That is some impressive ode-ing, y’all.

I think it was Borges who said that the modern man is too cynical for epics
I have his collected works in a badly cut version on my bedroom table. I read him with Quixote when I have nothing better to write. And Bierce. Good taste there LHW.

Ode to myself:

Sweet heavens, you awake each day
Why do you refuse to enter the fray?
Stand tall, proud as your ancestors did!
To that I reply: “You kid?”

Why does the Scottish nation
Live in such a situation
as to continue decline
Theirs, the worlds, and mine?

You live with class
You refuse to break
-- that glass.

You celebrate the worst of things:
Robert Burns and Fairy Wings.
You isolate a tiny nation
overstating your poor station.

360 days a year of rain
364 days a year of pain, of shame
You stood against the bastard English
But over time your fierceness it did diminish.

A place in Europe you could have had
Had you not acted obscure, idiotic mad
The world laughs at you
Not with you. At you.

Can you ever stand again
Against a fowl and bitter claim?
To culture, fairy fights and preposterous
Issues long resolved since being discovered.

Awake again you giant
but by better thoughts become compliant
with a world anew
That barely gives a shit of you.

To the lassies fare
Their beauty for all to share
To the heroes
Living life as a continual dare.

The nation falls below the sea,
Blue Fire thought shall not claim me.
I will live long and true
And wish your sport will renew.

You live in a class society
you ignore possibilities for anxieties
you hate progress, you hate tories
but tell again, my homeland
-- some interesting story.

Ode to a network engineer at a fruit company

Oh, wee feart and trembling network engineering beastie
oh what a panic is in thy breastie?
Could it be the network is down
Or as your undergartments now, are brown?

One should not chance one would not do
to use DRWATT and DRWHO
As Write and Read SNMP strings
through and through.
your entire corporate wings
could easily become screwed if such information
made it’s way, public perchance
in an ode, a love song or a dance?

For those who with my speech are incapable of comprehending
the simple networking protocol message I am sending
If you talk to any router,
at, say a fruit company, 17
saying only you are DRWHO
You can see and play and do.
But change you you cannot!
You are not able
My public string I write disable.

But watt would happen doctor dear
were my private SNMP string be in the clear?

A malicious beastie with such information
could mak muckle sure th’ packets that you are sending
never at their destination, ending.
Instead they be but piped to nil.
Thy Cheif Executive it may not delight
And shareholders shout Unfair! and Strife!
To see a might corporation fall
from such a simple word at all.
Perchance then dear lord Steven’s quill
shall on a page these words devices:
“Will no-one rid me of these fools,
idiots and dullards; some complete tools!
I must I will shall have their heads
Those who made this nasty horrid mess.
And tell you what while you are at it
may I see their managers, smartesh?”

And woe was spread by word of mouth:
it was not me, it wisnae us!
we did nothing was the cry!
“All too often” many sigh.
but what a blather oh what a lather
see in that corner?
A wee mouse looks at you delighted.

“I’m management material” the cry was heard
from gallows erected smartish
for those who manage up, not down
and upon technical knowledge frown
thy brow now furrowed, head laid down
A noose of ethernety cable perhaps you are able
to but an end to this nonsense
and also, perhaps, your existence?

Are CNA’s required for heaven?
Or is it simply favors given
in backroom deals by rouges and knaves?
‘twixt apples and the big blue routers.
or perchance you are the other way departed
dearie me, has someone farted?

The sweet air of the earth you squandered
noses up each others trouses
Is now returned
- a mouse departed.

Though corporate apples they may fall
and workstations barely work at all
your retail network it shall shine
for on this principle it was baseted:
thou shall not do thy job half-arsed.

So sell on sell on you wee devices
tailless now your little mouses
I do hope you know -quick- what to do
With Doctors, Messrs, WATT and WHO.

I think it was Borges who said that the modern man is too cynical for epics.  Nevertheless.. here is my most humble ode to the thing I cherish.

The Epic of the Lamp

"We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender. “
--Winston Churchill

Man is not equipped to withstand war,
nor stand against a woman’s fire.
His hopes are ‘oft dashed against the rocks,
found dead and thrown upon the pyre.

“My soul is forfeit, my life is bleak”,
say men in situations dire.
So this for one who lived a woman’s scorn,
an epic song with lute and lyre.

Yes, they called this hero Lord Henry,
I’m sure you have all heard the name.
His woman was a fearful creature,
With eyes that brought the bold to shame.

Their’s was a time of violence and fear,
of hard fought battles lost and won.
For a home they had bought together,
and one could say the “deed” was done.

The pair settled their newfound kingdom,
and two separate camps were drawn.
She set to work furnishing the house.
He began to tend to the lawn.

And lo, two distinct fiefdoms sprang forth
into this wild and virgin land.
The woman claimed space aggressively,
soon his lines were drawn in the sand.

The medicine cabinet had been laid waste,
feminine hygiene ruled the roost.
Upon the bedroom, bathroom, and den
estrogen fueled decor was loose’d.

A small, lonely bastion of manhood
was all that was left to Lord Hank.
His library, lovingly tended
as a rose garden atop Mont Blanc.

‘Till one day the noble lord brought in
his treasured lamp of sublime light
and she, through obstinance or envy
decided to pitch a hot fight.

“If you hang that hideous lamp up”,
said she with malice and with spite,
“I swear I will leave by the morn’!”
Then she slammed the door with “Good NIGHT!”

The die had been cast that fateful day,
Lord Henry Wotton saw his fate.
The enemy was there upon him,
they thronged en masse outside his gate.

“Wench! I’ll hang the lamp and call your bluff.”
his voice rose, rallying his side.
“You’re pig-headed, just like your mother!”
One could sense a shift in the tide.

She opened the door, called for parley,
the epic battle had been fought.
“Behold!” he said pointing to the lamp,
“See what your stubbornness has wrought.”

And there the lamp of justice still hangs
and its place has become a shrine.
For now we stand on equal footing.
What is hers is hers and mine, mine.

talented talon foot
found in a sea cave
on the canadian shore
belonged to a raptor
a hawk or an eagle
maybe an owl or erne
the coolest toy ever
pull on it’s ligament
a contracting claw
kept in my pocket
next to my slingshot
and my collectable rock
scaring young children
grossing out sisters
blackboards screech with delight
a constant companion
on fun-time adventures
bleeding from accepted dare
now long gone lost or stolen
by worried mother
or a jealous friend
“hon, want a back scratch?”
“no thanks” it just can’t compare
to my talented talon foot

Oh K-Cup Coffee Gun
It took me so long to find you.
I’ve had such fun
Watching as you spurt and blew
Hot coffee chunks into a paper cup
I used to hate this stuff
How wrong was I!
In the absence of crack or a buzz
I’ve found your product, initially gruff,
With five packs of splenda, sweet as pie.
Coffee talk with coworkers, though, gives me the huzz.
That will never die.

Bravo!

Disturbing yet amusing.

Found Poem

“and YOU simply wanted to club her over the head!  I told you this…

Early clincal rohypnol testing?

that’s what the pointy fingered dude in the middle is saying.  Either that, or…

“You and your filthy butt sex talk!  Look what you’ve done!”

Her computer overheated and fainted, and she had to bring the smelling salts. 

We shocked your computer? That’s almost as good.

You didn’t traumatize me any, but I had to restart my computer. Stupid computer.…

I think what’s amazing here is that she’s yet to be committed and/or imprisoned. …

“Has she been stilled?” actually this sounds more like, “Has she been bound and…

I think we’ve traumatized Lady P and her Catholic ears.

I think the idea is to be able to lodge larger and larger objects…

Well you have to, er, prepare the orifice to accomodate something that it normally…

I think the idea is to be able to lodge larger and larger objects…

Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?

stretching.

what a pretty child. the mom looks like she’s been trying to gnaw her…

What in heavens name does butt-theckth training involve?

lunchtime.

Got it! “Has she been stilled?”

yeah it is.  this particular one also had a father being lecherous with his…

I AINT GOING IN AFTER THAT

I have to pee but
There’s a lady been in there
Like five hours now.

How about a limerick I first heard in third-grade history class:

Whistle while you work
Hitler is a jerk
Mussolini bit his weenie
and now it will not work.

Ewwwwwwwwwwww.
Ewwwwwwwwwwww.
Ewwwwwwwwwwww.
Ewwwwwwwwwwww.
Stewwwwwwwwww.

Oh, my sphincter
is stinky
and round
when it contracts
it makes a neat sound
when it relaxes, I never ask why
I get a porcelain bowl
of soupy surprise

It is the day after Christmas
And all through the town
Every news reporter is stating,
“Christmas Retail was down.”

And then in public service
They are proud to announce.
“Perfumes are on sale!
Only $49 per ounce!”

I turn on the radio,
The weather forecast to hear.
But the weatherman’s by Macy’s
Yelling “On Sale, it’s here!”

The television images
Show shoppers a’scurrying.
“Great bargains,” they yell.
“You too should be hurrying!”

It shows me the cancer
That has spread over our land.
Journalism, business, and government
All walk hand in hand.

gloveshot

I AM BORED.
Fictional man in red:
the news tracks him
In real time, his sled
over Paris, London,
Longitude 58 degrees.
More ahead.

Nostalgia: the same
Monster that gave us lame
Coca-Cola ads. I crave
an old fashioned crime wave.
Sure, call it news.
But funny name to use.

Tomatoes year ‘round -
the man on TV says so.
Esme knows better.

Blogging was so fun.
McCain said to police it.
Now it’s fines, fines, fines.

Also, I didn’t know I was such a poet, Flock
I really do like
them, Agriope. And the one
written ten-ish too.

I Still Like Them
Tell her she’s dead wrong.
Haikus sound like raindrops on
A rusting tin roof.

Okay so maybe
a few too many and you
want to kill someone.

Wife endures haiku
as she tries to get to sleep.
Yawns, “They are okay.”

The fat don’t suffer.
Too round for any hardship.
My bigotry shows.

A cold night. Perfect!
My soup is warm but it stinks.
Dingleberry Stew.

When I take off the fifth sweater,
I’m freezing.
When I wear the fifth sweater,
I feel like an obese bear.

Dreams born of fear:
I sent a sparrow
to fight a dragon.
Neither survived,
but I was safe.

But not for long.
As long as I live
I can’t help supply
the enemy they
need to survive.

For without me
they would soon die too,
taken off their thrones
by their own kind;
torn by the hordes.

They raise martyrs;
we raise our heros;
both end in red mist
and always fire.
And both sides weep.

I think this means I have a problem.
Last night at the bar
I promised PJ
I’d come back next week
Saturday, you know,
Um, for my birthday.

He said he’d reserve
The big table. Then
He, at seventy,
kissed me. On the lips!
Hell yeah, I kissed back.

PJ, bartender,
has now reached a base
The three guys with me
Will never get to.
The heat, I feel it.

this is just to say

that I cannot come up
with clever rhymes
nor witty haikus

Forgive me
for my brain is fried
and the day is long

and I can’t even find
a poem to parody
that hasn’t already been parodied

several times
on this very
web
site.

Mixed Bag:
See, I liked Dimmer’s
Blank verse, although its so not
Nearly bad enough.

Like somebody at
Karaoke who’s belting
Pretty arias.

It goads us lesser
Talents to try the same but
It’s still nice to hear.

What I lack in talent I make up for in belligerence.

Lets have more haikus/
up in this fucking shithole/
now, motherfuckers.

About Last Night
Blank Verse Written in 10 Minutes
While Waiting for A Daily Checkin that Started Late
posted on behalf of Dimmer

After a good day,
We started a mediocre night:

Room cleaning
inspections
fault finding

But that had its good parts:

Working together
active
producing results.

Bad points:

A piss soaked towel to launder
I picked it out of the basket with
another towel but still felt dirty.

An asshole at the cross-addiction meeting.
Drug (undecipherable single character) Me:

I go in, I sit
Confusion.
A noisy laughing visitor comes in
Another visitor - music blares
A third visitor
Noise, confusion, anxious
I apologize & leave
“Be back later"

I wait. I return. We fix the drugs.

Later the drug gals argue.
My door is open, I hear it all.
Just a bad night.

Spiderman, your poems
Rock. Thanks for resurrecting
The poetry nook.

My church is not part
of the angry fundie horde,
yet sees, does nothing.

Before Breakfast
Feet stink, so does breath
Scratching my ass to wake up
Wife: “We need more milk”

Bad Hair Day makes me
want to take a scythe to all
those flowy haired bitch’s

my bosoms heave like
pomegranates when I think
of dimmer’s hot rut.

I could give
a ruts
ass. Penny.

I would reply but
I’ve got Stubby
Stuck in my butt.

You are in a rut.

I would reply but
I’ve got Stubby
Stuck in my butt.

Beat THAT!

BACK AT YOU THEN
Hai-ku!
It too
says, “Fuck you.”

I can’t haiku
it’s too
hard
to do.
A haiku.

NOTE THAT A HAIKU IS 5 SYLLABLES, THEN 7, THEN 5
Easted? Feebie? Ha!
Silly. You are even more
Dimmer than I am.

"was was”? ha! retard!

If I had to pick a ‘friend’
To fuck until all time would end
I’d do Monica, Feebie,
Chandler then Joe
the others?
They can just go.

BECAUSE IT WAS WHAT RHYMED:

There was was a man named Dimmer
Who lusted for David Schwimmer
He easted his paste
And loved the taste
It set his cockles on “simmer.”

"east”? Damminit…

The hate I ate
is not modern
like paste
which you might
east some of
yourself.

Modern poets do not
all suck
- just most.

Old poets sucked too.
But they are dead:
Ergo no need
to kick them in the rythmic head.

Why does Dimmer dislike
Modern Poetry? The eggs he ate just
this morning: little rivers of cold
bird paste. It can’t help
the churning innards to introduce
new bacterial parties.
Salmonella, I’ve met you,
friend. Last week after my own
ova binge. Poland!

Where is Bevets?

An urban (as much as Chapel Hill can be) Haiku:

Late summer moon
Man sleeping in trash
Blows snot from one nostril

For Christmas, my wife got a boob job.
(I thought it’d help with my cock knob.)
On Springer, Cletis said
his libido’d done fled
But now I just feel I’ve been robbed.