of a son
A sad limerick "Come! You -must- write me," the death poem said. "Please, dip your quill, lest you're found dead." Mort was much too frail and tired... 'Twas then he died, feeling inspired... So, his weeping jisei wrote itself instead.
A Compound Word Verse Raised in trailer by drunk mother, kids treated him like another dumb mudsill. Thinking he'd never be a has, for many years he got by as a mudlark. Resentful, angry, jealous, spurned, ran with the mob, and thus he earned much mudsack. Rose to power by dint of fate, simple folk… Continue reading Muddied, or: Bloodied
A limerick A chap, forlorn, scrapped slender book; Head in his hands, his shoulders shook. "Alas! My prose is too short!" But swift came his agent's retort: "Old chap! Poets style this ~ a 'chapbook'!"
A 'Found Poem' Based on Peter Schneider's poem 'Lost in Plain Sight' I wake up, waiting, wanting to speak my mind, I think. Why do I have this empty cup clenched in my right hand? To fill in with... name, date? I greet my neighbor (isn't her name Susan?) with trivia, punch line. She smiles… Continue reading Transfer, or: Orientation
A quadrille In the form of four Elevenies life flourishing richly throughout human lands inhabitants accustomed to peace complacency planes flying fleetly imperceptible to eagles barking dogs pulling leashes foreshadowing whistling bombs dropping silhouetted against azure people rushing towards cellars blasts ash covering earth carried by currents only scorching wind's breathing apocalypse Elfchen Row Words… Continue reading Humanity, or: Humaneness
d’Verse prosery "Captain, we're exiting hyperdrive just outside of the Milky Way! I'll patch us through to Grand Lord… Wait… Where…" "Where are we, Lieutenant Mark? There's nothing here but an asteroid field. Check your coordinates!" "Yes, Sir! Let's see… 71.5 by 199.5 degrees… I... don't understand it, Sir. The galaxy should be just… Oh,… Continue reading Those asteroids, Sir, they’re…
My 2nd Cywydd Llosgyrnog Fo' sho' flowin' neva EZ; But punk kid thinks he da sheezy. His squeezy gone and told 'im so. Bitches frontin' - they so bizzled! Tokin' on blunts stuffed wid wizzle; Da rizzle's dat dey both hos.
A Limerick Twerk hard though she tried, none would grab it. Frustrated, she'd often mutter, "Dagnabbit!" Deemed poorly suited for the Church, Whenever she danced, she would lurch - Cuz she simply couldn't get out of that habit. Limericks? For some reason, I've noticed that limericks receive some particularly touchy comments from poets here on… Continue reading Bad habit, or: Assimilation
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