…and finally an end to Night That Steams!
Three weeks hath pass’d since last I wrote some verse
Herein, and yet I feel no urge to curse;
Though matters not improv’d, they are not worse.
I drive a car. I do not ride in hearse.
My wife spake sweetly to me; was not terse.
I have fivescore crisp dollars in my purse.
(No millionaire, no William Randolph Hearst)
I shan’t complain, until I give thanks first
For being spared most of life’s troubles worst,
And suff’ring but the mildest form of thirst.
I’ll be back soon! I go to fetch a drink.
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The vigor of thy drink waylaid the famed,
our narrat-er, henceforth worn for the worse -
some nine days pass without a line of verse.
Yes, I rhymed “drink” with “drink”, and my meter,
well, it doth peter.
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I doubt that we become the lotus-eater,
And fail to write from simple apathy,
But rather our distracted sympathy
Has little time to spare for rhyming now.
When we no longer under burdens bow,
Perhaps this place of verse will thrive anew.
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I hope it do! Dear gods, I hope it do,
For entertainment vast I here acquire,
And to obtain more practice I aspire,
Since most of you possess vocabularies
Bound to stump and irk constabularies,
Landing us in dutch with Johnny Law
Who scratches head and mutters curses raw
As he hopes Lady Justice will agree
That we’ve cross’d o’er to illegality
Tho’ head nor tail of this thread he can’t make,
Yet stern offense at our words he doth take.
I’ve had my drink! And now to find some lunch.
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The absence of my mind irks me a bunch;
In winter, jackets help me bring my gear,
So that I never, ever need to fear
Forgetting something that I want to take.
In summer, though, my mind is e’er awake
And so I check my person to inquire
Whether I have each gadget I desire,
Whereas, if a device is left astray
From the coat pocket where it’s s’pposed to stay
I do not check to see if it was miss’d.
My point, I’ve dwelled on far too long, is this:
I wish I had my iPod here with me
Instead of where, at home, it sits to be
Updated with the latest songs I’ve bought.
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My friend, I think your problem here I spot
And twofold may it be, for first of all:
'Tis neither summer, nor doth icy pall
Of winter breathe a chill upon sunset.
For northern hemisphere, 'tis autumn yet.
Down south the buds of spring erupt in bloom
So heavy coat and shorts stay in your room.
Mayhap the iPod, filled with tunes galore,
Should live next to your keys, close by front door?
And second, may I say you show your age,
Perhaps, confessing, at this modern stage,
That songs you bought (not pirated nor stole
Nor downloaded from Limewire albums whole)
With hard-earned cash, like Gen-X sucker me?
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The bitter north is where I tend to be,
Where just two seasons deign to show their face:
The summer where the sun o’er head does blaze,
And winter, with its frigid winds and frost.
A month ago, the first leaves were not lost,
But shorts and t-shirts were the fit apparel
And now the temper of the air is sterile,
And even daylight not much warms the land.
All this I say that you may understand
Why wearing jackets is not by mere choice.
As for the music, long ago my voice
Did utter forth a vow that, should I choose
An album that I could not bear to lose,
And keep it on my side from day to day,
I’d find within my budget cash to pay
The artist for their work; it’s only fair.
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I find your ethics thus beyond compare.
Hey wow! Behold the time! Where has it gone?
Nine months hath pass’d twixt then and this day’s dawn.
We could belike have brought a babe to term,
To squalling life from mere conception’s germ!
But what the hell; we’re here, not dead, not yet,
So howzabout we kick this tête-à-tête
Back into gear, and flaunt our honeyed words?
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If words you want, than words you shall have.
Applesauce, barleycorn, cornicopia, dingleberry
Earthworm, Fastenal, gargoyle, happenstance
Inglorious, Johnson, kleptomaniac, leper
Mincemeat, nincompoop, oscillation, partisanship
Queers, Rapscallions, strongmen, terminators
Unilever, veliociraptor, wombat, xylophones
Yankee, zebra.
These are your words, use them with care.
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Ahem. Not one of them rhymes with “turds.”
Not one.
(plus “cornucopia” has a U)
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The form’s iambic pattern’s missing, too.
I think Wisconsin Platt skipped the OP.
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Surds.
The Necromancer of this thread, that’s me!
I hope you all are well, still rhyming words
With better mates than made up things like “surds.”
(I cast a disapproving eye at Dave
Who surely can do better if he’s brave!)
So what’s been new these last thirty-two moons?
I hear Will Smith and Chris Rock made like goons,
We found an elderly new President,
We’ve new women on SCOTUS resident
(Though one is not sworn into office yet
And t’other one is merely Satan’s pet),
And oh yes! There’s a new/old war afoot
As authoritarianism doth take root
In ways not seen since mine own misspent yout’.
(I think I’ll cease this Current Events toot;
This thread is meant to merely be a Hoot!)
So anyway, you poets still alive?
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