Dag's Verse

What a bonzer tour! (Don't chunder.)

The Royals came Down Under,

both looking very chipper,

and I'm glad they brought the nipper.

Our PM Tony Abbott,

a monarchist by habit,

is set to slash the pension,

but that wouldn't get a mention

in official conversation

as they traipsed around the nation,

nor the planes he's gone and bought

though we think he didn't ought.

It was smiles and waves and toys

(for big and little boys)

in the headlines and the snaps,

the tweets and brand-new apps.

They attended the Dawn Service

with a solemn air of purpose,

then they came back for the march....

Now the crowds are feeling parched.

Let us raise a glass my friends,

as the ANZAC shindig ends

(and so does my daggy poem)
to their right royal journey home.

At dVerse we are invited to try a "dagsvers" — a Nordic tradition of daily rhyming verse on items in the news. In Australia, of course, "dag" means something very different. How could I resist?

Cinquain for Phillip

April Poem A Day Challenge 2014, day 22: Two for Tuesday — 
an optimistic and a pessimistic poem. This is the pessimistic poem.


Forget

global warming –

you cook dates in curry!

Now I know civilisation
is doomed.

Commercial Poem

Come here, come here, come over here!

Here's a fresh, hot poem for sale —

one you can sink your teeth into,

one that tastes better than chocolate.

Look at it, listen to it; you have to agree

it's a very good specimen. Join the queue.

We're going to auction it off.

Who'll be the highest bidder?

Settle down! Don't push and shove!

I know you're keen, I understand.

But once the original sells,

you can bid for cheaper copies.

So don't let's make it a free-for-all.

What was that? Who yelled, 'Free verse'?

Bugger! He's started a riot.

Now they all want gifts.

Listen, mate, there's the internet

for that kind of thing. There's all those blogs.

What will you offer me

for this virgin poem, unread?

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge: day 29, a commercial poem.

How to Be a Cat

You may be fat, you may be lean,

or even something in  between.

It doesn’t really matter what;

it’s not the waistline makes the cat.

But you must learn to move with grace

and be inscrutable of face.

You need to undulate and slink,

while not revealing what you think.

Your deepest thoughts I mean, of course.

The urgent you’ll convey with force —

like, ‘Let me out!’ and  ‘Feed me now!’

‘Purr!’ is reward; chastisement ‘Miaow!’

You have to train your human pet.

You must be firm. Don’t ever let

them really have the upper hand,

though they may think so — understand?

But there are limits, I’m afraid,

to how much headway can be made.

They’ll never learn to hunt and kill,
although you demonstrate with skill.

But you can show them where you itch

and teach them proper ways to scratch,

and how much room you need in bed,

and let them stroke you when they’re good.

Your fur and whiskers and your claws,

you will clean them — they are yours.

And you will keep both yard and house

free of lizard, bird or mouse.

So you establish boundaries,

and can create a life of ease.

And if you will do all of that,
it won’t be hard to be a cat.

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Challenge, 13: Self help

The Critter in My Wall AND Surprise Visitor

The November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge today gives us two prompts: 'Concealed' and 'Unconcealed'.

The Critter in My Wall

Behind the wall,

inside the wall,

I hear you scrabble and slide.

I hear you pause

then scrape your claws

on the plaster from inside.

At times you rest.

I like that best.

I can forget you're here.

But then you wake,

you thump and creak.

You're loud, and much too near.

You're not a rat.

Too slow for that,

and you don't squeak or gnaw.

A possum? Not.

They stir at night

and sleep by day. Therefore,

Intruder, Sir,

I think you are

a lizard of some kind.

Now that we've got

this far with it,

it reassures my mind.

Electric wires

will not start fires

because you will not chew 'em.

You will not die

and stink, so I 

don't care what else you're doing.

You come and go.

It's clear you know

the ways both out and in.

I have no say —

but you can stay

in your space, me in mine.

We're off the street,

we're safe from heat

or rain or hail or blizzard.

And after all

not every wall

contains a resident lizard.

Surprise Visitor

I was sitting in my garden,

resting with closed eyes,

when from across the courtyard

I heard a sudden noise.

From in the biggest plant pot,

which supposedly was empty,

there came a scrabbling sound,

sharp and indeed peremptory.

A prehistoric beast

raised its monstrous head,

turned and gazed at me

as if to strike me dead.

I wanted just one photo.

I ran to fetch my phone.

But he was quick and stealthy.

I returned to find him gone.

I never thought to see

a splendid water dragon —

one of the lizard sort —

in my suburban garden.

His brown and bony head,

his fixed and knowing gaze,

his knobbed and spiky body

continue to amaze.

I've never seen him since

(or her — it might be her)

but noises in my wall
perhaps ... I'm almost sure.

Jimbo and Gary Have an Adventure

Jimbo Bazoobi and his good friend Gary

were strolling round Sydney, down at the Rocks

(Jim was clean-shaven and Gary was hairy)

when who should they meet but a couple of cops.

Gary was hungry, and there were some flowers

by the edge of the road, so he ate them of course.

The coppers decided to use their powers

to charge him and fine him. Could things get worse?

Four hundred dollars they said — no, four–forty.

Gary didn’t have that and Jimbo was broke.

They didn’t even think what he’d done was so naughty.

Gary, after all, was actually a goat.

And goats do eat plants, the judge pointed out.

No-one could prove they went there with intent.

They were simply visiting, walking about

like anyone else, these two good friends.

The case was thrown out, the fine was refunded;

the people of Sydney reacted with cheers.

Why shouldn’t a goat eat some grass if he’s hungry?

Gary said nothing, just wiggled his ears.

(There were ear-holes in the hat on his head.)

‘We travel all over: north, south, east, west.

We just like to have adventures,’ Jim said.
He grinned. 'This adventure was one of the best.’

Poetic Asides, November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge 2: A news item.

Witch Disappointed

Oh she put on her goddess gown —

purple it was, and black —

in order to dance for the Equinox

at the Castle down the track.

And she put on her crystal point —

she hung it around her neck —

to go and chant for the Equinox

at Uki Castle, by heck.

And she put on her fine Spring cloak  —

the sun appliquéd on its back —

because she would feast the Equinox

with her friends  … but alas, alack!

She turned the key; the car was dead.

She could curse and she could hex

but it would not take her down to Uki

to celebrate Equinox.

And brooms don’t fly as fast as cars —

isn’t that a thing to vex?

And so it’s quiet and solitary here
that she keeps this Equinox.

True story! Submitted for dVerse Form For All: Ballads.

Bush Ballad, Seventies Style

At dVerse today they're writing cowboy poems — a great tradition, I've just learned. In Australia we have bush poetry, a contemporary oral form, very popular. Before that, in our earlier days, there were bush ballads glorifying rural life and the countryside. 

In 1977 I was travelling the outback with my then husband Bill Nissen and our two young sons. We broke down, were low on provisions, there was nothing but empty land in view, and it was HOT. We did get help from another passing traveller, but meanwhile I was inspired to this jaundiced little ditty, in the heavy, sing-song rhythmic pattern of the old bush ballads — a riposte to their rosy view of rural Australia. It became an oral performance piece and was also published in Street Poetry (Melbourne).


Oh, you're trekking out of Darwin
in a big Ford truck,
or you've took and boiled your billy
on the old Cloncurry track.

The cattle die behind you
and the red dust sucks you up —
they'll shear you quick as look at you
in the Great Out Back.

Observing Line and Metre (Non-Diverse)

After a discourse on line and metre, Gay at dVerse Form For All — Prosody invites us to take a few lines of our own free verse and rewrite them in iambic feet of any line length — noting that unrhymed iambic pentameter is called blank verse. (I admit, she said we could include a few anapests.) Well, I tried. I thought it might fix some languishing draft that wasn't working yet, but it did not improve any of them! Instead, a new piece:

Iambic feet and pentametric lines

will make my verses blank; is that not so?

Well, blank means only that they are unrhymed

(and following that metre, as I’ve said)

but many poems gallop to this beat

and solemn topics rollick jollily

in inappropriate cheerfulness of pace.

There’s more to poetry than may be found

in repetitions of de-DA-de-DA,

in lines of even length, in perfect count

of syllables in alternating stress.

I like a sonnet, but a haiku too

is poetry I think — indeed, insist!

And as for this, my friends, it’s doggerel
(also a piece of fun to start my day).


PS When it comes to metre, this is my favourite reminder:

Remember this verse:

Iambic feet are firm and flat                                                             - / - /

and come down heavily like that

Trochees dancing very lightly                                                        / - / -

Sparkle, froth and bubble brightly.

Dactylic daintiness lilting so prettily                                               / - - / - -

Moves about fluttering rather than wittily

While for speed and for haste such a rhythm is best                    - - / - - /

As we find in the race of the quick Anapest.

(Source unknown)

Arithmetic

One plus one is two.

Two can grow to be one.

Some couples multiply,

becoming one family

of three or four or more.

We didn't do it that way;

not with each other.

Our former families divided.

And grew, as the children

matured and married ...

and dispersed.

Each of us (we two)

became single.

Met. Joined. Coupled.

One plus one makes two.

Two become one unit:

one couple. A single couple.

Merging, fusing, two

can grow to be as one.

This is everything!

But they may separate.

One can part from one,

leaving one alone ...

feeling like nothing.

Is this not singular?

Poetic Asides April PAD Challenge 2013, 5: a plus poem.

Comment on St Patrick's Day

I do not like saintly old Patrick

much less his one memorable hat-trick.

The snakes were symbolic

of Pagans, who frolic

not there any more, since his antics.

If anyone can suggest a better last rhyme, please do! 
('not there any more, thanks to that prick' did occur to me, 
but creates a much nastier mood than I intend.)

Submitted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #143

Size Doesn't Matter

In this long monsoon, each evening,
tiny flies
appear in the house as from nowhere:
floating spots.
Each morning they are all corpses,
little black dots
littering every available surface —
their tiny lives
exhausted by the large event
of stinging me
with more ferocity than you could credit.

Submitted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #139

When I Come to Bed

He’s waiting 

naked and grinning.

We’re not too old for a frolic.

(This never happened

in the nursing home.)


I'm submitting this one to dVerse Open Night #45 — where you'll find lots and lots of good reading from a great community of poets.

Elderly Drivers

One and then another

white-haired driver dawdles

slowly down the empty street

I wait to drive across.

Inside my head, I think,

‘Put yourselves out to pasture!

Go and get off the roads!’

I’m glad I’m not like that.

My white coiffure conceals

a sharp and youthful brain.

And when I pause to assess

a traffic situation,

this is heightened consciousness!

(Why is that fool honking?)

April PAD Challenge #22: Judging

The One We Don't Mention

The favourite local delicacy
is not openly spoken of.
In fact I myself haven’t tasted it
for years, not since before even
moving up here — back when
it wasn’t specific to a place
so much as a time:
that experimental era
when we tried so many ways
to give our lives new flavour.

In these parts, I guess you could say
we’re in permanent time warp.
Indeed, the main ingredient
in the best of this region’s cuisine
is our staple crop, widespread
throughout the district. Old timers still
remember the Great Disaster — the raid
which put so many growers out of action
that the local economy went bust
and the hardware store had to close.

Of course, there’s more ways than one
to ingest what is often considered
a gift from the gods (at once
so pleasurable and so good for us
that some people claim medicinal
dispensations). Plenty prefer to enjoy it
while sitting around and smoking.
Out Nimbin way, though, our Mary Jane
creates the most wicked, most munchable
cookies, with that little extra something!
(At least, so I’m told.)

April PAD Challenge #18: regional cuisine

Mixed-Up Poem

The poem is distracted.
She wrings her hands
and curses freely.
I am so mixed up, she cries.

I amb so not a sonnet,
and as for pentameter,
I’d as soon have distemper.

Am I just some kind
of lune-y?
Well mate, you tell me!

I used to love
sitting in sweet silence,
all the dear words
waiting for me to choose,
then telling me, ‘Tanka!’

but now I ghazal them whole
I, the poem without a soul.

I cannot bear to stay alone
without a ballad to my name.
With all my rhymes and metres gone
there is no fame, there’s only blame.

Listen! the high coo
of a mournful dove flying
away from this page...

April PAD Challenge #16: a mixed up poem

The Visitors Who Took Over

Some house-guests (like these)
are hard to get rid of.
They move in, just for a few days
which become a couple of weeks,
and next thing you know....

He was handsome
and seemed such a charmer:
always so friendly
and so obliging.
She —

truth to tell, she was always
more of a problem. So ill
soon after she first arrived
with that dreadful tick bite.
Well, we’d hardly turn her away.

And she grew on us.
Tough little soul, but
affectionate in her way
underneath the loudly-voiced
opinions and shameless greed.

Yes, we got stuck with them.
In the end, we didn’t
have the heart. They were
destitute; where could they go?
They’ll be company, we told each other.

We’ve seen the worst of them
by now — like the raucous fights.
Domestic violence in which
she gives as good as she gets.
Though it’s always him that attacks.

Then it all calms down
and they’re all over each other again.
They keep us entertained
with their antics, I will say that.
And they in turn tolerate us.

We’re getting on a bit now
and they try to boss us around.
But we couldn’t do without them, after
twelve years, can you believe?
When they came, they were just kittens.

Show-Off Limericks

A fellow was trying to show

his girlfriend the right way to blow.

You are silly,’ she said,

‘I adore giving head.

I could teach you a thing or two — so!’

A woman was trying to show

an alky how to go slow.

‘Don’t up-end the jug

with a glug-glug-glug!‘    

So he lined up ten bottles in a row.    

A polite young man wanted to show

he’d make a sweet, sensitive beau.

But when he took her to bed,

his girl filled him with dread —

she was so wildly gung-ho.

Limerick-Off Monday prompt from Mad Kane's Humor Blog.

Uptight Limericks

To a prompt at Mad Kane's Humor Blog

A man who was very uptight
took a walk on the wild side one night.
After crashing his car
he lurched into the bar ...
loosened up by the end of the night.

A girl who was very uptight
gave her boyfriend a hell of a fright.
She lay there so rigid,
he thought, ‘Is she frigid —
or perhaps she has died in the night?’

Limericks

Just for fun, and because it's the current FormForAll prompt at dVerse. Do pop over there and read Madeleine Begun Kane's delightfully informative article on the subject.

I can tell you, it's harder than you might think! These are not very amusing, and the scansion's not perfect. I might have to practise more at Madeleine's blog where she hosts regular limerick challenges. However, I enjoyed the attempt.

I’m sitting here drinking my coffee
while chewing on lim’ricks, not toffee.
I must have a go,
although I don’t know ...
my efforts might be a bit offy.

There once was a lass called Rosemary
whose visage became very scary
when greeted as Rose —
you’d almost suppose
she was really Miss Mary Contrary.

In fact she is Rosem’ry at home.
The diff’rences come when you roam.
In Gay Paree
she’s Rose-Marie;
now that has a certain aplomb!

Miss Rosemary longs to be thinner
but alas, she’s too fond of her dinner.
It isn’t the meat
that she loves, but the sweet,
as she stuffs more and more of it in ‘er.

I think I have run out of steam
or puff, or whatever you deem.
I’ll tell you the truth:
I am long in the tooth
and it’s time for a doze and a dream.


My own favourite limerick is one my Dad used to recite with gusto:

There was an old lady from Nicaragua
who had her false hair clawed off by a jaguar.
The old lady said, 'Ah!'
The jaguar said, 'Bah!
What a false, artificial old hag you are!'

(I now know it has too many syllabes in lines 1, 2 and 5 — but I love it anyway.)

This post also submitted for Poets United's The Poetry Pantry #95