Category Archives: poetry

Idealism

Idealism (a poem)

When I was but a stupid boy

I had a stupid thought

That if you told a story well

And that story was easily bought

That you could save yourself from hell

If the story was rightly wrought

And the telling would end in joy.

………………..

But when I was an awkward youth

I tried my tale to spin

And awkwardly my words went wrong

And my story failed to win

And readers sang that critical song

And laughter crept right in

And my steering was not strong

My story was uncouth.

……………….

But as a mostly mature man

I tried to tell the truth

And live my life by a mature code

And profit from lessons of youth

And composed a much more stable ode

That rhymed while showing tooth

And defended my small abode.

I executed my story’s plan.


Finally, I wisely became real old

And I warily and wisely began to lie

I made of life a serious joke

And ate my small piece of the pie

I laughed and watched the faces in the smoke

As the fires began to die

And I made the point as I wisely awoke

My story is now told.

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Filed under autobiography, commentary, humor, irony, metaphor, Paffooney, poem, poetry, strange and wonderful ideas about life

Dr. Dinkleblatter’s Diagnosis

I went to see Dr. Dinkleblatter…

Because I wanted to find out what the hell was the matter…

He said, in a way that was rather unkind…

“I’m ninety percent certain that you’ve lost your mind!”

Of course, I went home and was really quite shaken.

I was halfway convinced my poor mind had been taken.

And halfway convinced that I would be disgraced…

If it only turned out that my mind was misplaced.

So, I searched the whole house, and to my utter relief…

In my underwear drawer under white cotton briefs…

I found my old journal with cover dark brown,

And there was my thinking all quite written down.

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Filed under autobiography, humor, mental health, Paffooney, poem, poetry

How the Story Ends

fox1

How the Story Ends (a poem of sour grapes)

This is how the story ends…

When fox plus grapes make themes.

It tells you all the grapes are sour…

So give up on your dreams.

 

But that is not the fox I know…

At least, not how it seems.

The fox who knew the little Prince

Knew love will live in dreams.

 

The fox I know would think of ways

To live and work in teams

He’d find a farmer, kind and large,

And share with him the dreams.

 

The fox would learn to plant and grow

Grape seeds in warm sunbeams,

He’d tend and also harvest

And then he’d have his dreams.

 

And so, when thinking the story ends,

And not accepting themes

Remember that stories never end

If you don’t deny your dreams.

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Filed under Paffooney, poem, poetry, strange and wonderful ideas about life

Get Up and Do!

Theodore_Roethke

It is daunting when bad fortune comes in waves, drowning us in debt, suffering, disabling illness, financial reversals, and so many more things I have been through this last year personally, so that we want to lie down and never get up.

But, I am not dead yet…  and there is poetry to be lived.

I say that as one of the world’s fifty worst poets who ever lived.   (In my defense, I am a humorist, and I write bad poetry on purpose.)  My inspiration for the living of poetry comes from reading and living good poetry.   I live because there is poetry by Walt Whitman.  Of course, also Shakespeare… whoever he really was.  And I understand that much of what I have learned in my brief and stupidly-lived 61 years comes from the poetry of the visionary poet I pictured above.  Do you know him?  If you have never read his poetry, you haven’t truly lived the poetry you need to live.

This poet taught me that “Being, not doing, is my first love.”  Of course, if I am satisfied with just sitting on my bed and “being” through most of my day, I will starve to death and not “be” anymore.  But he has taught me that what is essential is already within me.  There is wisdom and power in Uncle Ted’s poetry.  (Yes, I know I am not really related to him, but that’s only physical and overlooks the spiritual.)  I must partake of it to live.

Lovely bliss quotes Theodore Roethke Quotes

If you are bored by poetry about plants in a greenhouse under bright lights, or you can never understand what the poet means when he says, “My father was a fish”, then you need to practice reading poetry more.  You don’t truly understand what poetry is, and what it is for… yet.

quote-i-learned-not-to-fear-infinity-the-far-field-the-windy-cliffs-of-forever-the-dying-of-theodore-roethke-44-38-26

marilyn

And I am sure you have probably concluded from all of this that I am a fool and a bad poet and I have no right to try to tell you who and what a truly great poet is.  But, fool that I am, I know it when I see it.  It is there in the verse, the hideous and horrible… the beautiful and the true.  And if I know anything at all worth telling about the subject, it is this; Ted Roethke is a great American poet.  And he writes poetry that you need to read… and not only read but live.

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Filed under artists I admire, commentary, insight, inspiration, poetry, strange and wonderful ideas about life

Foopty-Hoodooloo

Ima mickey33

I’m a Mickey, yes, indeedy…

Foopty-Hoopty-Hoodilly-Hoo!

Chicken-ninja throwing stars,

Hit their targets thrown from Mars…

Foopty-Hoodilly-Hee

And when the pandas drive their cars,

Their tire treads are candy bars!

Take that truth from me!

Animal Town212

Foopty-Hoopty-Fiddly-Ho!

Being a Mickey is a rabbity thing…

As if it were Bugs who taught us to sing,

And unmusical music we all start to bring…

Because we use only the words that we know!

Foopty-Hoodilly-Fling-a-ding-Ding!

castle carrot

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Filed under goofy thoughts, humor, Mickey, Paffooney, Paffooney cartoony, poetry, rabbit people

Chances Are…

Postable Paffoonies

Chances are… I could wear a foolish grin, like a Johnny Mathis Moon in the sky…

I could waltz… all alone in a dark room, never seizing on the chances to fly…

But there’s a time… meant to let the summer in…

And love songs… all make me wonder… Why?

Silly, I know.  But silly and surreal is how I go, how I deal with the time.  A song in my head leads to rhythm and metaphor and rhyme.  And it takes me from old winter and the waning of the moon… to the silly month of June… And my dancing shoes were never quite so spry.

Chances are… if you really read this, you will know I am depressed.

My life is all unfairly messed.

And I barely can get dressed…

To go tripping cross the floor, dancing awkwardly toward the door, ’cause I’m in need of so much more.

But in a poem I find it… the very reason that I rhymed it… like the crooning song that’s stuck in my old head…

I will catch it, and I’ll bind it, like a fool who hopes you’ll find it, and the treasure will be revealed before we’re dead…

Chances are… that you hear that silly tune, as it reels across the page in silent spread.  And the song will slowly stop, as I dance a final hop, and the answer is brightly shining in my head.

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Filed under Depression, feeling sorry for myself, finding love, healing, humor, magic, music, Paffooney, poetry

A Poem Written on an Envelope

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Yes, I actually did it.  I woke up with a poem-thought in my stupid old head.  I frantically searched for a pen and something to write on.  I found an envelope with a blank backside.  And I committed an act of spontaneous bad poetry.

Here is a readable copy of the insidious verse;

Bad poem # 347

 

So after I had created this awful, spontaneous, and possibly evil bit of poetry, I began to seriously wonder what the purpose of this particular unfortunate act of creativity really was.  Could it be used for anything constructive?  Anything at all?

And then I had a thought…

But that was actually not a thought but a sudden need to pass gas.

And then I had another thought.  And even though the second one was authentically a real thought created in my allegedly real brain, it was not quite as useful and stress-relieving as the first.

“I could use this piece of poetic  abominationhood to rob a bank,” I thought stupidly.  “If I walk into a bank lobby and read this poem aloud to everyone, then they will all become suddenly violently ill, and I could clean out the tellers’ cash drawers while they were violently wretching and projectile vomiting.”

But then I had another, far more useful thought, when I realized that reading it aloud might make me ill also, rendering me susceptible to wretching and projectile vomiting myself, and rendering me completely unable to nefariously profit from my bad poetry.

(**Note** Please don’t try reading this aloud to see if it really has the above-mentioned effect on yourself.  No amount of smug I-told-you-so’s is worth the risk of not being able to prove me wrong.)

So, what else could I do?  I had one more spurious and possibly vile thought on the matter.  It is possible to interpret this awful, horrible, smelly snippet of truly bad poetry as a sort of metaphorical pornography.  I could use it to appeal to the prurient interests of geometrically-shaped people.   I am told there is money to be made in pornography if you are the right kind of person (meaning, of course, people who are definitely not me).  But nowhere on the internet could I find a country populated by people who are geometrical in nature.  Not a county, city, town, villa, shopping mall, or gas station either, for that matter.  It is as if such people don’t actually exist in real life.

Oh, well…  I managed to fill up a post with words in it anyway.  That has to count for something, doesn’t it?

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Filed under humor, poetry, satire