Poetry

Ode to Palaverous Poetry: Sonnets in Celebration of the Unexceptional

I went through a phase last spring,
(Though why, I'll never know it)
Writing verses vaunting anything
Pabulum for th' inner poet.
The results were quite spectacular,
My muse amusing for a time;
With inventive vernacular
Rev'ling in rhythm, wit, and rhyme.
I'd elevate the most mundane
With verbose purple prose.
The passion all too soon would wane
The cause, I can't suppose.
Wherefore? I needn't fret upon it,
For here I've penned another sonnet!

Ode to the Octogenarian Opining Upon Modern Meteorological Mercuriality

Down Washington, I wandered, weak
In gorged, post-brunch malaise.
And failed, at first, to hear you speak
Through my sated, stupored daze.
You asked, "How should it be this bright
Abaft a temptuous downpour?
That primal, squalling storm last night --
An utter force majeure!"
Said I, "The weather has been odd,
Primordial in scope.
I'd say divine, an Act of God --
Were I not a misanthrope."
With gallant grin, he doffed his hat;
"I've quite enjoyed our little chat."

Ode to the Cycling Elderly Gentleman Sporting the Purple LED Bow

Good sir, I spied you cycling there,
Down Front to parts unknown.
I saw what was about your hair,
Now your portrait shall I hone.
Like birds’ claws were the withered hands
That gripped the handlebars
Steady ‘pon the pedals stands
He weaving through the cars.
But truly, sir, what caught my eye
As you made your fevered dash
Past me, and down Front you flew by,
I saw the purple flash.
To where you sped, I’ll never know,
Nor why you wore that twinkling bow.

Ode to the Flaccid Pocket of Sarah Aked

A Thursday morn of small import
While wand’ring did I glance
A sight to make my spleen contort:
The pocket of her pants.
Obscene! Pulled out, hung down placcid
Lolling from her thigh.
The pocket peeled, revealed – flaccid!
It waved as she went by.
My discomfort I could not relieve;
That cloth out for all who see.
Some wear hearts upon their sleeve,
(Or pocket, yes, maybe?)
And so, do I incline my head
To the flaccid pocket of Sarah Aked.

Ode to my Feline With the Perpetual Countenance of a Morose Female Dog

My malkin, can you tell me why
You sit there so forlorn?
With flattened ears and narrowed eye
You view all with such scorn.
I know I’m not beyond reproach,
Malenky cyĸa blue,
And though you purr as I approach,
One day I may irk you.
So even as you knead my flesh,
I must endure your glares
My bloody thigh with wounds as fresh
And num’rous as your airs.
With cold green eyes and tail a-twitch
So rests the face of this feline bitch.