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.
27 August 2009
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.
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
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
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.
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?
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
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
24 August 2009
SoP 49: The Solo
The barren sanctuary air
Is always eager
To hold a sound
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.
22 August 2009
19 August 2009
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.
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.
18 August 2009
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!
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!
07 August 2009
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.
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.
06 August 2009
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:
- - - - -
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)
04 August 2009
SoP 42: "Poem 42" and Untitled
'Poem 42'
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.
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.
03 August 2009
02 August 2009
SoP 40: "Geek in the Pink", "Life is Wonderful" and Gratitude Café
Geek in the Pink
Jason Mraz
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!!
01 August 2009
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?
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
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 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.
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.
a mesh of your first
name and last.
some just have a way
of sticking,
nicknames do.
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