I've got a poem in my pocket
neither a limerick nor Nantucket
it's not a haiku or a sonnet
no children will be taught upon it
no triolet or villanelle
(there's no refrain, that's how you tell)
It's not an ode or a cinquain
I haven't written it for gain
and most of all, it's not free verse
though if done well, I'm not averse
free speech
is just like free lunch
someone has to pay
stop tilting at windmills
it's time to save Sancho
today's Don Quixotes
still don't have a hunch, though
if truth to be told
I don't mind them at all
the birds, I agree
wind up paying a toll
some poems die from strictly common causes
a heart that breaks too often, meter running
yet others die of boredom, misplaced pauses
or not enough, or sometimes too much punning
most often though, they die from strangulation
while still in draft mode, having not been saved
through lack of oxygen, or adulation
they're rarely -- though it happens -- well behaved
what's Babi Yar?
ravine made for disposal
to kill both out of sight
and out of mind
how natural
when there is a proposal
exterminating
those not of our kind
what's Babi Yar?
it's unrelenting stain
requiring no monument
or plaque
each time that you
abandon or abstain
or, faced with horror
choose to taunt and mock
what's Babi Yar?
it's what you do
while hiding behind
"that's not who we are"
that's Babi Yar
Author notes: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Babi_Yar
the alien rebellion first started with my wife
"Enough!" she said. "Of love" she said, "until I get a life"
"But hon..." I mumbled, spun and fumbled, "wasn't this our deal?"
"Our species' done with being Mrs.", she said, turning teal
my rhyming feet
tend to compete
without regard
and no holds barred
when needed, though
they'll pose, just so
and meter will
still fill the bill
but when I see
fait accompli
where meter's off
it makes me scoff
it's not that hard
draw the right card
and keep to beat
those dancing feet
in winter, we are discontent
by summertime, we look for snow
and, sitting closely to the vent
in winter, we are discontent
what can be done to circumvent
this constant feeling, I don't know
in winter, we are discontent
by summertime, we look for snow
The factory where syllables are molded into words
ran into unexpected issues, and,
as consonants and vowels diverged, their separated herds
were getting quite hard to understand.
When asked, the cunning linguists said: "supply chain is at fault.
We need to bring our syllables back home.
'Cause otherwise, our language risks recession and default
We can't outsource our verbiage to Rome!"
Yet others said: "Let's tax those vowels! They're far too free today.
We can't just have a syllable at will."
That effort beaten back, with vows that "liberty must stay!
I say wow-wee, you say wow-wee, just chill."
Well, in the end, the syllabi adjusted to supply,
and if your consonants need stretch, a vowel you must buy.
why is great Paris so named, you may ask
some say, a famed Celtic tribe
I think the City of Love got its task
due to the Trojan -- and bribe
mighty she was, Aphrodite, in none
of a great prince's demands
but, as it turns, she excelled in just one
one that will often wreck plans
love, she did promise, and love he shall have
enough for a thousand ships
Helen rebelling, and all for that love
Odyssey-full of bad trips
was it all worth it, since Helen did flee
back to the Sparta of old
no referee who's been to gay Paree
minds that this story's been told
Author notes: https://www.theoi.com/Olympios/JudgementParis.html
"Imagine a centaur
the style, the grace, the power!
That is my wish, genie", I said.
and now I sport this horse's head
***************** prior to edit to fit wc *********************
I told the genie: a centaur
is what I want to be
He said: I don't have that much power
I said: don't lie to me
the good news: still sleep in my bed
I got a horse's head instead
Author notes: wc 23
The violated earth abides,
the coal stripped from its womb.
It doesn't know from man's divides
and serves a willing tomb.
They razed our towns and burned our farms,
and said: "these are our borders".
Then cut our weeping willow's arms.
"Just following our orders".