A. Gee Where words collide

Poems

The Ballad of the Stoic Fisherman

it was a warm and sunny day
and let there be no doubt
it would have likely stayed that way
a sudden awful shout
disturbed the gently swaying reeds
a fisherman had scored
a bloated body, dirty deeds
had earned their just rewards
no documents on the deceased
and missing fingertips
unlikely that he'd seen a priest
and in his pocket, chips
three dollar ones, a five, one more
they add up to thirteen
the settling of an old score
that's what they might have been
perhaps a cautionary tale
to silence any doubt
he may have plead to no avail
the day his luck ran out

our fisherman considered all
unhooked the body's vest
and following no protocol
discretion seeming best
moved to another fishing spot
unused that day, his scale
and came home empty, having caught
only a fishing tale

Rules and Rulers

the argument: what is a poem
may have predated Rehoboam
as far back as old Gilgamesh
cuneiforms, were judged as "fresh"
or hardly worth their weight in clay
(old Solomon, they often say
used a technique of pray and spray
with poems as with wives
his song of songs survives)

I often wonder, nonetheless
when seeing adjectives abused
would these be seen as fit to press
were Guttenberg's technique still used
descriptions dripping, drip, drip, drip
(resembling an acid trip
write-only drivel, get a grip
and blandness pours from every pore
the autorank, though, what a score!)

this balderdash a poem?
to read 'em is to know 'em
I'll let the audience decide
on to the next one, bleary eyed

Metric Mile High Club

were it not for the Internet, on this old plane
this new ballad would hardly be writ
with no access to Rhymezone, my verse would be plain
though not free, it's enhancing my wit

realizing I've joined a peculiar club
metric poetry written on high
for a membership -- and,  this is hardly a snub
choose a meter and write while you fly

be it worthy of praise or a generous groan
not a masterpiece -- surely you jest
but the masterpiece writers, they've all long since gone
of those born on a plane -- perhaps best

we are landing, and soon, leaving nothing to chance
I shall end on this final quatrain
oh I'm glad, oh so glad, that in this circumstance
I did not chose to travel by train

Goddess Scorned

her left hand holds the Aegis shield
javelin armed, she takes the field
defending Greeks, heroes and plebes
be they from Sparta or from Thebes

she won't forgive Paris's slight
let him pursue Helen's delight
and Aphrodite, let her weep
her chosen slain, butchered like sheep

Odysseus, her favorite son
for him she will take on the sun
Apollo knocked back on his back
the battle swings as Greeks attack

her father interferes, to stay
her victory delayed that day
she has a backup plan, of course
soon she'll trot out the Trojan horse

Writer's Block

head feels like an empty vessel
echoes heckle off the walls
stale ideas squirm and wrestle
to gain entry to its halls

slowly, but the barrier weakens
its light, absent any beacons
permeates, its reddish glow
standing pat against the flow

suddenly I feel it brighten
an idea does break through
an Olympian, a Titan!
...ugh, get back into the queue

is there nothing fresher pending
where one doesn't know the ending
an emotion yet untouched
saying little, but so much

hopeless is the task, I gather
well, at least there's no spilled ink
but there's nothing I would rather
(even if it turns to blather)
I shall sit here, and I'll think