Tag Archives: poetry blog

To a Progressive Poet

Your poems read as staggered prose;
the rhythm of the words escapes you.
One assumes, un-mused, you chose
a free-verse prison to run into.

You are modern. And it shows
in lack of structure, meter, beat.
Your emperor, set free of clothes
meanders on unsteady feet

exposed as naked, fending blows
from anarch subjects bored to tears
by cryptic, existential woes
and dreary imagery. One hears

within the verbiage you compose
a load of godless free-form tripe.
The lyrical ebb achieves new lows;
the scent is somewhat over-ripe…

Flux Danger

The Lip-Glossed Bimbo Network News (Bare and Phalanxed)

jenna-fox-news

Presenting spin in HD hues,
bankrolled by conglomerates,
the vapid visual dominates
The Lip-Glossed Bimbo Network News.

Eschewing all the old taboos:
a mouthpiece for the metro-queer.
The Antichrist will soon appear
on lip-glossed bimbo network news.

Regardless of what next ensues
they cover every breaking story
(better when it’s really gory).
Attacks and tragedies amuse
They never miss their prime-time cues,
those pert disinformation crews:
the lip-glossed bimbo network news.

Wherever a teapot tempest brews
they’re on the feed – it’s Live at 10;
they edit out the Truth and then
homogenize conflicting views.
Sedated viewers now can choose
what semi-informed tele-snooze
they wish to see or heed or use.

Water, water everywhere…
a thousand channels on the air
but precious little left to lose.
It’s fair and balanced – on the brink
between PC and global-think.
It’s news for nimrods: PRAVDA-lite
the babel of descending night
now veils the flat-screen universe
MSNBC gets worse
unable to reverse the curse
of lip-glossed bimbo network news.

A bare and phalanxed fascist fox!
Liberals thus depict their foe;
(she’s barely right of center, though…
yet still they’re having hissy fits
while staring at her cleavage.) It’s
enough to make them blow their fuse—
forget diversity of views !
The offer no one can refuse
is lip-glossed bimbo network news.

Abomination of Versification

I’d like to write another post
as the world slides into hell;
a post that flows and has a beat
and truth to tell.

Regardless of the topic’s theme
it really ought to roll…
and thus inspire someone to dream
– or save their soul.

The problem is my muse gets serious,
too pensive, way too fast.
Accentuating the delirious
is what will last.

I’m tired of those with words to share
who say it so damn poorly.
They publish tripe devoid of life
so self-assuredly…

world_on_fire__improved_wallpaper__by_hardii-d5djhq2

Sic my Muse on ya!


Modern  poetry is progressive, and inherently superior to that of the past.
This is my private reading of a new offering:

Ahem.  (stands at microphone, shuffles a paper)

What I

find less than arresting: stilted musings gem-set

in ardent verbiage.

recherché semantics, florid phrases facing a withering sun

or policing of metaphor –

until handcuffed: Italic jewel thief caught on surveillance

Sudden bewildering

spaces with odd punctuation;  ?  &

inward dithering semi-confessions in serpentine

verse.  Badder (or worse)  annoying line

breaks/

cloying internal half – rhymes,

overwrought.     Over-edited;

over-thought until  you want to see

what’s on TV instead.   As if

the poet’s every random musing was so

essential.  Reverential semi-precious mythos

(Siren’s distant waves echo, shipwrecked rocks: Ossifer,  ossifer –

it’s only boring poetry…

                        I’m so sorry. I’ll never do it)

again.

(Shuffles papers, sits down)

Did you enjoy it?  I didn’t. The 17 hours I labored over it were grueling. OK.  Now for some oh-so-passé highly-structured message-oriented religious poetry. This woman‘s only claim to fame is that she wrote America the Beautiful after ascending the  Rocky Mountains by wagon and mule as a visiting English professor at Colorado College in 1893.
[from Streams in the Desert, Sep. 18]

YESTERDAY’S GRIEF

The rain that fell a-yesterday is ruby on the roses,

Silver on the poplar leaf, and gold on willow stem;

The grief that chanced a-yesterday is silence that incloses

Holy loves when time and change shall never trouble them.

The rain that fell a-yesterday makes all the hillsides glisten,

Coral on the laurel and beryl on the grass;

The grief that chanced a-yesterday has taught the soul to listen

For whispers of eternity in all the winds that pass.

O faint-of-heart, storm-beaten, this rain will gleam tomorrow,

Flame within the columbine and jewels on the thorn,

Heaven in the forget-me-not; though sorrow now be sorrow,

Yet sorrow shall be  beauty in the magic of the morn.

Katherine Lee Bates (1859 -1929)

Back to my day job.     I bid thee farewell, amazing  muses of our amusing mazes.