Random Apostrophic Letters from the Pianist

A take off of a semi-feature on Robyn's blog...
- - - - -
Dear Connor,
It's been a while, I know. I want to continue your story, but you've been out of my head for a while. Please, will you come back? I really do miss you. You and this story of yours has been too enjoyable for you to stay out much longer. If you need a break, I understand, but can you at least assure me you'll come back sometime in the foreseeable future?
Missing you,
~g2

A telegram addressed to My Living Quarters:
Enough is enough. Stop. Upon my return this evening prepare for an intense excavation. Stop. Although I will be exhausted from my piano lesson no mercy will be shown. Stop.
You have been warned. Stop.

Querida amiga,
He pensado mucho en tí recientamente. Mientras sienta un poquitin raro en una parte de mi mente que estás con alguien, estoy alegre para tí. El es inteligente, maduro, y fuerte y franco en sus opiniones, y son buenas calidades, pienso. Las fallas solas que puedo encontrar en él: lleva casi demaciado negro, y a veces habla entre dientes. Pero, no son detalles enormes, creo. Espero que cosas pasen bien para ustedes. De todos modos digo que has escogido bien.
Siempre aquí,
~g2
PS: Yay for chances to use subjunctive! ^^


My dearest Oliver,
Thank you so much for helping me prepare everything: the competition a few weeks ago, my audition yesterday, and the other auditions to come. I'll certainly miss you next year, but I'll be close enough that I can come home to you easily.
Between you and The Piano Teacher I can't thank you enough. You two have been all too good to me.
Much love,
~g2

To: Gen. Nonsense
First, I've some disappointing news to report. I've done some digging, and I believe that majors are indeed higher than captains. I admit that it's a bit disheartening to think that Disaster, Third, and especially Distraction are all ahead of me... and to think! I'm the oldest in the rank! Ah well, it is what it is.
Second, as far as chronicling our group goes: I was thinking we could describe the members and then decide on various episodic adventures. We can brainstorm, yes?
Third: bink.
~Cpt. Obvious

Paulito & Nikki,
I just wanted to thank you guys for being such hoopy writing friends, and indeed hoopy friends in general. Distance may separate us three, but that has yet to be a real deterrent. I've missed talking with you two as of late, but I hope fate decides to allow our paths to cross again very, very soon.
Not panicking,
~g2

On Criticism

I'm not usually one for rants, but with a competition in the not-too-distant past and my college auditions starting up this week (!!!) the subject's been on my mind, asking to be ranted about a bit. And that has been the subject of criticism.

Yes, almost everybody cringes at the word and others in its family (criticize, critic, critique, etc), but I'm pretty well used to it. I have to be, the arts and music especially are subject to such scrutiny.

Whatever the definition, I frankly don't mind it; for the most part it's advice that will help me improve my work, presented in a fairly nurturing way that doesn't label rough spots as FAILURES but as things to work on. Not only that, but more often than not the criticism is given by either a peer or someone who is more experienced than I in a particular area, usually the piano.

Two particular things bother me about criticism, though. Of course there would be something that bothered me about it, otherwise this wouldn't be a particularly good rant.

The first is its negative connotation. According to our good friend N. Webster, the first definition of "criticize" runs as follows:

"crit-i-cize: verb, 1: to consider the merits and demerits of and judge accordingly, evaluate."

[http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/criticize]

I think negative association in the media is to blame for this one. People often times are afraid of having their mistakes pointed out to them, myself included. Folks are also hesitant to point out mistakes to others, for fear of offending them somehow with the criticism. Criticism, while it does point out faults, does not mean that just because one bit needs some work the whole thing is a disaster. It's okay to both be criticized and to criticize...

...to an extent.

I'm hesitant with this because of the other bothersome point. Usually to properly evaluate/critique something, the critic needs equal, comparable, or greater experience in the evaluated field, preferably one of the latter two. Experience gives a critique merit; I'm more likely to give the comments of a piano conservatory professor a little more consideration than the comments of, say, a passing counter clerk with little classical music background. However, some people just slash through others' work without much experience in that particular work.

I automatically think back to our school's talent showcase last year on this subject. After I played, I scooted into the auditorium to see the rest of the acts with a handful of friends. Immediately behind us, however, was somebody who sounded like he was trained by Simon Cowell himself. From the time I sat down to the end of the show, I don't think The Critic had a single positive thing to say about any of the acts. I'm not saying The Critic didn't say anything positive; if TC did say something positive I didn't hear it.

What particularly irked me about this Critic was the tone, the tone of assumed omniscience. Most of the acts were musical groups, and while there's a large musical population in our school, I don't think this particular Critic is among that population. The trouble is, TC commented as if drawing inspiration from some Exhaustive Encyclopaedia of Musical Perfection. Just the condescending tone made me want to whip around and hiss, "then let's see you get up on stage and perform the song that you wrote in front of 70-some-odd people." Unless this person is some kind of closet prodigy with an infinite wealth of knowledge in music composition and performance, because of a lack of experience I honestly don't think The Critic had any right to assume this know-it-all role. It's fine to say why you like or don't like a particular work, but trying to sound like an authority just doesn't cut it.

The right to criticize authoritatively falls under the same rules as bragging rights, in my book: if you can't match it, top it, or offer any advice to improve it, you've no real right to criticize it.

The Traveler Returns

Howdy all! I just got back from my insanely amazing trip 'round Europe, complete with pictures, commentary, temporal confusion (my body thinks it's three in the morning, but my brain hasn't a zarkin' clue as to location yet, much less time), a touch of aircraft-induced-dizziness (it got bumpy around Greenland), but a great sense of satisfaction.
Will I let you all in on what went down across the pond? Of course! That's what I promised, isn't it? However, all y'all are going to have to hang in some suspence for a while; I still have schoolwork and serious piano catch-up to contend with, as well as actually typing up the aforementioned commentary and loading in the previously-alluded-to pictures. These things take time, you know!
However, I will do my best to deliver as soon as I can!

DON'T PANIC: It's Just a War of the Worlds

Turn back the clock to late October, 1938. Actor Orson Wells was lining up sci-fi radio plays for his Mercury Theater on the Air. He went through a few ideas, but none of them seemed to be working. Finally, somebody asked "How about this?" and pulled out the book War of the Worlds.
Wells was reluctant to adapt the work to the radio. Not because he was afraid of causing mass hysteria, but because he found the story "dull." The book had been around for 40 years, it had been adapted to several adventure stories and comic books by this time. Most people were familiar with this story, he thought. Finally he agreed to do it. But they had to update it before they went on the air.

Now, fast forward to 8 pm on Sunday, October 30th. A small number of radio listeners tuned into the Mercury Theater on the Air and heard the play's introduction, announcing that night's play as H.G. Wells' War of the Worlds. However, most people were tuned into the immensely popular Chase and Sanborn Hour, and missed the crucial intro. The first four minutes or so went well, but then at approximately 8:05, a rather unpopular singer came on the show. So people began to dial surf, and as it happened most people landed on the Mercury Theater on the Air first, already in progress. But when they landed on it, it sounded like a regular music show. Then, after a little musical interlude, a voice cut in: "We interrupt this program to bring you this news bullitin..."

Now, it should be mentioned at this point that news breaks were fairly new, and extremely frequent, in the late 1930's. Most news breaks at the time ran bullitins having to do with the Nazis, who had been slowly overtaking Europe. Naturally, Americans had been growing nervous about the Nazis, and there were only a few ways to get the news, radio often being the fastest.
The War of the Worlds news break reported that the Princeton Observatory had observed gas explosions on the surface of Mars at regular intervals, but the station would keep the audience updated should anything else be found. "And now back to the music of Raymond Roquello and His Orchestra."

Most people found this break to be a bit odd. Explosions on Mars? How strange. And who was this Raymond Roquello guy? Not really thinking much of it, folks sat back and relaxed again. But then about a minute later, another news break comes through: The Princeton Observatory had just reported the landing of a meteor in rural Grover's Mills, New Jersey, and had schedualed an interview with one of the Observatory's astronomers.

Now people were starting to get suspicious. What in the world was going on? Most people claimed they didn't believe the story too much, until they heard several "expert" opinions of the situation. The way the show was formatted, with the breaks over the music program, the authoritative commentary, made it sound completely legitament. Folks were lost inside the newscast.

Finally the update cut to a field report in Grover's Mills, where the meteor had landed. The reporter and an astronomer are describing the events unfolding before their eyes: the meteor had fallen away, revealing a metal pod definitely of alien origin. After a few tense moments, the pod begins to open, revealing a hideous slimy creature; muffled shouts could be heard in the background. Then, out of nowhere, the reporter begins to flip out: the creature has just vaporized knot of military personell.

The reporter's panic sounded completely real, and oddly familiar. A year before, many people had heard the now-immortal cry of "Oh, the humanity!" in response to the Hindenburg disaster. The actor playing the reporter had actually found a tape of this report and listened to it repeatedly, so he could get into the right frame of mind for the attack scene.
Seconds later, without warning, the field report cuts out. Soon after, it is reported that the pod has sprouted tree-high legs and was marching through the New Jersey countryside, crushing anything in its path. This is where people really started to panic, although they didn't think "We're being attacked by Martians." Their first thought was, "We're being attacked by Germans."

The show continued on in the same way, as a string of news reports come in announcing that more Martians were landing and slowly taking over New Jersey and surrounding areas, taking out armies with a poisonous gas. At one point later in the broadcast the news announcer dejectedly states that "everything [was] wiped out."

About 12 million say they got the joke. But the majority of the American public didn't. No one knows exactly how many people panicked that night. However, there are a few certain numbers: The Trenton police department receieved 200 calls in under two hours. The New York Times switchboards were inundated with 875 calls alone, which were mostly people wanting to know where they would be safest. A study conducted shortly after the broadcast found that some people reported they actually felt like they were choking, a handful claimed they saw a veil of smoke over Manhattan from the battle in nearby Jersey, and some swore they spotted a marching Martian pod or two.

After the broadcast, and learning of the mass hysteria, Orson Wells held a press conference, in which he said this:

"The War of the Worlds has no further significance than as the holiday offering
it was intended to be. We annaihilated the world before your very ears, and
utterly destroyed the CBS. You will be relieved, I hope, to learn that we didn't
mean it, and both institutions are open for business."

In short: It was all a joke. Wells expressed great surprise that such a familiar story could cause such panic when the format was changed up a bit. Unfortunately the public and the FCC didn't find the situation funny, the FCC so much so that the comissioner shortly thereafter labled Wells and his Mercury Theater on the Air as "radio terrorists."

As if that wasn't enough, events similar to this have happened twice since 1938: once in Quito, Ecuador, in 1949, and in our own Buffalo, NY, in 1968. The format was that of a regular DJ show on WKBW, with a interruption format very similar to the original 1938 broadcast. The outcome was very similar as well: the station received 2,000 calls, 47 newspapers nationally reported the incident, even a portion of the Canadian army was dispatched to the border bridges to fend off the Martian invadors.

People, by nature, are hard-wired to latch onto stories and to follow them through to the end. Unfortunately some miss the crucial beginnings and misinterpret the whole thing.

I think you ought to know...

If you start to hear a whole lot of nothing coming from my direction, don't worry.

Or, if you're likely to skip the worry phase and go straight to the panic phase, I would recommend you follow this advice:

I haven't fallen off the edge of the earth....

... I haven't been overtaken by robots

... or anything of that sort.

No, I'm just going to be galavanting around Europe, specifically through Portugal, Spain, and a little bit of France, and hopefully with at least a small towel in tow.

I'll be back the first week of November, don't you worry. And when I do return, there will be photos. There will be commentary. And there will most likely be Spanish outbursts.

You have been warned.

Perhaps My Highest Compliment

So there's a thread going on Protagonize called "My Name I Skate." It's a collection of altered, contorted, or otherwise tweaked Protagonists' pennames. I found them all very amusing, but I figured that, given the bizzare and lengthy complexity of my own penname, no one would try to take mine on.

And, as per usual when I think those sorts of things, I was proven wrong.

The perennially excellent Tasha Noble left me a message on my Protag profile a few days ago.
"Apologies in advance!" she began, "But I couldn't resist it. And it's very silly indeed." Naturally I had no idea what she was talking about, so I curiously clicked the included link, which led me to this:

Gee! to Lappy-Annie Stairland (E.S.A)
Gee! What a funny girl is Annie Stairland
Working for the Ecological Society
Of America, with her laptop-case in hand
She's never seen without it - loves it very much, you see.

At night she keeps her lappy in a lead-lined strong-box
In her bedside cabinet, and guarded by her dog
(A doberman-rottweiler cross whose name is Mr Cox)
Because of these precautions Annie sleeps like a log.

She keeps all her contacts in her 'lappy', and she would
Be completely lost without it so it never leaves her side
It's how she got her nickname, but I really think she should
Invest in a netbook, They're much easier to hide.

I couldn't believe it. I couldn't help but laugh aloud; it was so funny and so ingenious, and I still couldn't get over the fact that she'd somehow managed to tweak something out of my penname. Granted, the "g2" is supposed to be "g-squared," but she told me that it wouldn't of worked otherwise.

I found some of the other feedback:

"Wow Tasha, you really contorted g2's name into shape there. From now on we should call you Tasha: Lyrical Contortionist!Nice work, very funny."

"Even if the poem sucked, I would have had to give you an A+ for managing something out of the Irish Pianist's name. But such was not the case :D"

"wow, till I read Aryst0's comment I had no clue who this was about... but it's pretty fantastic.I'm in a public computer room at my college laughing away to this things. Pretty soon I'm gonna be getting looks.. if I'm not already. I don't exactly care. haha."

Naturally, I had to add my own two-cents:
"Okay, those two poems earlier made my morning, but this just made my whole zarkin' week, Tasha. It took a while to see it, but as soon as I did I had to laugh aloud. I have [no] clue how you did it, but boy you did it."

Somehow, in my mind, the hilarious contortion of my name ranks as probably the highest compliment I have ever received on Protag.

Thanks muchly Tasha.

SoP 56: An Experimental Poem

Versed Interrogation, Pt 1.

I swear and I tell you, I’ve nothing to hide.

Then I guess it won’t matter if I stand close behind?

I guess not…
- – - – - – You falter, and s’piciously so…

Suspiciously? Me? That’s absurd! Oh dear, no!

Defensive we’re getting, a sure sign of guilt.
Your stories don’t match, alibi is not built
Most solidly. I think you’re caught in my snare.

What?! You are mad! You really do dare
To ’cuse me of such a crackpotted crime?!

If you wanna play tough, then I guess it is time
To toughen the insentive to tell the real truth.

Try me. I dare you. I can take it, forsooth.

We can do this most easy, but you ’fuse to obey,
And for your intractability, you pay.
- - - - -
I had this idea, but I really had no idea how it would work, and I can't really think of an "ending" of sorts just yet. Any and all constructive criticism and feedback, as well as suggestions as how to continue, would be greatly appreciated.

SoP 55: Inspiration, or Lack Thereof

As far as my inspiration will go,
Right now I do beweep its dried-up state.
I wish that I had more to share and show,
But oh, alas, it’s all I have to date.

They call it Writer’s Block out on the street,
Although, to us, it’s torture, simply put,
lacking ideas to put upon the sheet
And when some do, they only get the foot.

Oh how I wish I could think of something
that’s worth the pianoman’s good reading time.
And hopef’ly into trash bin he won’t fling
this sorry s’cuse for verse and dreadful rhyme.

Please bear with me for one more couplet set.
Now you are done, seek refuge with your pet.
- - - - -
I wanted to enter a poetry challenge, but I couldn't think of anything at the time. So I wrote about not being able to think of anything. We writers are crazy like that.

SoP 54: Creative Rebel

We’re not allowed to think outside the box,
Thinking at all is frowned upon out here.
Forget creating anything, no dear.
They only want us sitting there like rocks.

They keep all books under the keys and locks,
And try t’enstill pervasive sense of fear.
They cannot hold me down, my voice they’ll hear,
I’ll fight back verb’ly, muse’cly, ’til gun cocks.

Enclothed in Converse, jeans, a pen in hand,
signs of rebellion, ones that cause a stir
and ’tract attention, but it makes them heed.

451 has nothing on this land.
They’ll kill me off, but it won’t work, no sir.
’Cause on that fateful day, I will be freed.
- - - - -
Originally appeared on ficly, inspired a bit by FYM

SoP 53: Grey Eyes

Vibrant, warm, cur'ous,
Enthusiasm abounds
In those living greys.
- - - - -
Cold, tired, judging
There's almost something sinister
In the Doctor's eyes.
- - - - -
'Loo's prompt made me think of a series that we're working on together entitled "Thank You For Encouraging My Lunacy," which you can find here.

SoP 52: The Dude and the Pickle

In one fell swoop it came to my mind
And flatly refused to leave.
They're up to their old antics, guys,
And drive me to insan'ty.

I've dealt with flinging cutlery,
Which is fine. But hear:
Have you heard a thing so strange
a one sticking a pickle in ear?

Dear friends, I dare to kid you not
And I speak of truth-titutions.
But I say this and I think:
They'll think I belong in institution.

SoP 51: Engage

It's very difficult
to engage
in conversation

When the other
won't speak:
Silent vexation
- - - - -
Guess where?

SoP 50: Records

Just to make it clear,
For all intents and objects,
He's wrong, I was right.

He tried to dispute
My constant affirmations.
My reply: "Nu-uh"
- - - - -
Originally on 'Loo's Daily Writing

SoP 49: The Solo

The barren sanctuary air
Is always eager
To hold a sound

And in the loft, beginning there,
A young voice sings out,
Quick gaining ground

Not overwhelming, nor too thin,
The voice, she's confident.
She knows what's needed.

The sanctuary carressed it,
Blissful and at rest.
He's interceded.

The voice, while comforting those there,
Gives thanks to her Lord
In a little prayer:

"You have always been b'side me here,
And for these people,
I show You're 'lso there."
-----
I'm not particularly pleased with this poem's result, the idea was
much better in my head. Quality (or lack thereof) aside, I thought
I'd tell you all that this was inspired by my first real solo at a
funeral last Friday.

SoP 48: "Birthday"

Lennon & McCartney


- - - - -
I'm just sharing today.
Feliz cumpleaños a mí ^^

SoP 47: Inspiration, or Lack Thereof

As far as my inspiration will go,
Right now I do beweep its dried-up state.
I wish that I had more to share and show,
But oh, alas, it’s all I have to date.

They call it Writer’s Block out on the street,
Although, to us, it’s torture, simply put,
lacking ideas to put upon the sheet
And when some do, they only get the foot.

Oh how I wish I could think of something
that’s worth the pianoman’s good reading time.
And hopef’ly into trash bin he won’t fling
this sorry s’cuse for verse and dreadful rhyme.

Please bear with me for one more couplet set.
Now you are done, seek refuge with your pet.
- - - - -
Originally appeared here for pianoman's challenge.

Under Construction, and Way Behind (And SoPs 45, 46)

Alright folks. As you can see, I'm trying to further tweak the format so that there'll be not one, not two, but three columns! Unfortunately, I hit a snag. I'm trying to get some help on it, but most likely it's some silly little thing I did.

The other thing you've probably noticed (or, you will have once I mention it) is the severe lack of poetry. I know, I have a ton of days to make up, but I'll get to it! I will!

Actually, while we're at it:

SoP 45

Fatal mistakes they ruin us all
And just when we don't want them t'call
I shouldn't do't, but I let stuff slide.
Let's f'give and f'get, get this all aside.
- - - - -
And now, for your local weather:
Breezes be as light as feather
Perfect just for flying kites
That is, until, 10:10 tonight.

Tomorrow holds a bunch of things:
Hail strong enough to take off wings
of planes, dent trains and aut'mobiles
from here until the backwoods heeils.

Tornadoes come, the floods shall roar
With rains comin' 40 inches or more.
Hurricane Cindy, then snowstorms blow!
Don't think we've seen crazier weather a'fo'!

And then the frogs, they'll tumble down
Followed close, then by cats and hounds.
Then crazy storms, all hell breaks free!
But this weekend looks nice. Back t'you, Johnny.
- - - - -
That was SoP 46 there, in case you were wondering.

Phew! Two down, 10 to go!

SoP 44: "I Love a Piano" and Oliver (a haiku)

I Love a Piano
Irving Berlin
(Sung by Michael Feinstein... the song starts at 32:55 if it's not already set there)

- - - - -
Oh, my sweet Ollie,
How you and I can both sing
With iv'ry, ebony!
- - - - -
I've written about my dear Oliver before, most recently here.

SoP 43: "Kerouac Tribute" and My Vengeful PC

It's not a poem, exactly, but the way this was read made it sound insanely poetic. Take a listen and you'll see what I mean:

http://prairiehome.publicradio.org/programs/19970705/rafiles/970705_kerouac.ram

- - - - -

My comp is out to get me

I swear it really is.

The internet's the worst-est part

Here's the low-down biz:

It's spastic and sputters,

it's making ficly fail!

And I can't rant to anyone,

'cause twitter's in the pail!

Blocking me off from the rest of the world,

you think you can do that, comp?

I swear, I'll count 'till I'm blue;

I'm onto you, now stop!

- - - - -

The counting thing is originally from Hitchhiker's. I'm convinced it could be a way to temporarily stave off singularity and the A.I. takeover:

[Ford] started to count to ten. He was desperately worried that one day sentient
life forms would forget how to do this. Only by counting could humans
demonstrate their independence of computers.

Why yes, my internet is being more of a failure than usual, why do you ask?

(Note: twitter did come back up, and it's not just my comp that's failing with ficly)

SoP 42: "Poem 42" and Untitled

'Poem 42'

e.e. cummings

n

OthI

n



g can



s

urPas

s



the m



y

SteR

y



of



s

tilLnes

s

- - - - -

For the Ultimate Question,

Odd is it's answer.

Rather odd, I'd

Think.

You know The Answer?



Take a

Wicked good look

Only at the beginning.

- - - - -



- - - - -

I had to do this for SoP 42. I had to.

SoP 41: "I want to tell you"

I'm just sharing today. ^^
- - - - -
I Want to Tell You
George Harrison

SoP 40: "Geek in the Pink", "Life is Wonderful" and Gratitude Café

Geek in the Pink
Jason Mraz

Life is Wonderful
Jason Mraz


- - - - -
I amble down the downtown street,
amid the crowd and noise,
Oh man, the stress, it's mounting here!
But then, a poster's voice:

Come down to Gratitude Café
for a pot of tea or joe
and 'preciate the life we have,
let time go real real slow

So I meandered down the street
to Gratitude Café
I was doubtful, with my tea,
But one sip, I must say
It warmed my soul and eased my mind,
The tea and a comfortable thought.
It took a while to dawn on me
But when it came, I 'nected dots:

I'm blessed with life and with this world,
Thanks for the daytime light;
I must give thanks for the sun and moon,
Obliged for darkened night.

The birds, the trees, the cityscape,
For peace and quiet, too.
But y'can't have those without others
Like din and noise, know you.

I finished the tea, stood myself up,
Sighed, smiled, and said:
"I'm ready now to face you world,
Thanks to Gratitude Café."
- - - - -

- - - - -
Yay for Jason Mraz concert! Bigger yay for catching up! Woo!!

SoP 39: "Vogon Poetry" and Bad Poetry

a sampling of Vogon poetry
Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz
as translated by Douglas Adams

Oh freddled gruntbuggly! Thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits in a lurgid bee.
Groop, I implore thee my foonting turlingdromes,
And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindle werdles,
For otherwise I will rend thee in the goberwarts with
My blurglecruncheons, see if I don't.
- - - - -
(Anybody passed out? Internally bleeding? No? Good. I'm no poet, as I've mentioned in the past, but I think the following's a bit of an improvment over the above.)
- - - - -
Bad poetry's
akin to torture.
It's understandable
if it's a new poet.
But a "seasoned" one?
It's cruel and unusual.

I'd cry out in anguish,
"Please! Spare us!"
but I restrain.

Maybe they'll have mercy?
Maybe it'll improve?

But why can't I shake the feeling
that it won't?

SoP 38: "Yesterday" & Scrambled Eggs

Yesterday
Lennon & McCartney

- - - - -

(to the tune of the song above)

Scrambled Eggs

But my breakfast seems so far away,

Just because it all burned away,

Still, I believe in scrambled eggs.

Suddenly

It wasn't quite the egg it use-ly be,

There's a hunger hanging over me,

Those scrambled eggs burned suddenly.

Why'd it have to go?

I don't know,

I couldn't say.

I did something wrong,

Now I long for scrambled eggs...

Scrambled eggs,

Mornings were an easy game to play

Now it's time for me to throw away

Those scorched and burnt, those scrambled eggs.

Why'd it have to go?
I don't know,
I couldn't say.

I did something wrong,
Now I long for scrambled eggs...

Scrambled eggs,
Mornings were an easy game to play
Now it's time for me to throw away
Those scorched and burnt, those scrambled eggs.

- - - - -
- - - - -
- - - - -

Most Beatles and/or trivial-trivia fans know that the song "Yesterday" had the working title of "Scrambled Eggs." Whilst sitting in the park this afternoon with this song stuck in my head, I figured: "why not try working off of that?"

The poem ensued.

SoP 37: Nickname

Just
a mesh of your first
name and last.
some just have a way
of sticking,
nicknames do.

SoP 36: I'm almost there!

I'm almost done, I'm almost there!
I can't believe I even dared
to leave this thing for such a long time,
because making it up takes just as much time.
- - - - -
I know, it's short, but ah well. Here I keep going!

SoP 35: A Cup of Tea

Go to with your coffee!
I'll stick with my tea.
Why do I like it?
Why, don't you ask me

Don't ask me why I
drink wet leaves, I like it.
I especially enjoy it when
With sugar I spike it.

So keep your sopped beans,
I'll stick with my leaves.
Now, leave me in peace,
I've a book to read.
- - - - -

http://www.flickr.com/photos/16982592@N07/3454609845/in/set-72157606411855944/

SoP 34: Untitled

ZIP
CRASH
BANG
CoNfUsIoN

Spit
Divi/sion
Mirrored
sAmE

Light
DARK
day
NiGhT
- - - - -

http://www.flickr.com/photos/asheynasblackbook/3754432202/in/photostream/
- - - - -
Thanks Asheyna for the pic!

I had to do a random word poem, I had to.

SoP 33: The Stone Archway

A stone archway
Maw spread before me
What could lay beyond that arch?
I take a chance to peer.

And what a sight lays before my eyes,
One of such great beauty!
A garden lush spread in the sun
With eager ivy climbing.

I sat, admiring its beauty
Beneath that great stone arch,
Beautiful as it was to me,
I heard a voice behind me sigh.

"If only there were creatures there,"
the voice moaned, oh-so-sad.
"There'd be a magic there that isn't there.
I'm certain there would be!"

I thought about it, sitting there,
and whole-heartly disagreed.
Can't a garden be beautiful
Without mythic creatures there?
- - - - -

http://www.flickr.com/photos/darkliquid/3748218677/
- - - - -
Thanks darkliquid for the picture!

The last two lines are a variation on a quote I read recently: "Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?"

SoP 32: Sonnet

Her face, 'twas all but hidden from my sight
Just behind that light and silken fan
The only thing I could behold: two eyes,
And oh! Most beautiful of all the land!

A wooded brown, but so alight with fire!
I could only dream up her 'gelic face.
Simply melting my heart of tempered iron,
She stole it then, just leaving want in place.

Hidden by that dark blue, black-laced fan,
She ran her fiery eyes over my form
Reduced to puddle I was, no more man,
Oh, f'only if those eyes turned not to scorn!

Alas, the prize that could never be mine:
The girl behind the fan whose eyes did shine.
- - - - -
http://www.flickr.com/photos/meladegypsie/486102928/
- - - - -
Another bit I originally did on a recent Daily Writing prompt

SoP 31: Song to a Cereal Box

Cereal box, oh cereal box
Why've you inspired me so?
Cereal box, oh cereal box,
you 'spired me at the piano,

You demanded that a poem be writ
about you, box of wheat
or oats or something else, methinks
away your plea should beat.

Cereal box, oh cereal box,
Why've you inspired me so?
Cereal box, oh cereal box,
There! It's done! Now go!

SoP 30: The Sharp Tongue can Strike its Owner

Words
are curious things
Interesting projectiles that can be
-----gently lobbed
-----forcefully thrown

The tongue
launches these words
hopefully acting with the mind to
-----soften them
-----sharpen slightly

But sometimes
the tongue just sharpens
without a thought from the mind
-----badly received
-----self-wounding

Regret
is an awful thing
it can scar the self, but
-----one learns
-----from mistakes

SoP: Historical Haiku

Ludwig Beethoven:
Who else could compose such works
and not hear a thing?
------------
And such a dynamic composer, too. Early on his pieces were very lyrical, almost indistinguishable from Mozart shortly before him. But the change is very clear, becoming more stormy, more powerful, more romantic as his career went on.
Vhat?
--------
The above originally appeared here.

Huh. Not too bad for a half-asleep haiku, if I may say so...

SoP 28: Intentions

I meant to write a poem or two.
I meant to write one about a poet,
I meant to write one using random words,
I even meant to write one about a cereal box.

I didn't intend to forget.
I didn't intend to let life barge in,
I didn't intend to drift away,
I certainly didn't mean to lose track of time.

I should get around to that.
I should get to those three poems,
I should get back into the swing of things,
I definitely should stop repeating myself over and over again.

SoP 25-27: The Judge, Fiction, Lines

The Judge she comes in, how regal is she!
Against the blue lake & the sky, how she gleams!
She cuts 'cross water just like the knife
With her white and wood paneling, what a sight!
- - - - -
Some say they fall for characters,
The ones found 'tween the pages.
That's fine for them, but's not for me
I've thought this for 'vral ages

But friends! Aha! I wish I could
Meet some i find in books!
But one fair recent 'scovery
S'stronger than most, take a look:

Fairly calm, a right bright bloke
Often very witty
Rather 'venturesome he is,
Danger's regular-itty.

Hitching rides across the stars,
He and his bathrobed friend
T'the edge of the galaxy and back
And, indeed, universe's end.

I kind of wish I could jump in
And meet this guy, it's true,
And just hang out for a tiny spell
And 'scuss 'tell'gent shades of blue.
- - - - -
A line is a line,
Except when it isn't.
But when would that be?
We'll see

Lines can connect places
Link A with point B
Don't have to be straight,
As long a they meet.

But where do fit treelines?
Where's "A"? What's "B"?
And do they extend?
Where do they meet?

Streets, they are lines,
But where do they go?
Just 'round and 'round
Or they just stop.

A line is a line,
Except when it isn't
But when would that be?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~Never.
-----
Three poems in one shot. Hey, I have to catch up somehow, right?

Points for naming and/or finding the character's name in the second
poem (it's in there somewhere, I assure you).^^

SoP 24: Fue la chica

pobre chico,
fuiste donde no querías ir
pero, fue esa chica.

Creo lo hiciste por la chica.


La vio, y la vi,
y luego te pidió si puedra ir.

Traté de decierti "no lo hagas,"
pero no me escuchó.

Lo hiciste,
No te gustó que hiciste, pero
lo hiciste.

Y creo que fue esa chica.
-----
Inspired by my cousin getting half-dragged onto an amusment park ride by a couple girls, one of which he'd noticed earlier that day.

100th post! As a celebratory move...

WOO!

And now, back to your irregulary scheduled blogging.

SoP 23: "Big Ol' World" and Appreciation

Big Ol' World
Dusty Pas'cal

(picture quality's not that great, and my favorite version's on his CD "Home," but the video's at least got the song. That's all that matters, folks)
-----
I'm so far away from heaven I feel burning on my shoes,
An itchin for the heavenly land
Then I get to thinking, "but there's still so much to do"
"should go out'n get it while I can"

But it's like that xkcd,
The one with nature's splendor,
We're all so wired, don't you see,
We don't always 'preciate time tender.

And when I think of wires, I get all worried so,
The wires may us just one day bury
So let's just count to ten a time or two or mo'
And while we can see all that we can see.
- - - - -
(inspired by a Eloosive-spawned prompt a while back)
A singer-songwriter, xkcd, impending technological singularity/apocalypse, and philisophical wonderings, all in one poem? It can be done, my friends!

SoP 22: Ode to the origami flower on my desk

Flow'r, you lay upon my desk
Soft white contrast with black
Your petals curl so luciously
Spinning round, then comin' back.

I might've folded you in pink
Or something more mundane
But in a fit o'artistic fervor
I made you crisp and plain.

Nothing more than white petals
Petals tipped with black
Comin' 'cross without much fuss
With boldness others lack.

SoP 21: "Your Catfish Friend" and A Letter

Your Catfish Friend

by Richard Brautigan
If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them."
- - - - -

http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldflints/3539175858/
- - - - -
To send to you a writ letter,
Oh, how I wish I could!
Sometimes writing is better
With ink and flattened wood.

Alas! The distance, she is great
Between us, you and I.
You o'er in the Great Lakes State,
I o'er in Empi-ah.

I haven't heard from you, my friend,
In far too long a spell.
We need to talk sometime again,
We've many things to tell.

Te echo de menos, mon amigo,
To see your voice again!
To see that green typing, hey nonny lo!
You! Come talk! ¡Tú! ¡Ven!

SoP 20: Disbelief

Disbelief
How's this possible?
I still can't believe it...
A five on my AP exam?
Impossible...
- - - - -
...But it's true. I have no idea how, but I got a 5 on my AP US History exam. I'm excited, don't get me wrong, but I have no clue as to how that happened, considering how I felt about the essays...

SoP 19: Wanted: Inspiration

I'm putting out a newsprint ad
All across the nation
What I'm advertising for
Is some inspiration.

"Wanted: Inspiration
For I completely lack.
Inspiration's nece'ary
For poetry." Oh, ack!

How frustrating is this thing
Which ails my thinkings so!
It's hard to think up versey poems
When mind's as blank as snow.

I hope it soon comes back to me
my precious inspiration,
Or I think I will just go mad
with complete frustration

SoP 18: "Problems with Hurricanes" and A State of Constant Flux

Problems with Hurricanes

Victor Hernández Cruz

A campesino looked at the air
And told me:
With hurricanes it's not the wind
or the noise or the water.
I'll tell you he said:
it's the mangoes, avocados
Green plantains and bananas
flying into town like projectiles.
How would your family
feel if they had to tell
The generations that you
got killed by a flying
Banana.
Death by drowning has honor
If the wind picked you up
and slammed you
Against a mountain boulder
This would not carry shame
But
to suffer a mango smashing
Your skull
or a plantain hitting your
Temple at 70 miles per hour
is the ultimate disgrace.
The campesino takes off his hat—
As a sign of respect
toward the fury of the wind
And says:
Don't worry about the noise
Don't worry about the water
Don't worry about the wind—
If you are going out
beware of mangoes
And all such beautiful
sweet things.
- - - - -
Cold
Snow
Shiver
Shovel

Wind
Rain
Scortch
Snow

Hot
Dry
Breezy
Heavenly

Crisp
Dry
Freezing
Begins

Take
cycle.

Now
mix
it
up.

Repeat.
- - - - -
How's that for writing devoid of any inspiration whatsoever?

SoP 17: Poemage is an utter fail today

Summoning poemage
Is total fail
Not quite sure why,
this serves as my bail.

I needed something,
pref'rably with rhyme
To fill the void
Until some other time.
-----

SoP 16: "The Bonny Ship the Diamond" and The Mighty Pink Daffodil

The Bonnie Ship the Diamond
Traditional Scotish folk song

- - - - -
(Just so I don't lose "points" for improper meter, I'm bolding the beats. To be sung to some generic sea-shanty type tune until I come up with something else. Inspired by Diary Entries From the Crew of the Pirate Ship the Pink Daffodil, by Eloosive et al)



Well I'll tell ye a tale of somethin' worse than blight
Hey, ho, the Pink Daffodil
Of a ship, she surely was a sight
Hey, ho, the pink daffodil

With sides and sails of a faint rose-peach
The mighty Pink Daffodil
She'll be lucky t'even make it to the beach
Hey, ho, the Pink Daffodil

Clear the ports and make a scene
For the mighty pink Daffodil;
She's nothing short of in'tresting,
Will she come to greatness? Doubt she will.

With Captain Bottoms at the front
Hey, ho, the Pink Daffodil
The way he leads is nothin' short of blunt
Hey, ho, the Pink Daffodil


He cocks his hat and yells quite a bit
On the mighty Pink Daffodil,
But he's never lost for a word or a quip
Hey, ho, the Pink Daffodil.


Clear the ports and make a scene,
Here comes the Pink Daffodil.
There're clouds of doubt to her life 'spect'ncy
But she pulls through, she always will.

-----

Yarg! Thar she is: The Pink Daffodil!



Well, an origami version, anyway. I couldn't find pink paper, so I used red, and tried to make it as pink as possible.

SoP: Time

It's interesting how
when we seemingly have
MORE
time,
The more likely it is
that it
r
.u
..n
...s

~~~a
~~w
~a
y

from us.

Why is it that
in crunch time
we seem to be able
to create
MORE
time?

SoP 14: Driver's Ed & Paranoia

If you live life as high as sequoias,
here's a course you might enjoy'ahs,
Good for both girls and the boy'ahs:
Driver's Ed and Paranoia.

One in the same, in both my eyes.
Don't sep'rate them, don't even try!
Just think, it'd be no fun to die
Because of th'unseen Other Guy.

On the side walks or 'hind the wheel
Always be prepared to yiel'
Don't you dare to on the road peal,
Or someone's life you just may steal.

Now, I hate paranoia, see,
But I don't wanna dee-eye-ee
Behind the wheel of a automobi'
So watch it for Other gee-why-ee.

If you live life as high as sequoias,
here's a course you might enjoy'ahs,
Good for both girls and the boy'ahs:
Driver's Ed and Paranoia.

SoP 13: Limericks!

The Book of Nonsense, 10
Edward Lear
There was an Old Man in a tree,
Who was horribly bored by a Bee;
When they said, "Does it buzz?"
He replied, "Yes, it does!"
It's a regular brute of a Bee!"
-----
There once was a parrot named Bob
And he used to continually sob,
"Please notice me! Can't anyone see
That I just want corn on the cob!"
-----
Yay for off-the-cuff limericks! I haven't tackled one of these in quite some time.

SoP 12: "El Paso" and Another one Re: The Admirer

El Paso
sung by Chris Thile

(Go to 52:02... that's where the song starts)

A pianist sat beneath a tree
atop a verdant hill
And passed her days writing away
letting her mind go where it will.

Now a phantom lived atop the tree
Where the pianist liked to be
And soon became smiten with what she'd written
"I think I'm in love," thought he.


But the phantom could not tell his love
Of his feelings strong
Without her sight knowing, without his face showing
Until an idea came along.

He knew she kept her writing book
Inside the olden tree
"I'll leave a not ehtere, my thoughts I will share."
He wrote, then waited to see.

The pianist she came very early next morn
And a curious sight she found:
She found her book, 'steand of in the nok
Opened up near rock on the soft ground.

She found a note scrawled on a page
"I thiink I'm in love!" it declared.
She came most suspicious. "I wonder who this is,"
For she was the only one there.

This continued for a few weeks more
Till the pianist cried, "enough!"
"If yourself you don't show, anonymity goes!"
"I'm tired of secrety stuff."

Then she wondered, "¿qué pasará?"
"Would the admirer lose the strong heart
If he couldnt stay 'non'mous? Did I sound too auton'mous?"
"No, this is right, in my heart."

Weeks later she sat in her tree
Upon a surly branch
When from up in the tree came a sight to see,
The phantom stood below with timid stance.

"Ive been your secret admirere,"
He said in a tone most shy.
"I had to profess, I tried to confess
my love for you," he sighed.

The pianist crossed her arms and smiled at him
A smile thick-laden with pity.
"You sure have some gumption. I make the assumption
YYou'd like to stay'n anonymity?"

The phantom nodded eagerly,
enamorous glint in his eye.
The pianist shook her head, and to herself she said,
"Least I know who those notes are by."
-----
I whipped this up late, I know the meter's off, but I had to write this in light of a revelation. Yes, the Admirer's finally revealed himself to me. I'm not only a technicality freak, I'm also a chiquita of my word. In "The Dangers of Loving an Imp" (SoP 7), I "threatened" (paraphrased) "Unless you give me some sort of clue to your identity, poof goes the anonymous option." So, because he i.d.'ed himself to me, I'll be nice and keep the option of anonymity for future commentage.

SoP 11

To write poetry in the dark
Is to write poetry confused

The muttled noise
The lack of light
Shrouded in darkness
Is all sight, all sound

How to make sense of
It all?
How to escape?

Like a car on the highway,
All we can do
Is sit back,
Buckle up,
And hold on.

SoP 10: Star-Spangled Banner

The Star-Spangled Banner
Francis Scott Key

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming;
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;
O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?

On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream;
'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave,
From the terror of flight and the gloom of the grave;
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land,
Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just.
And this be our motto— "In God is our trust; "
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
- - - - -
No poem from me today... Happy Independence Day!

SoP 9: Untitled Haiku

It is just my luck

We know so many people with

High awesome levels

- - - - -

I didn't have the energy to find a good poem today... ah well.

SoP 8: "The Road Not Taken" and Deep Traffic

http://blogsergiofreire.files.wordpress.com/2009/02/yellow_wood.jpg
- - - - -
The Road Not Taken
~Robert Frost~

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.




- - - - -


Deep Traffic


(sung to the tune of "Deep River")

Deep traffic, my home is a-cross five lanes


Deep traffic, Lord... I want to cross over the great highway.


Oh, don't you want to cross to the other side


Of that old stretch? But no one'll move aside.


Deep traffic, my him is a-cross five lanes


Deep traffic, Lord... I want to cross over the great highway.
- - - - -
I thought of this coming home from driver's ed this morning. It's short, but I rather like it.

SoP 7: "To His Coy Mistress" and The Danger of Loving an Imp

To His Coy Mistress
Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast;
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart;
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
- - - - -
The Danger of Loving an Imp
Tis dangerous to love a slyish imp,
To strangers she is quite skeptic
And when she's a skeptic, the stranger is prone
To 'ceive blows most knavish, that's typic.

Inately s'picious, she gets quite confused
About her nameless admirer.
And when she's confused, you'd better watch out
For iminent impish-like fire.

With folk she don't know, whose i.d. stay mum
Under the veil "Anon'mous,"
She smirks a sly smirk, and says to herself,
"I've 'cided to be auton'mous...

"...And possibly wield my blog-running power
By ex-naying that shadowy shroud
And so my Admirer'd have to say something,
No longer 'hind the 'nonymous cloud."

And with a poised finger she almost did press
The button to cut off the choice,
And then she did think, "But what if the guy
Loses the courage, his voice?"

The impish girl thought, then with a sigh-shrug,
"I'll give it just one more small chance."
And so, Secret One, I say to you now,
To willingly show self's last chance.
- - - - -
To be frank, if a certain somebody (you know who you are) doesn't give me some kind of clue (blogger profile link, webpage/blog link), the option of comments-in-complete-anonymity's going adios, sianara, good-day-to-you-sir. I've been good enough to inadvertantly give a certain somebody a glimpse of my soul, I think I deserve the same.
- - - - -
I apologize for neglecting to post a poem yesterday, I simply didn't have time to whip anything up. Perhaps I'll double up one of these next days.

SoP 6: "Because I could not stop for Death" and For Lily and Ezra

Because I could not stop for Death

~Emily Dickinson ~

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –
- - - - -
For Lily and Ezra

These two strong twins, both young and brave, we mourn,
They taken 'fore their time to heav'n above
Unduly tried, but never showing scorn.
Inseprable were they, how much they loved

Each other, and their freedom fight as well,
Ne'er breaking loyalty to their just cause.
They freed the world from tyrany's dark Héll,
But didn't get to hear the world's applause.

Sweet Lily greatly burdened with the pains
Of going deep into the hid'ous fray;
Bold Ezra sought to carry on the strain
And for his sister cared up to that day.

For the Resistance they gave their young lives
So that the people, ideas, might s'rvive.
- - - - -
I borrowed the idea for this poem from Eloosive's Daily Writing prompt the other day. Lily and Ezra were the main protagonists in "Accursed Necklace," my one of my favorite ficlets collaborations with OrangeOreos (who can also be found here), which we transfered to Protagonize as well.

Geez. I can't say I've ever posted that many links in two sentences before. First time for everything, I suppose.

SoP 5: Ode to The Big Four

I tried, and I tried, but I simply could not find a poem with epicness worthy of The Big Four in time. Ah well. Maybe I'll double up tomorrow.
-----
(Quick author's note: this might be one of those "you just had to be there" sorts of things, but this was written in honor of the four guys, who called themselves The Big Four, in my APUSH class this past year. The group was our in-class legend. As obnoxious as they could get, they made that class. Seriously.)

As much as I want to rebuke
I feel I must make this tribute
So here I am, with poem and lute:
An Ode to the great Big Four.

For I have made The great Connection
Even with all that perplexion
I must admit with slight affection
The greatness of Big Four.

The thoughts of them are quite strong
Winkleman is on the end a long
Way from the rest of the group that's strong,
The one-only Big Four.

Cunningham's stuck in the middle
Of shenanigins far from little
(Hold on a sec, must tune the fiddle
To continue with the Big Four)

Bruning's way out on the far left
Often okay, but I was bereft
When once he couldn't keep'n check
Th'antics of The Big Four.

It's difficult to 'scribe The Bird
Who was their "leader." It's too absurd
To try and 'scribe BirdDog with words
He who founded th'Big Four.

They take dominion of Period Nine
And though they drive me out of my mind
I must admit, they're one-of-a-kind,
The infamous Big Four.

So " 'liver the message" all around
Send it 'round with voice and sound
Of those who impress and confound,
Irreplaceable Big Four.

As much as I've plained, I sing the praises
Of the group of APUSH days-es
All the time the group amazes,
The singular Big Four.

I hope they prize the work I've done
Me and my committee of one
And three books, now don't poke fun
Especially you, Big Four.

For all the 'plaining that I've done,
And all of my poking fun
I just could not remain dead-mum
In extolling the Big Four.

And so, I close this ode of praises
And all that's left I want to say is
"This'll go down through the ages,
The legacy of the Big Four."
- - - - -
Postlude: Yes, The Big Four did see this. How? I wrote it on the front board before class one day. Not only did the class like it, but it had the Four's approval.

SoP 4: "Common Cold" and Elusive Eloosive

Common Cold

Ogden Nash

Go hang yourself, you old M.D.!

You shall not sneer at me.

Pick up your hat and stethoscope,

Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;

I contemplate a joy exquisite

In not paying you for your visit.

I did not call you to be told

My malady is a common cold.

By pounding brow and swollen lip;

By fever's hot and scaly grip;

By those two red redundant eyes

That weep like woeful April skies;

By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff;

By handkerchief after handkerchief;

This cold you wave away as naught

Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!

Give ear, you scientific fossil!

Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;

The Cold of which researchers dream,

The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.

This honored system humbly holds

The Super-cold to end all colds;

The Cold Crusading for Democracy;

The Führer of the Streptococcracy.

Bacilli swarm within my portals

Such as were ne'er conceived by mortals,

But bred by scientists wise and hoary

In some Olympic laboratory;

Bacteria as large as mice,

With feet of fire and heads of ice

Who never interrupt for slumber

Their stamping elephantine rumba.

A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth!

Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth;

Don Juan was a budding gallant,

And Shakespeare's plays show signs of talent;

The Arctic winter is fairly coolish,

And your diagnosis is fairly foolish.

Oh what a derision history holds
For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!

- - - - -

http://www.thinkgeek.com/images/products/additional/large/bc01_mega_giant_plush_microbes_cold.jpg

- - - - -

Elusive Eloosive,
Why say that you hide?
You show us your talent,
Not keep it inside.

Perhaps it's because

Right after you write,

You go off in seclusion;

But at least you don't bite.

- - - - -

It's not much, not the greatest, but I felt like doing this sort of thing today. Not quite sure why I stuck a poem about 'Loo in with a poem about the (un)common cold.... perhaps because his whole poetry nudge is contageous or something...

Maybe it's not the best idea to crack illness jokes in a time of an international pandemic, and when a late-night host got in a bit of trouble for a joke... then again, procrastination's not a good idea either, so the low-quality joke stays.

SoP 3: "Waiting for the Birdy" and You Have to Get Used to It

Waiting for the Birdie
~Ogden Nash~

Some hate broccoli, some hate bacon,
I hate having my picture taken.
How can your family claim to love you
And then demand a picture of you?
The electric chair is a comfortable chair,
But I know an equally comfortless pair;
One is the dentist's, my good sirs,
And the other is the photographer's.
Oh, the fly in all domsetic ointments
Is affectionate people who make appointments
To have your teeth filled left and right,
Or your face reproduced in black and white.
You open the door and you enter the studio,
And you feel less cheerio than nudio.
The hard light shines like seventy suns,
And you know that your features are foolish ones.
The photographer says, Natural, please,
And you cross you knees and uncross your knees.
Like a duke in a high society chronicle
The camera glares at you through its monocle
And you feel ashamed of your best attire,
Your nose itches, your palms perspire,
Your muscles stiffen, and all the while
You smile and smile and smile and smile.
It's over; you weakly grope for the door;
It's not; the photographer wants one more.
And if this experience you survive,
Wait, just wait till the proofs arrive.
You look like a drawing by Thurber or Bab,
Or a gangster stretched on a marble slab.
All your dear ones, including your wife,
Say There he is, that's him to the life!
Some hate broccoli, some hate bacon,
But I hate having my picture taken.
- - - - -

http://www.flickr.com/photos/slightlynorth/1912696929/
- - - - -
You Have to Get Used to It

When with my fam'ly,
It's extremely vital to
Be used to photos.

Seven cameras,
Half the family's clickin' 'way.
You get used to it.

It's a 'quired skill,
The ability to stand
Hours of pictures.

SoP 2: "I'm Nobody!" and Why Me?

I'm Nobody!
~Emily Dickinson~

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there's a pair of us?
Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one's name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!
- - - - -

- - - - -
~Why Me?~
or, To the Admirer

Why me?
What is it that could
possibly
Endear someone to me
like this,
To cause one to
spiral
Into apparent smitten
bliss?

I might be able to
pinpoint
The qualities that draws
my friends,
But I'm not exactly
certain
That those qualities
translate
Between friends and
admirers.

I can turn a phrase with
decent success,
People tell me I can
sing,
I take to the ivories as a
fish to water.

But there's something not
clicking.
It's not making sense
to me.
Somethimes I need things
spelled out.

You declare how you love
me,
Would you be so
kind
As to count for me
the ways?