Poem-a-Day challenge, Day 51-75

51. ARGUING WITH YOUR WIFE                                                11/2/15

First, women have a more fluid and fast-moving
language ability. So you're fighting from a disadvantage.

 Second, women fight dirty, and will burst into tears

or act wounded if you point it out.

Third, there will be repercussions, and it's

a pretty safe bet that you won't like them.

Finally, keep in mind she is the one who bore your children,

launders your underwear, and packs your lunch,

so should things go awry, you may

find yourself on your own in more ways than one.

No matter how close you are to winning,

no matter how clearly justice and righteousness are on your side,

if you waive the white flag first and apologize humbly,

you will only be better off for it.

   

 

52. COUNTING                                                                                11/3/15

We count a lot, we humans:
Coins in a jar,
Rotations of the planet,
Laps in a pool…
Calories!

We count our blessings

Like that will make us
deserve them
And we count out silly
accomplishments

like 50 poems in 50 days,

though 50 is not
any magical number;
it’s just an artifact of
having ten fingers.

Suppose primates had twelve instead:

in base 12, 50 is the new 42,
which is nothing special,
Douglas Adams notwithstanding.

53. POEM IN THE STYLE OF OGDEN NASH                           11/4/15

Kudos to the stately Maple
Whose syrup makes a Canuck's staple.

Let's also sing the once great Elm—

by one Dutch parasite now felln.

Berets off to the Elysean Plane!
Parisians coiffe them like poodles; they’re inseine. 

But best of all are our own giant Sequioas!

All who walk beneath feel euphorious!

  

 

54. POEM IN THE STYLE OF ROBERT W SERVICE              11/5/15

“Beware of Dog!” the back gate warns;
a sporting chance is what it gives
to burglars who choose to spurn
it at their peril! For, who yet lives

to see another sun arise

and won’t pay heed to such a sign?
Our beast will surely rip their eyes
out of their skull! Then skull from spine!

At least that’s what Doberman

who figures in the sign suggests.
But, frankly, some deodorants
are more fearsome than the best

our lab can manage. All she does

when strangers come (to hawk their wares
or by mistake) is rub her fuzz-
-zy ears between their knees. She stares

up at others from her bed—

won’t even bother to get up—
unless they’ll scratch her lazy head.
                  So much for our ferocious pup.

 

 

 

55. POEM IN THE STYLE OF BILLIE COLLINS                        11/6/15
I try to explain to my boy
That not that long ago
no one living here drove cars
And no one wore clothes

But kids these days don't appreciate

The historical context
All he knows is what he sees
in their video games and
no one thinks of living
like a hippie nowadays.

"Nike was the goddess of victory,"

I try again. "And Greek goddesses
didn't wear much either."
But he's a genuine teenager:
there will be no thrift.

And so he stands, hand outheld

for money, keys ready,
for me to drive him to the mall
so I can buy him the Nike warm ups.

 

 

56. POEM IN THE STYLE OF DR. SEUSS                                 11/7/15

In the far distant city of Sock
(Memento: folk there are in hock,
for they’re shod in a sack of men toe
so it's where all our tax dollars go)

lives a family feted in sonnet:

a band of redheads known as Monnot.
They are famous for brains and for guile
and a noble indifference to style

for they mostly wear jeans and a sweater

(or T-shirt, if the weather is better).
They won't wear fedoras or hoodies;
no logos of fasty-food goodies.

Advertising for corporate profits

is not why the Monnots had moppets—
if you go to their house you will see
they're all blissfully franchising free!

 

 

57. POEM IN THE STYLE OF E.E. CUMMINGS                        11/8/15

Oh, the untrue P!
It is with the (
Yes, yes!
            And how we all

O, The entropy!

This 417
          force once heaven
4 which there is no

Owe the entrail pay!
the body ages
The universe expands

Eau the

 Saint Tropez
Thanks I'll have
A double

 

58. POEM IN THE STYLE OF LEAR                                            11/9/15

On the coast of Saffron Cisco
where the foggy hornies blow
In the middle of the Mission lives the oogle google wonky
In a cargo box his room is
With a robot for his broom, his
Life is not a netflick show
For the oogle google wonky in his home in Saffron go

When he sits upon his Lotus

And he ruminates his world
He illuminates a doobie
And it makes him awful woozy
And he races Cousin Susie
In his racing Lotus Pearl.

"Come with me, delicious Susie!
I’ll finagle you a doozy!
You can be my baby floozy
Said the oogle google wonky from his home in Saffron Cisco
Where the foggy hornies blow.
And they got into his Lotus, and then off the two did go!

 

59. POEM IN THE STYLE OF DOROTHY PARKER                 11/10/15

My love, she is a pretty thing,
a dream of girlish charm,
a regular siren when she'd sing
(at least, a car alarm).

She laughs with such a dainty trill,

you'd never think of thunder,
and curses with such modest skill
the devils blush, down under.

She's witty, tasteful, wrinkle-free;

it's like she can't grow older!
(You won't hear otherwise from me
when she reads over my shoulder).

 

 

60. POEM IN THE STYLE OF W H AUDEN                               11/11/15

The universe don't give a damn
if you choose turkey over ham,
if your latte has decaf
or if it's made with half-and-half.
So hurry up and order, Dear.
And, since I can, I'll have a beer.

There are no Gods in heaven above

to watch me or to judge me, love
so why not have a whiskey too?
Barkeep! Break me off some chew!
For, without some god keeping score,
why not do what we adore?

Hey! Why are you getting off your stool

And going?

Augh! I'm such a fool!

You think I'd learn by now to look
before I quote from Nietzsche's book
For now, sure poverty will mark us…

This bar abuts a Nieman Marcus!

 

61. NAMES                                                                                       11/12/15

What face comes to mind
When you hear the name
Jack Wurlitzer?
How about ShaToya Martin?

We think we can guess

something about a person
because of a name--this arbitrary label
that was pasted on them at birth.

And even though we know

more about Miles Davis
or Ben Franklin, we conjure up
an image just as real

as when we shake the hand
Of Jesus Ramirez, or Fred Hinck,
imagining something core to them.

 

62. TERRORISTES                                                                         11/13/15        

Dans un pays de savoir vivre
Le cœur ouvert, l'esprit ivre
De chaleureux accueils

Une pourriture croissante se cache

Parmi des gens qui vite se fâchent
amènant cercueils

Je hais cette blâme sur tous ces gens

Apporté par des croyants
Habillé en deuil.

 

 

63. GAZHAL                                                                                     11/14/15
Après une telle nuit, arrive la lumière
combien éteint dans la ville de lumière?

Pendant que les bourgeois sortent vendredi soir

et commence à allumer les signes de lumière

pendant que les spectateurs criait pour leur équipes

dans le Stade de France, sous les lumières

pendant que des amateurs de rock dansaient

et les musiciens américains jouaient dans les jeux de lumière

des équipes musulmans chargeaient leurs morts

se préparaient aller chercher une lumière

qu'ils croyaient des anges, d'un dieu

meurtrier, né avant l'âge de la lumière. 

 

 

64.  VILLAINELLE                                                                            11/15/15

Today another suicide attack!
And in some distant city, many dead.
The awful group says they will soon be back.

The blast killed some, the rest were killed by flack;

a dozen body bags are oozing red.
Today another suicide attack.

Authorities are trying a new tack:

"We'll send out drones and fill their camps with dread!"
But they claim they will soon enough be back.

They seem to think that our resolve will crack,

every martyr helps them move ahead.
Here's another terrorist attack.

The morning news repeats the same old track:

more stories like the ones that we just read.
Today, another suicide attack!
Then they brag that they will soon be back.

 

 

65.  THE DEBATE RAGES ON                                                     11/16/15

She came in to my office,
A sly grin on her face.
"Have you heard about The Year
of no Summer's Trace?"

I knew why she was asking:

Because of her belief
in the “myth of Global warming!"
so I said, "what relief

You must find it, to be

smarter than the thousand
climatologists
that Paris is now housing!"

 

 

66.  SOUPED UP                                                                             11/17/15

I don’t feel like a meanie

to pass the Lamborghini
or that geezer in his eighties
crawling in his new Mercedes.
Definitely not the Audi
and the gaudy Maserati.
Nor was I that sorry
to pass that parked Ferrari.

For every pricey ride

has just one guy inside,
while, thanks to our car pool,
we pass each lonesome fool,
and we trump their selfish pattern
in my puny beat-up Saturn.

 

  

 

67. POETICS                                                                                    11/18/15

Here, in case you wondered,

is how to write a poem nowadays:
think of something freaky weird,
but only say what it reminds you of.

The meter doesn’t matter any more,

and gone are the times for the poem that rhymes.

All right, then. Something strange.

Well, death is pretty weird.
And what does it remind you of?
Also something bad, right?

Like Taxes. (Oh, that’s right—

it has to be original.)
Instead, let’s choose
something just as nasty.
Like… how about Coca Cola?

 Now you’ve got your poem!

“The terrorist pulled the cord
and the chain-reaction blossomed
Coca Cola filled his lungs
and the lungs of all around him.”

Or, “Crumpling her note,

the cold metal in his hand,
her lover put it to his mouth
and drank a slug of Coke.”

 

 

 

68. ARCHERY                                                                                 11/19/15

“All I want for my birthday,”
he said, “is a bow and arrows.”
But we live in a dense neighborhood
with a postage-stamp yard.

“I don’t want the laser tag set;

the archery club thing sounds dumb.
It’s got to be the bow and arrows,
otherwise, save your money.”

Meanwhile, passers by

get arrows through their ears
and great danes skewered
in my nightmares.

When the day finally arrives,

I plan to give him a bow tie
embroidered with arrows;
and an IOU for five years of therapy.

 

69.  THE CA-CHING PHILOSOPHY                                            11/20/15

When I was much younger

and cared about such things
I found it very helpful
to soften those harsh stings
of my sharp-tongued employer
and the bitterness that brings
by a mental cash register
ringing up "ca-chings!"

My boss would call me stupid

or not catching his mistake,
accuse me of stealing
his misplaced stuff. He’d break
instruments, then blame me.
That’s why I had to take
five minutes to my time card:
an unrepentant fake.

But every time he yelled,

and called me names like “schmuck,”
for not fixing the machine
he let fall off the truck,

the only way to not complain

was charge a ca-ching buck.

 

 

 

 

70. SWIM MEET IN CALIFORNIA                                                 11/21/15

Presentation High School, San Jose

I doubt there's any enclave of privileged white girls

more exclusive than this place--
at least, not here in town.
And their swim meet just for this private club,
only thins the crowd out more.
But Gabe, my child, my newly teen-aged boy
seems unfazed by their expensive clothes
and hundred-thousand dollar cars.

I don't think it occurs to him

most of these kids are millionaires.
That may be why they aren't very friendly
and why, after belonging to this club for 14 months
he still doesn't know a single kid.

If it were either of the other boys, I'd worry--

Sam hates a slight,
keenly feels the malice,
Nathaniel shuts down and won't respond.
But Gabe's genius is how
he lets these things roll off.

 

 

71.  UNSUNG                                                                                   11/22/15

After trying for 25 years,

and only succeeding in three of them,
it is beginning to look like my idea of
what makes a successful poem
is not shared by many other people.

Worst case scenario: I'm lousy

and don't stand much chance of ever making it.
Or, perhaps it is merely that I
have not yet found my niche yet.

 Best case scenario? I am

another Dickinson, fated to languish
unknown and ahead of my time
until future generations catch up to me.

In the interest of protecting my own ego,

I choose to cling to this. Because:
aren't we all burdened with the secret
knowledge of our own genius,
stymied in our own time?

 

  

72. LIFE, EXPLAINED                                                                    11/23/15

Life is a maple pecan pie
that you don't get to eat:
It goes to some guy named Barry
who copied Downton Abbey to a flash drive
(which, incidentally your wife
borrowed from you,
for all the good that does you).

Sure, she’ll let you watch it with her,

but Downton Abbey's not the same as pie.

 

 

73. BECAUSE SQUAWK WAS GOING DEAF                           11/24/15

A Nonsensical Dream
Because Squawk was going deaf
in the upper register
the only targets he could make
were made of plywood
with jelly on top

That left the Genie

Unable to jelly roll with the punches,
Bonding Water, grinding Twine,
At the caterwauling River
that All the Brain could not fix.

 

 

74. SOME DAYS YOU'RE THE WINDSHIELD, SOME DAYS THE BUG  11/25/15

A “found poem” composed by the iPhone autosuggestion feature

CENTER

The fact I can get it right away
with the new version
is better to be the first half of the year
and I don't think that I have a great way
of the year
and I don't think that I have a great way
of the day
before I get a follow back
on my way home from work
to be the first half of the day
before I get a follow back
on my way home.

RIGHT

I'm at a time when you are
not in my room
for a long way
in which a great way to go out
with my family and friends of
friends
with a lot to be in my head
hurts so bad I don't
have the right way
and it will take the bus driver
just got to go out with
my family and friends.

LEFT

I love you so much
fun
and I have a great way
to get a follow from you would be a good day
to be a good day for me
to be a good day
to be a good time
to get a follow from you
would be a good day.

 

75. VOICES                                                                                      11/26/15

It really is true, isn't it,

that we all have those

contradictory voices

nattering in our heads?

And for every voice of

confidence and hubris

is a defeatist one—

a critical one— 

telling us we’re not that special,

that what we are thinking isn’t

any more clever than

the words of a bum

mumbling on the sidewalk,

asking for loose change…
and maybe also for
some positive feeling?