There was a writer from the Czech Republic
who only got a few of his works published.
But for bleak, bureaucratic crimes
he was way ahead of his times —
who knew we’d soon see people wantonly punished?
Czech Limerick
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Tag Archives: poetry
Estonian Limerick
There was a gardener from Estonia
who was faced with a terrible phobia.
When she heard men hunting,
she’d cry, “Russians are coming,
and they’ll trample all our Begonias!”
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POEM: A Voiceless Birdie Told Me
Notions whispered into my mind — unheard.
They’re just hot-injected scraps of feeling.
I seek a source in floor, wall, and ceiling,
but I know that can only be absurd.
This is no exchange by grammar or words —
nothing is concealed or needs concealing.
Notions whispered into my mind — unheard.
They’re just hot-injected scraps of feeling —
like the voiceless notes of a little bird,
received without a chirp or any squealing.
Wounds don’t need to hear they should start healing.
The feeling ‘s clear even when the meaning ‘s blurred.
Notions whispered into my mind, unheard.
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Chinese Limerick
There was an old man from China
who thought he suffered from angina,
but greasy eggrolls
and MSG by the bowl
gave heartburn to that old man of China.
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POEM: The Emperor’s New Clothes
Source: Ivo Kruusamägi via Wikipedia
It wasn’t the Emperor’s nudity
that so offended me.
It wasn’t what I saw, but rather
that which I could not see —
a skeptic’s sense of what was not,
what was, and what might be.
Anyone who knew their ignorance
could never be so fooled.
He’d say, “I know that I know not;
of that I needn’t be schooled,
but that man is plainly marching
so completely butt-a$$ nude.
It’s they who say, “I must look good.”
who become ego-ruled.
And can’t see the Emperor is
so very, clearly nude.
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Zen Garden Haiku
I
evergreens,
twisted and bent
to gnarled beauty
II
arched bridge
forms a wide eye
with water’s mirror
III
the garden
designed, aligned, and kempt —
nature, but not
IV
peace-filled
by tranquil sights —
soul programmed
V
sitting on grass,
the rocky outcrop
turns island
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POEM: Saved by the Breath [a Rondeau]
My mind curls up into a Breath
to wait out wild and weary thoughts
about who catches and who’s caught
and what is scarier than Death.
A toothless youth whacked-out on Meth —
all roads to hope come but to naught.
My mind curls up into a Breath
to wait out wild and weary thoughts
of men who went the way, Macbeth —
costly made, and yet cheaply bought —
iron-forged, but ambition wrought —
a shapeless agony of Death.
My mind curls up into a Breath.
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POEM: Beauty
People prefer a face that can launch a thousand ships to one that can stop a clock. But did the clock-stopping face break the clockwork mechanism or halt the steady increase in entropy?
[Speaking of entropy, and it’s insistence on increase, a more disordered face reflects a more advanced state of progression, and yet that advancement isn’t honored.]
Back to the clock-stopping face. Breaking the brittle plastic gears of a mass-made clock is no great feat compared to ship-launching. But binding up the inexorable flow of the universe? That’s power.
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POEM: Higher Dimensional Human Zoo
The doorless door was painted on
a vacant building’s wall.
It stood cartoonish and shabby,
crooked, and far too small.
I peered around the vacant room
behind that concrete wall:
nothing but dusty detritus —
of broken bottle brawls.
Later that night, after I’d binged,
I came back past that way.
The door was now thrown wide open.
And what was on display?
Into those higher dimensions,
I had a fateful view.
There was cage after cage of me
in an odd human zoo.
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Cold Night Haiku
I
a winter moon
is seen clearly between
breath fog plumes
II
starry skies,
through the tent flap,
herald cold’s bite
III
cold slinks in
once sleep has taken hold,
settling in bone
IV
winter midnight —
sunlight, a distant memory,
or so it feels
V
how bright the moon
in the mid-winter sky —
yet, no heat
