Tag Archives: Meta

Nostalgia For Days Less Wordy

I am a man who’s mostly fluent

In most things some call “incongruent.”

If you don’t swallow, you shall spewn’t.

Also, I’m not Clyde.

I hope the intro set the scene

For me to tell you what has been;

This time’s the time I met my queen,

My once and future bride.

My eyes fell softly on the wench

Who sat backwards upon a bench,

Talking to a crescent wrench

About which bands were good.

I asked the lady, “How be it

“That you who speak to hardware sit

“With legs ensconced, I do admit,

“Within that bench of wood?”

She did not reply at first,

For my manners were near the worst,

And I, my oversight, then cursed

And then addressed the tool.

Now seeing that I understood,

She said “I’m trapped within the wood

“Because I wondered if I could.”

Now I felt like a fool

And so I left her trapped within

The bench where didst our tale begin,

For sitting backwards is no sin

But merely hard to grasp.

She’s still my queen and future bride,

For I speak truth and have not lied.

When she is free, and bathed beside,

Her body I will clasp.

For who better to share a life,

Who better to be made a wife,

Than one, though trapped, can feel no strife

Though physics she has broken?

And who, from her odd point of view

Can feel a love so strong and true

Than not Clyde, whose hair isn’t blue,

Who made her heart awoken?

This tale has a moral, yes,

So close your eyes and take a guess.

Your eyes are closed… how read you this?

Anyway, I boast

That this here incongruent verse

Tells you, dear reader, of my curse

And that there are things so much worse

Than a lazy, four-line post.

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The Streak Continues

There once was a poet, demonic

Whose short, four-line poems were chronic.

‘Twas evening again

And the poet did pen,

To be contrary, this lim’rick ironic.

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In. Case. They. Screwed. Up.

When. I. Read. Hai. Kus.

I. Read. Them. One. Syll. A. Ble.

At. A. Time. Don’t. You?

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Out Of Space Or Just Spacing Out?

What would happen if

You don’t pay attention to

“No Vacancy” signs?

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RPGs Were His Life…Literally 

As the lightning cracked in the purple sky

And the cameras panned over my birth

My parents knew I was the guy

Who’d be destined to save the Earth.

So I was raised in the classic way
Of being a normal happy kid

Until, inevitably, bandits razed my town

Which, as expected, they inevitably did.

And so from the ashes a guardian rose

And took me to a school of hard knocks

Where I learned to be destiny’s hero

By killing rats with sticks and rocks.

And after cutscenes which showed me grow
I left the school to see the land.

My life’s tutorial now finished

My destiny could proceed as planned.

I started out slaying vermin,

Albeit on a grander scale.

I found gold left unclaimed on the ground

And used it to buy weapons and mail.

I learned to cast spells and fire a bow,

Though I never really did

Because the way to do so was complicated

And my life was controlled by a kid.

Eventually I was betrayed

And someone who I thought had died

Turned out to be the major villain

Who led the guys on the other side.

What should have been climactic

Turned quickly to a rout

Because somewhere I read a walkthrough

And I did what it talked about.

And so the banners fly again

And peasants chant my name.

I’m made the king of everything

But otherwise life’s the same.

My normal life took fifteen hours

Before I was the love of every bard,

But now my achievements dissapear

As fate clicks “new game, difficulty: hard.”

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How Else Would You Pass The Time When You’re All Tied-Up, Half-Naked, And Waiting For Rescue?

I bet that back in elder days,

When dragons roamed the sky

And virgins all got kidnapped

To be rescued by some guy

That said virgins played a game

Where, in a future land,

They were ordinary citizens

Who love they did demand

From virgins playing games

In which they acted like a knight

Rescuing imaginary virgins

Kidnapped by dragons. Am I right?

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Dream Job: Real Housewife Of Poetry

The time for meta poetry

Has come again it seems.

This blog, over the years,

Has become a thing of dreams.

That’s not to say it’s excellent

(Or even good, per se),

But that if life were like this blog

I’d be happy every day.

If consistency of talent

Were optional for work…

If people liked me purely

For my ability to be a jerk…

If things without a reason

At least would have a rhyme…

Yes, if life were like this blog

We would have a groovy time.

Amidst the inevitable collapsing

Of society in such a world

We would laugh and we would smile

As the universe unfurled.

Mediocrity would rule supreme

Were we to go that far,

And thus I’m moving to LA

To be a reality TV star.

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The Poet Eats PBJs and Justifies His Existence

I’d rather be happy than rich.

Mansions are fine, but smiles are hot.

I’d rather be happy than rich,

And I’m happy to say that I’m not.

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What’s Ablution Anyway?

So I had writer’s block again.

To Google I was bound.

I searched for poetry topics

And here is what I found:

“Abandoned, ablution, acrostic, adultery, affliction, Africa, aggravation, aggression.”

I don’t have a meaningful poem today

But that isn’t terribly bad.

I could have written about aggressive adulterous ablution

But would you be happier if I had?

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Decisions, Decisions

The 363rd poem

On the 363rd day…

A fraction of them were worthwhile

And none were about a buffet.

Two poems plus this one to go

And two days plus this one to do it

And I come to my annual question:

Do one more year or just screw it?

Regardless of if I continue

I’ve plans to compile one more book

To hold in your hands or on Kindle

(Or, for the hipsters among us, on Nook).

So for the loyal day-one poem readers

And the followers who joined this year

And the peasants who just found this website

(Without whom I wouldn’t be here)

I wish you a good two days plus this one

And a fair bit of new-anum cheer

And know that whatever my decision

The quality will not improve.

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