Tag Archives: rocky and bullwinkle

From the Poetry Corner ~ What Doesn’t Kill Me Makes Me Stranger

 Gentle Readers,

 While not every poem we write is a great one, sometimes we write them anyway. We realize it is time for a blog and Ferd hasn’t done anything noteworthy to report on today, so why not just take the time and take this rhyme and maybe enjoy it and maybe not.

 It was on a piece of paper next to the laptop when we woke up, so we may as well share it here and then we do not have to stick it in a drawer with all the other poems on loose leafs.

 Our eventual friend, Mr Happy Death, awaits us all, so we may as well give the devil his due and what better way than with some good, old-fashioned poetry?

 

Many times in this short life
I’ve put myself in danger.
Looking back, I came to know
what didn’t kill me
made me stranger!
 
Nobody leaves this place alive…
on that I’d always wager.
If you can say a better way,
tell me what it is.
I’ll trade you.
 
It always goes that way
but there’s still no need to pray
Earth is worth a dearth of mirth.
Why give birth to dismay?
 
Golden flowers on the quay
float, and bobbing, drift away.
They twirl and whirl, unfurled, then curl.
Surely, sinking ends their day.
 
~
And that is it,  Dear Readers, nothing heavy, nothing lengthy, just a little verse spilled over the wall. A short blog for a rainy day.
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One From Far Left Field And Past The Poetry Corner ~ repost

 Gentle Readers,

Today we bring you a bit of poetry that has been hidden for decades like a gem waiting to be found or a snake under a rock, coiled and waiting to strike. A recent discussion of the film The Doors left us wondering if our copy of the Jim Morrison poetry book The Lords and The New Creatures  was a first print or not.  It was on a shelf in the bedroom, so upon retiring last evening, we pulled it from the shelf to find it is a second printing.

However, we did find a few curious things sticking out from inside, one being a poem scribbled on a Chi-Chi’s mexican restaurant receipt and the other was a vitriolic poem, apparently written as an insult to Your Humble Narrator, and judging from the timely reference to Phil Donahue, a TV celebrity from the 1980s, we estimate it was written somewhere around that era.

This is a poem left by an ex. It could be an ex-wife, ex-girlfriend…sounds more like an executioner…anyway, it was fun to fall asleep laughing, really laughing hard.  The poem is quite an effort and since we always are the first to laugh at ourselves, we are more than eager to share. The poet shall remain unknown and un-named but it could be the same character who appeared in Issue 8 of Beatdom, assaulting Your Narrator with a rubber chicken.

Let’s read:

 My Mind is a wasteland

so is my cat’s eye’s. (sic)

Snow drips off my chest

as my nipples are licked.

Fire in my microwave,

frozen in my freezer –

just pull the plug.

Rat poison in my wineglass

better put it in it Mom’s, instead.

Go ahead and try to distract me

you piece of ‘naive crap’ Poet!

Go rub your balls on frosted glass.

No wonder why women lick tweeter

instead of peckers…

less of a distraction.

Slime covers my earlobes,

you are not good enough

to lick off.

My chickens (sic) is better

than a ton of your

‘let’s get in touch with

our feelings’ crap.

Who’s dick do you suck anyway?

Phil Donahue’s?

Well, folks, haha, that is it. Now we can remember why the Humble Narrator married her to begin with…the sense of humour!!!

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From the Poetry Corner ~ You Do Not Know Me

                                                                             Gentle Readers,

     Once again we ask you to forgive our absence, this time due to the death of my Verizon modem, which served me for a remarkable six and a half years.  Once the problem was established, a new modem was ordered and we found ourself lost offline.  It took a full week, then sputtered and we were off for another day.

     We got a lot of real world stuff done, instead of sitting on Facebook but we did feel strangely disconnected.  We did see the first episode of the new season of Law and Order: Criminal Intent and we are making the prediction that Bobby Goren will find happiness this season and then find death.  You heard it here first, folks!

     Anyway, the poem is self-explanatory, unlike three poems I will publish in Beatdom in a few weeks.  They are strange poems and part of a longer story, which you can read in Beatdom Issue 9, the Drugs Issue.  In it, I present an essay which is a third essay, a third poetry and the final third is a bite of real life humour, all rolled into one conveniently titled entry, “At The Holiday Inn”.

     In the meantime, while you wait, this is one from last week, called You Do Not Know Me.

I only exist

in the words on this page.

That is my act.

This is my stage.

Very few know me –

it’s a very rare sort

who have looked in my eyes

and heard my retort.

You may know my name

but not what is inside.

A handful have loved me

with arms opened wide.

To most I am Phantom,

locked in my screen,

I  keep writing for you

for all that it means.

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Poetry Corner ~ Windup Toy

     Considerate Literates,

     It appears that you enjoy reading the bits of literature and poetry we have posted since changing the theme of our blog.  The numbers do not lie and we find it gratifying to post something besides the usual rant about subjects near and dear to us.

     We are not sure why the do not have poetry circles, as opposed to the poetry corner, but if it was good enough for Bullwinkle J. Moose, it ought to be good enough for us.  The avantage here is that we get to finish the poem, whereas Bullwinkle never had such luck.  We miss Bullwinkle on Saturday mornings.  We heard that Sarah Palin made an assassination attempt on him but he appears to have escaped unscathed so we wish him the best!

     Today’s offering is another older one, since we had the notebook open from the last blog and also since this week saw the celebration of International Womans Day.

Windup Toy

Here at the factory door she stands,

hair on her shoulders in greasy, limp strands.

The door slams behind her.  She doesn’t make plans.

“What’s the use in it all? What’s the use, then,” she screams?

Weekends collapse into cascades of dreams.

On Monday it’s back to the sound of machines.

Comforts she finds in the arms of her lover

quiet the restlessness yet never quite smother

dissatisfaction – it tugs at the covers.

Passions consumed with the closing of eyes,

cigarette lit, by the window she lies.

Eternities live while her destiny dies.

                     ~                                              ~                                                      ~

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