In honor of World Poetry Day, March 21

Roses are red
Burritos are yummy
If you voted for Trump
Then you’re just a big dummy

Roses are red
Like burgundy wine
He may be YOUR President
But he sure isn’t MINE

Roses are red
So is Superman’s cape
I wonder how long
Till we see the pee tape?

Roses are red
Like a red rubber ball
And Mexico says
They won’t pay for the wall

Roses are red
Like fast sporty cars
I can’t wait to see
His ass behind bars

Roses are red
So they’re easy to find
He can’t keep his lips
Off of Putin’s behind

Roses are red
Like a nasty infection
Now Stormy has photos
Of his tiny erection

Roses are red
Puppies are cute
He paid off a hooker
And Christians are mute

Roses are red
Tambourines jingle
And his trophy wife
Wishes she was still single

Roses are red
Like Putin, his crony
And that whole election
Was phony baloney

Roses are red
Like a big fire truck
And all of his followers
Are scary AF

Roses are red
They require lots of water
It’s creepy as hell
That he’s hot for his daughter

Roses are red
Like cherries with pits
We can’t see his taxes
But we’ve seen his wife’s tits

Roses are red
Like a circus balloon
I hope Robert Mueller
Can wrap this up soon

Roses are red
Like the stuff in our veins
I really do miss
A President with brains


Anti-limericks.

bullwinkle-poetry

Image from celebrateeverydayblog.com

A CIA agent named XXXXXXX
Would XXXXXX at XXXXX and XXXXX.
He was XXXXXXXXX
For failure to clear
Limericks with his superiors.
Click here for more.


Discovered a good poem, worth a read.

WRONG HEART by Alban Williamson

One filled with passion,
devotion, and care;
another indifferent,
aloof, and austere.

She was offered two hearts,
and held one in each hand.
The fortunes of both
were hers to command.

But she broke the wrong heart,
left it crushed and alone.
And now both of those hearts
have turned into stone.


Past masters: Robert Frost

the-road-not-taken-robert-frostIt’s funny how the meanings of things like poems and songs can change for a person over time. This one sure has.

“The Road Not Taken” was required reading in my high school English class. I am the product of early-70s secondary education: I never was taught to conjugate a verb or when to use a semicolon (never!), but I knew about all the great American poets. It was very, very important to Get In Touch With Our Feelings about the poems we read. Like most of my peers, I had feelings of rebelliousness and rugged individuality from “The Road Not Taken.” Maybe it was an adolescent guy thing, I don’t know. He took the road less traveled by, you see: he took the unpopular path, the one less people took, he blazed his own trail, and says with a sigh of satisfaction that doing so has made all the difference in his life. Rock on, bro.

Some fifteen years later I read it again as a young adult. I got a whole different meaning from it. He kept the first path for another day, fully intending to revisit it, but doubting somewhat that would ever happen. He had to pick his path based on what he knew at the moment. The sigh became a sigh of longing and regret. He had chosen the harder way, the less-traveled way, and encountered the consequences along the path. He wondered how things would have gone if he chose the other, because his choice had made all the difference and led him to where he was that day.

Jump ahead another twenty years, and I read it as yet an older man. Again, the meaning changed. There’s a big clue in the title that I never caught before. Many people refer to the poem as “The Road Less Traveled,” but actually the title is “The Road Not Taken.” He’s describing the road he didn’t take, “the road less traveled” by him. Because there was in fact no difference between the two paths: they were worn about the same and would very likely have led to the same destination. Either choice was equally good or bad: and as an older man, reflecting on his life, he sighs with resignation and laments that he must have taken the more difficult path to where he ended up. Was he dissatisfied with where the path took him? Somewhat, probably: we all are at times. But this revisionist history is how he explains it to himself and others. His “story for the neighbors,” as an acquaintance used to say.

Sometimes I rationalize my circumstances by saying I must have reached them “the hard way,” though in reality I know better. Choosing one path over another doesn’t determine all: subsequent choices, and judgment, and good old fate and fortune’s favor and karma play a role as well.

See? No semicolons.


Past masters: E.E. Cummings

Image from wikipedia

And no, he didn’t generally sign his name in lower case. He did so now and then, often to show humility, so decades of obsessed high-school readers decided that must be the way he signed it all the time.

That said, this is my favorite poem of his. Lucy’s Football (read her blog, folks, it’s awesome) put me in mind of this today.

You are tired, (I think)

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.