Poems, everyone!For My Sweetie
birthday tradition
visit to the candy aisle
heart-shaped box half off
Archive for ‘Poems, everyone!’
I met a guy once
I met a guy once, a big guy his skin black his teeth white his eyes red his laugh came from deep in his belly, and “who the hell are you?” he asked me.
Burning Words
There are words in my head
“fifty-six” I said just now
out loud, for no apparent reason
“Marconi”
“samurai”
“bivalve”
They are sounds, nothing more
disconnected
They bang about up there
ugly tourists
If I smoked
I’d write each word on a cigarette
and burn it
hear it crackle as I inhaled
watch the paper glow and draw back
“transcendent”
“ninteen”
“maybe”
the numbers most of all must go
Lots of travel, some stories as a result. I'll get to them, but for now just a little something I cam up with on Highway 93 north of Kingman, Arizona:
Road Haiku
Mile post fifty
Night monsoon flash and grumble
Mile fifty-one
Night monsoon flash and grumble
Mile fifty-one
Bacon Haiku
When you’re feeling blue
Let some bacon in haiku
fix what’s ailin’ you
Let some bacon in haiku
fix what’s ailin’ you
Not long ago there was a feverish burst of bacon-related haiku activity in the comments here at MR&HBI. Not surprising, really, considering the position we hold in the vanguard of modern literature. As a service to the poetic community I thought I would consolidate the bacon haiku in its very own episode. Let me know if I missed any, or if I made any errors transferring the words. And, just because I posted these, doesn’t mean you can’t add more! In fact, I’m quite certain that the ultimate bacon haiku has yet to be written.
delicious bacon
side order of happiness
greasy crispy bliss
- TG
side order of happiness
greasy crispy bliss
- TG
Greasy piece of lard
Oil drenched yummy goodness
bacon gift from GOD
- BJS
Salty crunchy good
The dog tackles me everyday
Ouch that’s not bacon dog
- BMR
Bacon oh Bacon
from the sizzle to the crunch
a cat eating beans
- pL
crisp pink perfection
the pig’s noble sacrifice
as the chicken smiles
- Harlean
m-m-m bacon
m-m-m-m-m bacon
baco frickin n
- Jerry
delicious frying
bacon on the hot griddle
blt coming
- john[liz]
bacon, ham, porkchops
magical meat animal
oh how i love you
- john & liz
if i ever thought
that bacon would cease to be
i would stab my face
- liz
when i eat bacon
i find that i enjoy life
more than e’er before
- liz
this one time in france
i did bad things with bacon
that i won’t forget
- liz
bacon on my knee
feel the oil burning me there
wish i had a plate
- john (dedicated to liz)
like the morning mist
the dew upon the branches
bacon is profound
- liz
why bacon, you ask?
why do we draw breath each day?
why does the sun rise?
- TG
Bacon sizzles hot
A breakfast with John and Liz
Going to eat that?
- The Eightster
you must know, eighster
all’s fair in love and bacon
would you like seconds?
- liz
gleam in greasy eyes
unseen but for its effect
stealth ninja bacon
- TG
back when we were kids
Liz and I would eat bacon
then go to the park
- TG (dedicated to liz)
if i had a choice
my sister would always win
over all bacon
- liz
find us if you can
ultimate bacon haiku
we will be waiting
- TG
Pork belly futures
My plate the fulcrum of Time
Ghosts of Breakfast Past
- John H.
Following Soup Boy
John ain’t got no office job
Can’t pay for bacon
- Squirrely Joe
Look at your breakfast
Chicken did a good job but
Pig was committed
- Squirrely Joe
Bacon o bacon
‘Tis thy crispy porcine
Flesh I miss the most
- dyczko schmeeczko
I cranked this out with the last gasp of my laptop battery after a cople of beers. Just a few impressions from our last morning. I could make it better, but I’m just going to let it stand — if I started to edit it I’d probably never publish it at all.
Goodbye to That Girl
A morning of lasts
The last embrace
The last kiss
The last goodbye
The last embrace
The last kiss
The last goodbye
for now
Green tea, cup, eyes
Stories, a rush,
words unnecessary
to cover words unsaid.
Everything back in place
folded, stowed
ready
One more cup of tea
sips of time
One more kiss goodbye
red hair a flag at the door
as I walk away.
They say it's the most important meal of the day.
Breakfast!
rainy morn, groggy head
ooo! heart-shaped banana bread
big-ass pot of tea
ooo! heart-shaped banana bread
big-ass pot of tea
A Personal Ad
Patient man, quiet, scruffy
Sees things, sometimes, that may not be there
Leaves dishes in the sink
Sees things, sometimes, that may not be there
Leaves dishes in the sink
Upstairs a mountain meadow
Grass, trees, and flowers, under a high blue sky
And bulldozers, yellow, belching diesel smoke,
Too loud for thought
Too slow to stop
Wandering, ponderous, stupid
metal cows of the apocalypse
But in their muddy wakes the flowers creep
raising heads over rut and ruin
to turn their faces to the sun.
Likes dogs, enjoys cats,
Believes in the dignity of man.
The Story Begins
The sun rises
reflecting in confused
criss-crossing beams
off what little glass remains
in the windows of the city
lighting shady canyons
between silent skyscrapers
reflecting in confused
criss-crossing beams
off what little glass remains
in the windows of the city
lighting shady canyons
between silent skyscrapers
Below, motion!
A figure (human?) breaks the surface
Water sparkles in the dawn
It gags, retching seawater
or something like it
Burning lungs take a violent, gasping breath
their first in a hundred years
Sweet air!
The pale creature (human?)
clings, spent, to a makeshift dock
slowly remembering air and light
It does not see
— not yet —
the brooding hulks of the Titans
broken, dead, empty (haunted?)
It does not know
that beneath its feet
lie Cadillacs and Cavaliers, rusting
and a Yellow Cab is home
for a school of silvery fish
By the dock there is a boat
small, sturdy (aluminum?)
oars neatly shipped
a rope coiled at the bow
fishing pole and tackle, undisturbed
the newcomer finds this strange.
This may be giving Daniel Powter more credit than he deserves...
There’s a pop song in the heavy rotation over here, called “Bad Day”. I suspect it is popular over on the other side of the pond as well. It is an inoffensive little tune, a bit on the catchy side, and were it not played so often I would have never even noticed it. There’s nothing wrong with catchy little tunes; that describes much of the Beatles’ output, and now they are considered one of the greatest pop bands ever.
So while I don’t hate the song, I woke up with it in my head this morning and soon thereafter some alternate lyrics blossomed in my caffeinated cranium:
You Wrote a Bad Song
(to the tune of Bad Day)
You wrote up a pop song and you knew it was crap,
A helping of saccharine and whole lot of sap,
The artist within you said ‘no way’,
Throw that piece of crap away,
But that’s not how how you earn your paaaaaay…
A helping of saccharine and whole lot of sap,
The artist within you said ‘no way’,
Throw that piece of crap away,
But that’s not how how you earn your paaaaaay…
You wrote a bad song,
You pushed it too far,
But now it’s on the charts
and it’s made you a star
You wrote a bad song
You made some new friends
but now they want to know
when you’ll do it again
Because you’ve known it all along,
You wrote a bad song.
You sit at your keyboard and play with some notes,
But all of the lyrics stick in your throat
Everything that you write that blows
Will be played on the radio,
But that’s now how you want to be knoooooooooown…
You wrote a bad song
You pushed it too far,
But now it’s on the charts
And it’s made you a star.
A million people CAN be wrong,
You wrote a bad song.
Sometimes when you’re thinking late at night,
You wonder what went wrong,
You remember how happy your were the time
The radio first played your song
They played your song…
So where is dispassion when you need it the most?
Why can’t the artist just give up the ghost?
You know if you do it all your way
Play what you really want to play
All your brain-dead fans will saaaaaaaaay…
You wrote a bad song
You pushed it to far
We came to hear candy
And you’re giving us art
Yeah, You wrote a bad song
You pushed it too far
But now it’s on the charts
And it’s made you a star
You wrote a bad song…
You wrote a bad song…
You wrote a bad song…
[Repeat many, many times, fade out]
Ungraceful
Today I watched an insect die
An ant, with wings
Must be that time of year.
An ant, with wings
Must be that time of year.
It was tired, expired, done
but still it tried to fly
It had nothing else to do.
A little context here first. Over at the piker press forums there is a thread called Egregiously Erroneous Information. It was an idea imported from the NaNoWriMo boards, in which people ask questions and others respond with completely incorrect, but hopefully fun, answers. While the answers are generally pretty short over at NaNoWriMo, in the Piker forums answers are often quite involved and always very creative.The following is a poem I posted in the Piker forum. The biggest problem with it is that there are some actual correct bits of information in it.
Who invented the sestina, and why?
The origin of the sestina
Arnoud something, Frenchman, poet, masochist
Invented the bloody thing
thought that 6 by six plus troi
would make a bitchin’ poem
perhaps there are other rules
I shall ignore them
Invented the bloody thing
thought that 6 by six plus troi
would make a bitchin’ poem
perhaps there are other rules
I shall ignore them
Arnoud something, Frenchman, poet, masochist
possibly liked the cadence
A play in six brief acts
A story told in slices
Of defined form
While the band plays on.
Arnoud something, Frenchman, poet, masochist
was fond of numbers
and the mystical power they hold
The most powerful number is three
The most powerful number is three
The most powerful number is three
Arnoud something, Frenchman, poet, masochist
using the most powerful number
the way a child uses LEGO
built a new structure
not with white and yellow plastic
but with a rhythm he heard from the stars
Arnoud something, Frenchman, poet, masochist
Spent his days casting about the house
Counting things without reason and without hope
Muttering, rambling, talking to himself
The way poets do when they’re close
But haven’t got there yet
Arnoud something, Frenchman, poet, masochist
A serious individual
As masochists are
never knew the fun I would have
with a form I never knew
And if he did, he wouldn’t like it.
Arnoud something, Frenchman, poet, masochist
inventor of the sestina
is dead now
