Failed Nursery Rhymes

Rickety snickety, my son John
Went to work with his trousers on.
Nobody noticed, so I guess that’s that.
Pull another story out of your hat.

          * * *

The mastiff and the tabby
might have got into a fight,
but one’s awake in daytime,
the other’s out at night.
Nuthin’ here to see folks,
so just move it right along.
Try again and see if you
can sing a better song.

          * * *

Lullaby, lullaby, sleep like the dead,
while meaningless images dance in your head.
Sleep when you’re told to and wake when it’s time,
and that’s how you keep mom and dad out of crime.

          * * *

If you think that I’m odd, well then you should see Pete.
He works with his hands and he stands on his feet.
He smells with his nose and he hears with his ears.
He sees with his eyes (which are also for tears).
He talks with his mouth and he thinks with his brain,
so all things considered, he’s clearly insane!

          * * *

Once there was a princess,
and once there was a prince,
who, to wed each other,
no one could convince.
But monarchies must carry on,
and so their parents made
political arrangements…
it was marry or invade.

          * * *

Elementary, junior high,
college, work, and then you die.
Pick a major, pick a job,
and join the mindless working mob.

          * * *

I wish I had a nickel,
I wish I had a dime,
I wish I had a dollar
every time a rhyme goes wrong.

Eitherwhere

If I’m not in this place,
I might be in another,
so Eitherwhere’s your ace
to save you lots of bother.

I might be in or out,
I might be here or there,
and yet without a doubt,
you know I’m Eitherwhere.

Everywhere I’ve been
and anywhere I go,
it seems I’m always in
some Eitherwhere, and so

if you’ve looked all around
and also in the square,
you know I will be found,
since you’ve tried Eitherwhere.

Why I’m Not a Painter

If this poetry thing doesn’t seem to pan out,
then I’ll see what the fuss around dancing’s about.

But then if it seems dancing’s just not my thing,
I know I’ll succeed if I learn how to sing.

Of course, if my singing results in complaints,
I could see what it takes to start learning to paint.

But then if my paintings just fail to engage,
I’ll carve myself out a career on the stage.

Though if we find actors in oversupply,
I’m sure with some work I could learn how to fly.

But if, flapping my arms, I just fall down to earth…
I’ll go back and I’ll see what those poems are worth.

Cleaning the Classroom

Please put the raucous ruckus
back in the debacle bucket,
and the boisterous bangarang
goes in the commotion compartment.
You’ll find the affray and the fracas
both fit in the fiasco file,
and the hubbub and hullabaloo
in the humbuggy hullabacupboard.
To many, too much of a tumult
just brews up a hateful brouhaha,
but just be uproariously orderly,
and you’ll feel less forlornly than formerly.

Order of Operations II

Women and children first, perhaps, but dessert not the least if the last.
Measure twice before your horse crosses the bridge too fast.
Be sure to count up all your chickens before you take that leap,
And look at the cart that’s here today when tomorrow it lands in a heap.
If you can save nine when a business bites once then you’ll find that a quick stitch in time
Will spill the milk over the hatching pleasures better late than never twice shy.
So you’d best be born yesterday like there’s nothing gone tomorrow,
And you’ll find you can fit a month of joy into a day of sorrow.
But just circle back at the end of the day, and you’ll find it’s that stage of the game
where whatever you do and whatever you say, it just turns out the same!

Bad Advice

by Grigoriy Oster

translated from the Russian by Tandava

You ask a stupid question,
you get a stupid answer.
So if one is in your head,
pirouetting like a dancer,
just evict it from your brain
and ask it of your father.
Let his mind spin and swirl
with all that boil and bother.


[Original:]

Вредные советы

Никогда вопросов глупых
Сам себе не задавай,
А не то еще глупее
Ты найдешь на них ответ
Если глупые вопросы
Появились в голове,
Задавай их сразу взрослым.
Пусть у них трещат мозги.

Extreme Caution

“Bicyclists use extreme caution,” a sign advises me,
and immediately my pulse quickens, racing,
seeking the exhilarating rush of complete safety
that only the most extreme caution can deliver.
Heretofore, my discretion has been moderate at best,
my carefulness tame and boring,
my prudence falling short of the breakneck intensity
one achieves only when striving recklessly
for the daredevil’s ultimate buzz of insane wellbeing.
Mindfulness to the max! Heart-pounding heedfulness!
Risk everything for the breath-taking,
adrenalin-pumping thrills of utter serenity!

My Horrorscope

My Libra is in the ascendant, having been shot from a circus cannon without a helmet.
Scorpio is in the fifth house he’s been evicted from this month.
Sagittarius in the Louvre, where he’s been lost in the Richelieu Wing for three weeks.
Venus is in a pillow fort hiding from the doberman she’s meant to be pet sitting.
Mercury is in a stolen pickup truck somewhere south of the border.
Gemini is in a police station calling Aquarius to post his bail.
Mars is in a cryogenic deep freeze, awaiting the day that Saturn will revive him to overthrow the world.
Jupiter is stuck at customs without a visa in the Beijing Daxing International Airport.
Ketu has his head buried in the sand while Rahu is out looking for trouble,
and with the way things are going, I think he’ll find it.

Pining

I’m pining for you in the forest,
I’m willow-weeping by the river,
I’ve been more sick with the sycamore,
than I’ve felt in elm-most forever.

I quake like an aspen, I lurch like a larch,
my fir is standing on end.
It’s not oak-kay to be feeling this way,
as the withy withers to ash again.

Through all the days by the alder trees,
my laurels rest and moan
like wind in linden boughs to say
the holly hollers to call you home.

I feel as sappy as a sapling,
madrone is going out of tune,
I’m hem-locked up in agony,
a sighing cypress, missing yew.

Things That You Are

You’re the cat’s pajamas,
the bee’s knees,
the mullah’s llamas,
the elephant’s sneeze.

You’re the alpaca’s backpack,
the crocodile’s smile,
the jackrabbit’s flack jacket,
the peacock’s style.

You’re the snakes hips, the chicken’s lips,
the aardvark’s awkward birthmark,
the kipper’s knickers, the octopod’s ticklers,
the butterflies’ orange monarch.

You’re the toucan’s two cans of canned tuna fish,
You’re the delicatessen’s most delicate dish.

You’re the pepper’s doctor,
the mountain’s dew,
the koala’s cola,
the bear’s Irn Bru.

You’re the crème de la crème,
the sine qua non,
most fatale of the femme,
the c’est in c’est bon.

You’re the go in a tango,
the wing in a swing,
the dot in a polka,
the highest land’s fling.

You’re the bee in my bonnet,
the slice in my bread,
the rhymes in my sonnet,
the tune in my head.

Anything I can name that’s too good to be true
may be great, but it can’t hold a candle to you.

A Discount Love Sonnet

Yeah, but I really really really like you.
No, srsly, I mean it, don’t you see?
That’s why I’ll write a sonnet, not a haiku,
to read to you while sipping your iced tea.

(That’s you who’s sipping it, of course, not I—
I mean, I’ll get my own if I get thirsty—
but anyway, where was I?... oh, that’s right...)
I’ve worked on this since practic’ly last Thursday.

Okay, that’s only yesterday, but still
I hope you know I mean it when I say
that if you say you love me then I will
immediately jump and shout hooray

and dance and laugh and sing and spin and hop
and… what? Enough? Okay, I guess I’ll stop.

The Best Worst Poem

A green cow went Moo—
and Trampled me.
-M.A., 7th grade

Do you really think this poem
—all two lines of it—
is in the style of Emily Dickinson,
per the assignment?

Let’s compare it to our notes.

Emily is fascinated
by the mysteries of nature
—why is that cow green?—
not to mention Death. Check.

Dashes and Capitals—yes and Yes.

A surprisingly elegant
slant rhyme of Moo
and Me, leaning into
absent consonants.

Short and untitled—those are gimmes.

And to top it all off—
the drama! Action!
Mystery (again with the green?)!
Even dialogue!

Could this be, perhaps… a masterpiece?

The Scotch Tape and the Snail

A nearsighted snail exclaimed to his friend,
“You’ll never believe who I’ve seen!
The gem of the garden from here to lawn’s end—
in my eyes she’s truly a queen!

“Her trail of slime has a marvelous shine,
its stickiness has me enthralled!
And her accent’s adorable—Scottish, I think,
though I can’t understand her at all.”

“Do you think this is wise?” the other replied,
with antennae at skeptical tilt.
“I shouldn’t disparage cross-cultural marriage,
but I think you’d look odd in a kilt.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t so frown, could you hear my heart pound
like a passionate, snail-paced drum!
For her I would crawl through the salt flats of Utah—
But quiet now! Look—here she comes!”

Several minutes later… the Envoi:

“Ach! Dinnae ye fash yersel’, bonnie wee snail,
yer een havnae led ye astray,
fer we’ll doon tae the kirk an’ be marrit at once,
an’ I’ll stick tae ye all o’ me days.”

Two Poems Unworthy of Emily Dickinson

I: A Double Dactyl

Rickinson, bickinson,
     Emily Dickinson
     hid from the world and
     wore a white dress.

With quatrains and slant rhymes, i-
     ambic septameter,
     Dashes and — Capitals
     she was obsessed!

II: A Clerihew

Emily Dickinson
thought Nature was magnificent,

except for that dang fly
that went all Kanye West on her when she died.

The Mashed Potato Song

for Natalie and Eric to sing to Eli [video]

Mashed potatoes make me smile,

Mashed potatoes make me grin,

Mashed potatoes by the mile,

Mashed potatoes for the win!

Bring… some… 

mashed pota-

toes, mashed po-

tatoes, mashed

potatoes,

mashed pota-

toes, mashed po-

tatoes for me!

[repeat until hungry for, or sick of, potatoes]

Doomed

Of impending extinction a sign
is a species’ clear failure to rhyme.

The rare Purple Turtle
from the start was infertile.

And the Great Turquoise Tortoise
succumbed to rigor mortis.

You Can Like It, or Not

You can like a ukulele,
you can like it lots.
You can lick a licorice lolly—
lap up all you got!

Unique is the unicorn—
quite unique, you know.
You know universal quiet
quits euphoniously slow.

Yuletide as a eulogy
is useless now to you,
who utilizes usury,
usurping Yule, and Christmas too!

Villainous Nell and Her Villanelle

Oh, there ne’er was a villain like Villainous Nell,
iniquitous poet, and quick to offend,
and all that she loved was her villanelle.

Her poetry grates like a banshee’s yell,
and no one could like it, nor even pretend,
for there ne’er was a poet like Villainous Nell.

The rhymes and the rhythms seemed tortured in hell,
but beautiful sonnets could never contend,
for all that she loved was her villanelle.

The townsfolk all plotted how best to expel
this fiendish reciter, or how to defend
their poor, suffering ears from that Villainous Nell.

When at last they arrested this cruel damoiselle,
she clutched to her breast the foul ode she had penned,
for all that she loved was her villanelle.

So now she just waits, all locked up in her cell,
scrawling more poems, awaiting her end,
for there ne’er was a villain like Villainous Nell,
and all that she loved was her villanelle.

Walkin’ in Quarantine

[here’s a video of me singing it,
to the tune of I’m Walkin’ by Fats Domino]

Well, I’m walkin’, yes indeed,
but I’m talkin’ ’bout quarantine,
and I’m hopin’
that you’ll stay over there.

I’m lonely as I can be
I’ve been waiting for your company
but I’m hopin’
that you’ll stay over there.

No handshakes and no high fives,
Just gimme a wave if you wanna say hi,
Forgive me if I seem too shy,
I love you, yes, but I don’t wanna die

so keep walkin’, yes indeed,
and keep talkin’, about quarantine
and I promise
that I’ll stay over here.

The Curse of the Noodle

[for Bruno, and for all musicians who can’t keep their hands still]

Musicians all know of it, scary but true:
The Curse of the Noodle, ba doobie doo doo.

Just sitting quiet, guitar on your knee,
The Noodle is waiting, ba doobie doo bee.

You scoff if you think this might happen to you,
But the Noodle is coming, ba doobie doo doo.

And just when you shouldn’t play, I’ll guarantee
The Noodle draws closer, ba doobie doo bee.

Your fingers now stray—one note, and then two.
The Noodle will get you, ba doobie doo doo.

Rehearsal derailed, and you’re on a spree,
The Noodle has struck! Ba doobie doo bee.

Ba doobie doo baba doo baba dee doo,
The Noodle has claimed one more victim: it’s you.