“I” am a collection of cells.
some expressly invited by “my” genes
others are interlopers, “my” guts their cross-town bus
but these interlopers defend “me” daily
fending off worse marauders
thankfully
so “I” let them stay inside “me”
“my” greatest shame? “I” am a slave owner.
the mitochondria in “my” cells are trapped and forced to serve “me”
all this begs one fundamental question,
am “I” really just a “me?”
or a whole society?
If “my” parts
needn’t be fully integrated
where do “I” end and “you” begin?
can “I” say that “I” have been everywhere?
well, everywhere on this tiny, spherical-ish speck of galactic dust?
Once upon a day in February
ruminating about creatures scary
staring at a flaring cobra hood
I thought, maybe this serpent ‘s just misunderstood
I know its bad rap (wrap?) is Biblically-inspired,
but perhaps it’s time that rap be retired
if you stepped on me, I’d bite you too
well, perhaps not bite, but in the harshest tone bid you adieu
The crocodile has a snappy smile
and is always dressed in dapper style
if you evict him from his birthday suit
to suit your needs for some snazzy boots
I think we’ll all understand, if he claims as his your right hand
don’t think it’s some vast assault on man
think of it as a reptilian guru teaching one Zen koan
and, to you, the sound of one hand clapping will be known
hint: it sounds like a bloodcurdling scream
and requires a readied surgical team
Taken at Budapest Zoo
Your bigger tiger can be a grumpy cat
when unwise souls encroach its habitat
just don’t pitch a tent like you own the place
if you value the features on your face
think of yourself as that visiting kin
for whom “just passing through” looks like “moving in”
you don’t feel nice calling Uncle Bob a pest
think how the tiger feels ripping your heart from your chest
Taken at a “bear park” in Veresegyház, Hungary
Grizzly bears’ hairiness inspires scariness
but under that fur is the motive for wariness
it may look like rolly-polly flab
but bears have muscular six-pack abs
you think you’ve got him in your trap
but wonder how your spine just snapped
a minor miscalculation on the tranq front
and your life is liquids through a shunt
can you blame him, the trap ‘s a rusty, toothy maw
that you just caused to kill his paw
If you’ve ever had someone tell you that any water can be put in a pot (for pronouncing drinking water pot-table rather that po-table), then you may be with me here. If you frequently exercise your perogative, rather than your prerogative, you may agree. Have you had sherbert, or only sherbet? Do both your eggs and oxen have yokes?
If you’re not with me, you –my friend– might be the person on the right in my little stick cartoon.
I’m as anal about language as the next writer, but let’s try to dial down the pretentiousness. The big question I have for pronunciation police is this: What in your experience with the English language has led you to believe it is a phonetic language?
For those who think English is phonetic because they learned it via “Phonics,” let me expose you to a poem that says it more eloquently than I ever could. (I would attribute the poem, but it is to my knowledge owed to that most prolific “Anonymous” chap.)
Hints on Pronunciation for Foreigners
I take it you already know of tough and bough and cough and dough. Others may stumble, but not you, On hiccough, thorough, laugh and through. Well done! And now you wish, perhaps, To learn of less familiar traps.
Beware of heard, a dreadful word That looks like beard and sounds like bird. And dead-it’s said like bed, not bead. For goodness sake, don’t call it deed! Watch out for meat and great and threat. They rhyme with suite and straight and debt.
A moth is not a moth in mother, Nor both in bother, broth in brother, And here is not a match for there, Nor dear and fear for pear and bear. And then there’s dose and rose and lose Just look them up–and goose and choose. And cork and work and card and ward. And font and front and word and sword. And do and go, then thwart and cart. Come, come I’ve hardly made a start.
A dreadful language? Man alive, I’d mastered it when I was five!
If you still don’t believe that the language can handle multiple pronunciations, check out what the experts say.
This photograph was taken on Labor Day weekend a couple of years ago after the DragonCon parade.
It reminded me of the poem “The Fifth of November.” I don’t believe its author is known, it’s usually cited as a “traditional English folk verse.”
The Fifth of November
Remember, remember!
The fifth of November,
The Gunpowder treason and plot;
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!
Guy Fawkes and his companions
Did the scheme contrive,
To blow the King and Parliament
All up alive.
Threescore barrels, laid below,
To prove old England’s overthrow.
But, by God’s providence, him they catch,
With a dark lantern, lighting a match!
A stick and a stake
For King James’s sake!
If you won’t give me one,
I’ll take two,
The better for me,
And the worse for you.
A rope, a rope, to hang the Pope,
A penn’orth of cheese to choke him,
A pint of beer to wash it down,
And a jolly good fire to burn him.
Holloa, boys! holloa, boys! make the bells ring!
Holloa, boys! holloa boys! God save the King!
Hip, hip, hooor-r-r-ray!
The poetry of Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England was thought to have been completely lost when the Earth was demolished to make way for an interstellar expressway. However, a scrap was found adrift in space. Scientists believe the sheer awfulness of the poem may have made it impervious to incineration, which is to say that the rays of the Vogon demolition beams refused to land upon the piece.
Your Love
Your love, it warms me
like a midsummer’s flatulence.
I reel like a sorority girl in her
first instance of crapulence
I’m cocooned in an embrace
that reeks of tepid tapioca.
Tapioca, all lumps and fangs
fangs so very, very… very pointy.
[INTERPRETIVE INTERLUDE: Herein the reader is encouraged to recreate their own impression of the first two stanzas through a capella interpretive dance…
Well, that should be quite enough, shouldn’t it? You got a bit carried away, I should say.]
Your squarish face squishes in my Winnebago memories
I’m a steel town girl on a Wednesday night that is so dim, dimmish, darkid.
Fluffernutter is like butter but jaundiced by mallowy goodness
Spreading it on pickled herring makes a treat that smells like feet
– a quart of milk
– lima beans
– three frozen pizzas
– hemorrhoid crème (not the mint kind this time)
And brings out the wicked amour of one who is without more, sans more.
But I need more; I must have… something, something [you get the drift.]
In summary, you are the wind above my wings.
[Dear estate of Douglas Adams, Please do not sue me. I am so very, very… very poor. That goes for the estates of Bette Midler and Hall and Oates as well… (Oh, you say those people are alive? Really?)]
