Auntie's April 2012 Thread: 30 Poems in 30 Days

April 16

Centerpiece

I could, I suppose, dig up a bowl to put in the middle
of this eyesore. Here are some “silk-like” flowers, plastic leaves.
I’ll stick them in this empty salad dressing bottle. There. All set.
It’s difficult to cultivate a decorative sense
with deprivation’s sloppy habit of hanging around
the joint. From near-squalor, good taste will seldom radiate.

Some folks of more comfortable means spread out and radiate
from the center of an upscale mall, the Mecca of the middle
class. They thrive in out-sized houses where company sits around
well-appointed tables, extended by the extra leaves
the hostess has so easily found. The ways of affluence make little sense
to me. For decades now my once-fond aspirations have been set

lower, to compensate for this lot in life as previously set
by Chance –not heartless, merely neutral. Good fortune tends to radiate
toward random recipients. She loves a profligate or frugal sense
equally. But –- she can take a sudden downturn in the middle
of an upswing (or vice versa.) The lack of certainty leaves
a person without a solid surface to work around.

“Lucky at cards, unlucky in love” is a saw heard around
gossipy circles. “Unlucky in both” is never set
up as a corollary. Many times conventional wisdom leaves
one wondering if it’s possible for love to radiate
with true contentment. From deep down in the middle
of the secret self, uncommon sense

infiltrates the common: seeing, hearing, touching– every sense.
Earnestly we use these tools to construct a life around
a circumscribed sphere, with a diameter in the middle –-
flexible, but immobile at its hub – - set
to show resilience. This is the kind of love that should radiate
both in-and-outward from the circle, when vagueness finally leaves.

The shyly-opened buds in spring and autumn’s flame-stoked leaves
might lure a hapless heart into a gullible sense
of hope. Or a similar incentive might radiate
out of some well-defined display to flaunt around.
With solid assurance, we could set
our table without the fear of ugly interference in the middle.

Past the middle of life, the future leaves.
One’s curriculum vitae has long been set. There’s no longer any sense
of bouncing around. Yet a few stubborn stars still radiate.

April 17

A Night to Remember

La danseuse exotique
named Lola Palooza
expresses herself
in excitable ways.

In seeing so much of her,
sinners who’ve touched her
pay for it when forced to walk
crookedly for several days.

Question--
Is this ^^ one of these?
Or is it a "McGonagall"?

April 18

Belatedness

We heed the warning from Professor Bloom
that would-be poets may have come too late.
Naiveté ignores the crushing weight
of gigantic shoulders crowded in the room.
We’re tardy - - and the heavy, daunting gloom
arrives to tell us we should hesitate.
We cry over spilled ink, such waste. We hate
to see hope’s shatters swept out with a broom.
So who do we think we are? Who are we
to paint our dull, unproven talents gold?
We’ll dip our pens, then stoop to bend a knee
to pray that selfless creativity
helps raise the New to stand beside the Old,
each held up in a place where both could be.

Of course one must talk about the technical proficiency of this, but even more affecting for me is to feel the heartfeltness of it.

damn right we will. i love this, "...paint our dull, unproven talents gold".

The facility you have with such a plethora of forms puts us all to shame, Auntie. That you demonstrate it with such humour and wit makes me deeply envious :D This thread is an education in itself!

Live and be well - H

Thanks all for the comments so far. As far as forms go, let's see, lately we've had Martian poetry, a McWhirtle (maybe, still waiting for confirmation), a sestina, and a Petrarchan sonnet. I'm running out of days to insert the remaining forms on my list. So for my next number I'm combining mock-heroic with a modified terza rima form, as well as a travesty of a beloved classic. It also could be a burlesque, but not the same kind of burlesque of Ms Palooza in the posting for April 17.

April 19

Ode To (and On) a Pillow

I

O soft, cool comfort at the end of day,
You, Pillow, for one’s hard and weary head–
if you could talk, I wonder what you’d say.

Though some things may be better off unsaid–
rough fare from which the innocent may cower,
the secret goings-on in and on a bed,

the main attraction of love’s secret bower–
you crown it well, discreetly well-encased
inside a slip of a repeating flower,

‘bove ticking– striped, not creamy white and chaste –
attached with a tag we shall not remove
else Penalty of Law. Who’ll act in haste

for such malfeasant felony to prove,
as if we’ve stolen oeuvres out of the Louvre?

Oh, speak!

II

Of your puff’d innards, do so bravely tell–
if cotton fiber-fill or feathers light–
do you prefer a primp or punch to swell?

How do you feel about wild pillow fights,
do you finding them fun or a cause of pain?
What’s worse: day’s down-time or working nights?

Or staying dry when by chance there’s rain
down from the bedroom ceiling’s stubborn leak–
(perhaps the source of your dark yellow stain)?

How can I quiet this old box spring's creak?
When the Tooth Fairy comes, do you ever peek?

Oh, speak!

III

Of crazed dreams I seldom can recall,
absurd sleep mutterings, a slurred reply;
of frequent trips to the can down the hall;

of facial streaks, such as snails might apply,
resisting a freshening rub from a towel;
of morning crust in corners of each eye;

of evil halitosis breathing foul,
and God! the rattling snore, that beastly growl–

please, oh please, shut up.

a quick triolet for today

April 20

A Prayer for the Earth

Help us protect the living things,
air, water, land, all we cherish.
Preserve true Winters, vibrant Springs.
Help us protect the living things.
Summer riches, the wealth Fall brings
keep vital; let nothing perish.
Help us protect the living things,
air, water, land, all we cherish.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by AuntShecky

a quick triolet for today

April 20

A Prayer for the Earth

Help us protect the living things,
air, water, land, all we cherish.
Preserve true Winters, vibrant Springs.
Help us protect the living things.
Summer riches, the wealth Fall brings
keep vital; let nothing perish.
Help us protect the living things,
air, water, land, all we cherish.

---

Beautiful!

(But who are you addressing? :) )

Good health,
DH

a pillode! 2nd (movement?) 2nd stanza 2nd line: 'finding'. i love your form (and i've never seen you). specifically, the rhyme scheme is skillful. 'slip of a repeating flower' is light and charming.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by AuntShecky

a quick triolet for today

April 20

A Prayer for the Earth

Help us protect the living things,
air, water, land, all we cherish.
Preserve true Winters, vibrant Springs.
Help us protect the living things.
Summer riches, the wealth Fall brings
keep vital; let nothing perish.
Help us protect the living things,
air, water, land, all we cherish.

---

I like this one very much! Maybe it should've been saved for the 22nd! (Earth Day :D)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by AuntShecky

April 18

Belatedness

We heed the warning from Professor Bloom
that would-be poets may have come too late.
Naiveté ignores the crushing weight
of gigantic shoulders crowded in the room.
We’re tardy - - and the heavy, daunting gloom
arrives to tell us we should hesitate.
We cry over spilled ink, such waste. We hate
to see hope’s shatters swept out with a broom.
So who do we think we are? Who are we
to paint our dull, unproven talents gold?
We’ll dip our pens, then stoop to bend a knee
to pray that selfless creativity
helps raise the New to stand beside the Old,
each held up in a place where both could be.

---

These lines struck with me:
We hate
to see hope’s shatters swept out with a broom.
So who do we think we are? Who are we
to paint our dull, unproven talents gold?

A moving piece that shows how gracious humanity can be.

Thanks for the gracious comments!^^^^
April 21-22

Inside Baseball

Out of the batter’s box come two parodies. The first lovingly imitates the lyrics of Jack Norworth and Albert van Tilzer’s song celebrating an American institution. The original has been truly “iconic” for over a century. The second is a parody of another piece of Americana, a narrative poem that’s devilishly difficult to imitate with its thirteen quatrains of serpentine “fourteeners.”

Follow the bouncing ball:

Take out a loan for the ball game.
Take equity out on your house.
Buying steep tickets will make you choke–
Nobody cares if it makes you go broke!
‘Cause it’s Loot, Loot, Loot for the owners!
For the players, more of the same–
And it’s one-two-three thousand you’re out
at the old ball game!


Squinty Behind the Plate

(With apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer’s “Casey at the Bat”)

An umpire with myopia, of whom few folks have heard
judged nonetheless plenty of games–at first base, sometimes third.
Last week a gig in Ashtabula; Erie, yesterday.
Another trip, another town, where two more teams would play.

It might have been East McKeesport, or some small burgh of that kind,
or maybe it was Mudville (he couldn’t make out the sign.)
With one step scarcely off the bus, he heard the crew chief state:
“Hey, Squinty, how are your peepers? You’re covering Home Plate.”

This made our hero nervous, his mouth as dry as cotton.
Reflection struck him sharply with something he’d forgotten,
left way back in Altoona, on a hotel bathroom shelf.
“My glasses, merely trifles,” he reassured himself.

“Oh, I don’t want ‘em, hardly use ‘em, even when I read–
Well, now and then or distance–but they’re nothing that I need.”
‘Spite fear of future jeers, historically derisive,
an umpire worth his salt must never be indecisive.

He pondered this a moment. Then he stroked his beard-less chin,
and to the baseball honcho, he flashed a c o c k-eyed grin,
and said, “No problem, Pal. I’ll be right there on the money.
One hundred percent perfect, my vision’s twenty-twenty.

“I won’t let you - - or Baseball – - down. I’ll do just what you ask.”
With that he donned the protective shield and the scary mask.
He looked like a big blue lobster inside that bulky shell,
and out the wires of the mask he couldn’t see so well.

With confident authority he nodded to each bag,
and steadfastly he stood up for saluting of The Flag.
With the last note of the Anthem, the game all set to go–
with a little broom, he whisked the dish, neatly like a pro.

“Play Ball!” came the ump’s proud yell, loudly echoed with a cry,
The lead-off batter grounded out; next up, a popped-out fly.
The third one’s foul was caught; the ump, relieved. So far, so good–
but truly, Squinty couldn’t tell the spheroid from the wood.

The early easy innings were the storm’s deceptive calm.
The game required balls and “str-riiikes!” seen clearly without a qualm.
Thus: eighteen sparks of ire. Mudville’s catcher, fuming, screamed:
“How come you see the strike zone bigger when it’s the other team?”

“The patent may be pending, but that’s patently absurd.
I don’t play no fav’rites,” he said. “On that you have my word.”
Then with firm resolve he threw the plaintiff out of the game
for arguing balls and strikes, the verboten sin of shame.

Both managers soon followed, with the umpire on a tear,
but secretly he could see nothing going anywhere.
The expletive deleted crowd let loose with its wild slur.
Squinty couldn’t see which team led, the scoreboard all a-blur.

True to the long tradition of the seventh inning stretch,
time for o’er-priced stadium fare, the kind that makes one retch,
the ump bit into a hot dog, which wasn’t putrid, but
was instead a trick cigar, which exploded in his gut.

In Mudville there was no cheering; certainly no one cried,
not really racked with mourning, the day that Squinty died.
As least his last request would be fair-and-squarely applied:
he’d be planted where he’d wished – - low and outside.



Please note: Barring unforeseen circumstances, this nonsense will continue on Monday with a posting for April 23.

April 23

Tradition has ceremonially designated this feast day of England’s beloved patron saint as the birthday of William Shakespeare, whose actual day of birth is not decisively known. The speaker of today’s posting belongs to the ever-burgeoning group of humanity which throughout history has been forced to cling to society’s bottom rung. We could describe ourselves with this line : “On Fortune’s cap we are not the very button.”


“I have heard that. . .creatures sitting at a play have been struck to the soul.”

The Groundling

A penny brought me noise and this scant space,
a pittance shy to make a costard mine,
I squat below the costly, lofty place
of gentle cushions puff’d for rich behinds.
My base and muddy view befits a pig.
There’s chance a sword-fight wets the boards with red,
or comic Kempe will stomp them with his jig.
What’s this? A ghost! – - sprung from his dirt-strewn bed.
That maiden looks just like the vintner’s son –
their shop’s along the rocky road to Ware.
Yet bolder wine no courtly cask could run
than vintaged words a lowly lad may share.
My ears soak up such sack and potent things,
the same as quaffed by noblemen and kings.

wow i really like this. since i do, i'll say that i didn't understand the maiden part, whether she was a ghost, or what her appearance meant. and i didn't know why it switched to the words, but it was a great ending.
my favorite lines:

Quote:

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of gentle cushions puff’d for rich behinds.

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Quote:

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There’s chance a sword-fight wets the boards with red,

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you are so good with old phrases and atmosphere.