Despite being a crappy year overall, bringing in large part misery, destitution and hopelessness, we still managed to reach great heights of creativity, thanks to you, my e-friends. We even joined forces on several occasions to produce profound, poetic dialog expressing our suffering, our joy and our inebriation.
With the kind permission of the authors, I present them here in one convenient location. Come with me as we remember 2008 in verse.
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October 4
In late September, I was stung by a hornet and posted an account of my experience – complete with video. My Australian friend, RinklyRimes, read it on The Bobliotheque, where I write as ReidAndwright. She responded with this verse:
Oh dear! Reid cannot play the cornet!
He’s been bitten by a hornet.
He was on his way to play
But at home he had to stay.
“Come at once!” The leader cried
“Without the cornet we’ve no pride!
Without the twiddly bits you play
We’ll be laughing-stock today.”
“I’ll send you a video of my arm!
That hornet did me lots of harm!”
“Wear a bandage and a sling!
We need you like anything!”
So brave Reid struggled and did his best
And the orchestra passed the test!
Which doesn’t make much sense I know!
But I just thought I would say ‘Hallo!’
I respond:Hornet, you don’t know with whom you’re dealing.
Bite me again! This time with feeling!
I don’t mind the pain, the swelling …
Go ahead, it’s your death bell knelling!
That sting will be your final gaffe;
This verse will be your epitaph.
Now old Reid can play his horn
And forget the sting that tragic morn.
And, though he died before his time,
The bug lives on in Rinkly’s rhyme.
Thanks for stopping to share your poem.
I squashed the bug. Now, that’ll show ’im.
October 22
Sandy posted the following on her blog and drew me into her fairy-tale world:
Frogs don’t become princes
the moment they’re kissed;
Prince Charming’s not real.
He doesn’t exist.
The mythical knight
Who sets bosoms aflutter
Just might not like you
As much as his mother,
If he holds you close
And begs you to stay,
He might be married,
He’s probably gay.
If he pledges his troth
And vows to be true
He’s likely to have other
Girlfriends than you.
Though you’d swear to the heavens
He’s a prince born and bred,
He’s not Prince Charming
But Charles instead.
Which prompted:
And what of the princess?
Pray tell me that.
She’s brassy and needy
And vulgar and fat.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel!
Hey! Are you there?”
“Not tonight, Charming,
I’m doing my hair!”
And what of that beauty
Asleep, white as snow?
Kiss her awake?
“No” always means “No.”
And that peasant girl
With slippers of glass?
She came in a pumpkin …
She ain’t got no class.
Even that Mouse!
I don’t care who you are …
I’d still chat her up
At the ol’ Minnie bar.
O! Where is that girl?
I know what sells!
I can’t wait no more,
I’ve got Disney spells.
So I can’t get a date
With a girl on a whim.
There’s plenty of fish …
It’s not all that Grimm.
I thought your verse
Was a little bit slanted.
It’s not just the guys …
Girls, too, are enchanted.
November 6
Late one night – on the East Coast, anyway – Lucky posted a lovely blog in verse:
My Page was old
it had to go
I have some stories yet untold
Of Maternal woe
and Teenage foe
and Republicans who are so slow
I need to write
of all my plights
and be creative in the nights
And light and funny
I shall be
with all my typed verbosity
The pressure’s on
soon comes the dawn
I’ll dream of punchlines on the lawn
My hat is old
my teeth are gold
for now my story
is yet all told. ...
I’m pledging to write more blogs and soon. ...
It’s been awhile. …
Go look at the moon!
Exhausted, I posted what I thought would be the end of that night’s exchange and bring welcome sleep:
This one sits at a bar
This one has a little scar.
This one … I don’t know what you are.
Oh, what a lot of blogs there are.
I should try to get some sleep.
Maybe I should count some sheep.
Oh, why do I stay up so late?
One more blog ... it’s worth the wait!
It’s one a.m. and, what the deuce?
I’m sitting, writing like Dr. Seuss.
I hate to sit and waste a rhyme,
But, what the hell, it’s on your dime.
So, I’ll cruise along on this course,
Encourage dialogue and discourse.
If you don’t like what I have to say,
I’ll change my mind. What the hay?
But when SueFancypants – wide awake on the other side of the world – came back with this, I knew sleep would elude me:
There’s no moon out here
So while I wait
I shall have another beer
And I’ll sing an Aussie song
so my waiting won’t seem so bloody long...
Waltzing Matilda
Somebody killed her
Found her in the grass
with a stick up her arse
I couldn’t resist:
Poor Matilda and her arse.
That Jolly Swagman, what a farce!
He didn’t know what could go wrong
When he grabbed her by the billabong!
He got her jumbuck, then he toiled
In its fleece. His Billy boiled.
With a sneer and scornful frown
She didn’t half tie his kangaroo down.
Matilda, damn! She’s on the rag.
She grabbed him by the tucker bag.
You’ve got to give Matilda cred ...
His foreskin’s nailed upon the shed!
Swagman said, “Now, what the deuce?
“Won’t someone come and cut me loose?”
And his cry may be heard as sweet as angels’ choirs
“Won’t somebody please come and bring me some pliers?”
December 16
Just as we were all doing our last-minute Christmas shopping and baking, my friend Cog’s Nisant was having a bad day, so did what any true friend would do. I offered to recite Chaucer and cheer her up. Alas, she said hers was more of a Poe mood, so I did the next best thing:
I know you’re nodding, nearly napping
So I’ll tread gently, not too loud.
What is that? A gift you’re wrapping?
Not for me! I’m Poe, but I’m still proud.
Cog, always sharp as a tack, didn’t miss a beat:
There I sat all weak and weary,
Finishing the last cold beer-y,
Scanning channels through eyes tired and teary
When suddenly there came a rapping.
Violently knuckles tapping,
Pounding on my chamber door.
Tis some idiot and nothing more.
As I lectured on visiting hours,
He presented me with flowers,
Only daisies – what a bore!
He sat there begging for affection
Barely hiding his erection.
He was here with plans to score.
To our relationship he was no devotee,
And I demanded he leave me,
Else he be an amputee.
He wants a whore and nothing more.
Which, in turn, engendered:
Ah, the silken, sad uncertain rustling
Of each Christmas wrapper bustling
To – wait! – you strike me to the core!
I knew I should not be pushing daisies,
But I was tired and late and lazy!
I see you’ve been down this road before.
So I turned ’way, my flowers wilted.
Spurned and scorned, rejected, jilted.
And so I sought some seamy whore,
Swearing, sotto voce, “Nevermore.”
That’s the saddest thing you ever saw, sir.
I told you we should stick with Chaucer.
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These were the highlight of my year! Thanks y’all, I had fun and I look forward to more collaboration in 2009. Let's see if we can popularize a new kind of blog. The Blog Poem, or Blow ’em.
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