Tag Archives: nonsense

Call It Madness: mad song

You gawk and call it madness,
a sickness that afflicts
  the weak of mind,
  the poor, the kind;
by gods, you’re such a prick.

You practice looking sideways,
avoiding the fool’s eyes:
  a damning mirror,
  where you see clearer
your own decay and sad demise.

You laugh and offer insult,
never a helping hand.
  Why bother trying?
  If purged by dying,
so much improved is noble man.

You ferment malice with no reason;
no one is truly mad.
  What’s real takes practice,
  beyond mere praxis,
what’s done and been had.

Your own mind wavers
from sane to madness:
  one minute’s level,
  the next, the Devil.
A shallow life of mostly sadness.

6 APR 2017

The Last Word: amphigory

Both must belong to neither’s outside in;
besides, it’s either up or down or spin.
And anyway, what’s more is always less,
and wears at Tuesday noon its Sunday best.

What’s done is almost never cooked quite through,
and makes its water difficult to chew;
in circumspect, this marching on the square
leaves enemies and friends left unaware.

When drinking, alcohol against the grain
results in disagreeable refrains:
a slurry-o of words as thick as soup
fit only for a wooden handled scoop.

And neither’s out is destined to begin:
the game’s afoot immersed in bathtub gin,
and anyway, leaves no one to beguile
nor stack the bodies on the funeral pile.

What’s started well is finished half well off,
and left for those pigs swilling at the trough.
I would again, but really, what’s the use?
The one with the last word gets the abuse.

09 JAN 2017

Cannon Fodder

When all else fails (and at some point it will),
so all that’s left to us is simply talk,
the victors will be those with basic skills
for making idle words seem like a walk

through all the rhetoric and empty lies
that promise surplus but deliver less,
and when we take offense and act surprised
remind us of our own unmindfulness.

I wonder, when that fateful day arrives,
the morning we awaken at long last,
if our frail egos will in fact survive
with sense enough to learn some from the past.

I doubt it. It’s much easier to sleep.
Besides, that keeps the cannon fodder cheap.

02 DEC 2014

The Cure is Worse

To make it work,
you need, in fact,
an ounce of this,
a pinch of that:

two whiskers from
a stubborn cat,
a half an ounce
of bacon fat,

a blade of grass
from a cow pat,
three specks of dust
from the doormat,

a splinter from
an aged wine vat,
machine oil from
a rusted gat.

Mix it all
in a tophat,
then grind the blend
between brickbats.

Now drink it down,
and that is that.

03 APR 2014

Grr the Glab-Glab

My name is Shaba Waba,
The Grr the Glab-glab man;
I learned to Grr the Glab-glab,
Although not many can.

I love to Grr the Glab-glab,
and I will tell you why
if I can’t Grr the Glab-glab
I’ll hang my head and cry.

I learned to Grr the Glab-glab
when I was just a pup;
and once I Grr the Glab-glab
it’s hard to shut me up.

I Glab-glab in the morning,
all day and through the night;
if you would Grr the Glab-glab,
you learn to do it right.

I Grr the Glab-glab daily,
at every chance I get;
I Grr at friends and neighbors,
and Glab-glab at their pets.

I Grr when someone moves me,
and Glab-glab when I dine;
at Mama and at Daddy,
and my friend Caroline.

At any sign of danger,
I Grr the Glab-glab song;
I’ll always Grr the Glab-glab,
though some may thing it’s wrong.

Now you know Grr the Glab-glab,
and surely you can see:
you must love Grr the Glab-glab
to hang around with me.

I sing out Grr the Glab-glab,
so all will understand
my name is Shaba Waba,
the Grr the Glab-glab man.

for Sondra and Shaba Z’ar

17 AUG 2013

The Cow Sutra: a double dactyl

Tabitha Johnson
went to the marketplace
and bought a cow,

spur of the moment,
She had no need for it
but owns it now.

Samuel Swanson
met Tabby halfway home
crying the blues.

“What will I do?” she asked,
Samuel just smiled at her,
and said, “Well, moo.”

19 DEC 2012

Speech Between the Fallen – a cywyyd deuair hyrion

Must I explain it once more?

Try hard to fight the boredom
that most likely will ensue
the moment you think useless
any viewpoint but your own,
and on your cragged and stony
field, let germinate a seed
of mine. I am not pleading
with you; I have friends enough
without you: fine and tougher
allies than you’ll ever make,
trees that strong winds have shaken
but whose roots remain well sunk.

This no rambling, drunken
speech from one who laughs too loud;
nor cryptic verse of clouded
rhyme enmeshed with metaphor.

I’ve said it now so poorly
that it makes no sense at all.

How low we both have fallen!

10 Dec 2012