then I took up the bassoon. Bassoons don't have a lot of chiff. Not really, I have always been a drummer, and my C&F years were when I was a little tired of the drums. Now I'm back playing drums. I mist the C&F years, though.
(I've been waiting for an audience to foist this upon)
Kennel Lament
I clean up the messes--
the bowels' processes--
left lying by doggies,
like little brown loggies,
and scoop them and scrape them
for what does await them? a
five gallon bucket for poop.
What yappy westhighlands
run through their intestines,
and leave in a pile,
the collies meanwhile,
make theirs like a trail,
and I must avail of the
five gallon bucket of poop.
Each day it's the same,
different dogs, different names,
leaving piles upon piles
of turd projectiles,
and I dutifully, carefully,
lovingly place them in
five gallon buckets of poop.
When they're full to the rim,
topped high to the brim,
and nary a hunk
can one add, not a chunk,
I can no longer tarry,
for soon I must carry my
five gallon buckets of poop.
Through doorways and aisles
for seemingly miles,
o'er thresholds, through gates,
the path isn't straight.
Lest you want a brown bath,
you'll get out of the path of the
five gallon bucket of poop.
My goal is the septic,
the smell is dyspeptic,
I puff as I cart it,
the strain in my heart trumps
the ache in my back,
good humor I lack for this
five gallon bucket of poop.
Tomorrow starts over
with Fido and Rover,
now dinner awaits me
then reading and TV,
then sleep with it's dreaming
all abstractly teeming with
five gallon buckets of poop.
"Meon an phobail a thogail trid an chultur"
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
It seems our denizens have had enough
They don't want any more poetic smidgens
They're even liable to cut up rough:
Bloomfield, you've set the cat amongst the pigeons!
Black darts that swoop and wheel about the sky
A clear blue sky, to prove that summer’s here
Creatures that draw you with them, as they fly.
“Old gravity’s a myth, that we deny
“It’s levity we serve, that we hold dear!”
Black darts that swoop and wheel about the sky.
And as they swirl and pirouette and shy
Cascading, rocketing, they twist and veer
Creatures that draw you with them, as they fly.
Enchanting and entangling the eye
That strains to trace each flowing line they steer
Black darts that swoop and wheel about the sky.
“Wheep wheep” they mew, “Wheep wheep” they call and cry
“No time for song!” they whistle, raucous, jeer:
Creatures that draw you with them, as they fly.
They glide and dance and summer heaves a sigh
“Join us! Take wing! The air is bright and clear!”
Black darts that swoop and wheel about the sky.
Creatures that draw you with them, as they fly.
I like that...I could see the swallows. (NO...I mean I hated that! fume...fume... )
Now the poop? That was pretty good too. Not sure about the projectile part, though.
)