Sacrificial Limerick

There was a cold limerick one time
whose rick was removed from its lime.
While not quite a Lime Ricky,
its flavor was tricky
and sacrificed taste to the rhyme.

Last day of April:
poetry was flowing like wine—
but I prefer beer . . .



Poetic Approaches

This is my fifth year posting a poem per day during April
for National Poetry Writing Month.

I must qualify my participation; I am bringing forth poems already written but never posted publicly.

Once I believed that creative souls produce their most authentic work in a frenzy of inspiration. This is the modern myth of the Artist as oracle or prophet; a being so special she/he just has to get it out there in one inspired spasm. To alter or to edit the art is to make it less authentic; it is spasmodically delivered in finished form (rather like vomiting or excretion). But as I matured poetically and reconsidered things I moved away from this model. I realized that stream-of-consciousness dribbles, spurts, rants and visionary diatribes make for boring art. A different approach to poetry stresses craftsmanship, structure, and goes against the model of Artist as mystically-inspired Other.  It is also message-oriented. I represent this second tendency.

I am not writing one-a-day for April in response to prompts. These are drafts I have been saving for National Poetry Month. I have been reworking, polishing, and finishing these poems for my readers. They have been faithfully and obsessively crafted.

 And remember:
When you own the POETRY

the POETRY owns YOU !



Ode to the Nine

Ἀπόλλων μουσηγέτης



Ye NaPoWriMoids, hear my prayer
let’s mix our metaphors and dare
as fragrant smoke ascends the sky,
offend some readers by and by.

Apollo—grant me rocket fuel
to launch into your stratosphere.
Athena—by your wisdom, rule
and whisper in my waiting ear.

Receive this bright poetic spark
And let the Nine, as one, inspire
transform this puddle, stagnant, dark,
from sludge to pure Promethean fire.

Thou Father of Olympus, bless
our paltry April offering:
a dubious cybernetic mess
composed of poets’ suffering.

I’ll sing of waters fair (and foul),
uncork my potions for your ears
while Dionysus‘ Maenads howl
banishing our noetic fears.

A radiant poetic flush
beams forth from every laureled face.
The springs of Babel: let them gush
and bathe our souls in lyric grace.

A product line in low demand,
the blogosphere: our public forum;
quorum one man short of damned
where verses vie with vague decorum.

Consult your muse—then let it flow;
a rain of primaveral dreams
whose rivulets descend below
and swell the tributary streams;

to flooding verses, transcendental
irrigating, bringing life
(though some are merely excremental;
foaming sewage…  ask my wife).

Let me ask you this:
Got a yen for bad Haiku?
Well then… stick around.