Gastrointestinal Limericks

(a real-life email duel with a poet-who-shall-remain-nameless)


Tuesday

The gastrointenstinal tract
Is the greatest yawn since Rome was sacked.
It’s simply not funny
If a poo’s thick or runny,
It’s a bore as a matter of fact!

Wednesday

The GI tract is only a part
Of a system whose primary art
is to edify boys
with the eloquent noise
of a seismic grandiloquent flatulation.

You started it.

Thursday

The best G.I. doctors all pass
At the top of their medical class
They expertly seek
Every bubble and squeak
That proceeds from our head and our bottom.

Back atcha. This is war.

Friday

As a theme the GI tract is fit
for treatment by poetic wit
But the sum of it all
Is a mountain that's tall
And composed almost solely of nonsense.

I rest my case.

Saturday

When dueling rhyme-writers scrap
They do well to steer clear of the trap
Of waxing ironic
On matters colonic
For such writing’s invariably rubbish.

Tag


And here, both poets finally lost the will to go on...

Chauncey Avenue

Can it be

Possible that a
Smile remains –
A birthmark –
After over thirty years?
This photo says so:

On these steps
Once high as mountains
We sat down
Together
Smiling soft in black and white
Gazing up at God

Now we come
Again, full grown, to
Recreate
That moment.
We are worn at the edges

But the smile endures.

Turkey time

So there I was, painting a barn with Luke,
Up at Farmer Bob’s place, late November
Just before the snow flew. And I looked down
From my ladder to see a huge turkey
Wander across the yard to watch me work.
They say those birds are thick as two short planks –
Even drown in rainstorms is what I heard –
But I was still amazed to see that girl
Rub her backside against the fresh red paint,
Like some rouged-up feathery street-walker
Daring the world to take her liberty.
Free for a day – so live without regrets!
Perhaps we all embody irony
Like that blood-red hen, heedless of her fate.
If so, then I will not go quietly
Like her, I’ll sashay, brazen, through the rain
Teasing the future with my hot red cheeks.

Lawn decorations

(a villanelle)

If it is true you love me as you say
(And please don’t think this is a test)
You’ll do what’s right – and throw that thing away.

You may not like to do as others say,
But sometimes you must act at my behest
If it is true you love me as you say.

And this is where that rule comes into play:
If you don’t want your honeybunch distressed,
You’ll do what’s right – and throw that thing away.

That ten-foot lighted Santa on a sleigh
Will disappear into eternal rest
If it is true you love me as you say.

For while a bachelor thinks it’s okay
To keep such tacky junk around the nest
You’ll do what’s right – and throw that thing away.

I have a headache coming on today,
So please don’t think I say these words in jest:
If it is true you love me as you say,
You’ll do what’s right – AND THROW THAT THING AWAY.

Why did you eat my homework?

It’s hard to explain
My reasoning to a kid
Who leaves his best friend
Locked up in the house all day.
Let’s just say that I was bored.

Against the grain

(a sonnet)

To those around the little farming town
The newly-married couple weren’t the same
As they had been before the summons came
To wrap them in a missionary’s gown,
And after blessings at the church rained down,
Departed, as their parents tried to tame
Their mix of grief and pride – and called their name,
Reminding them they were their joy and crown.
A hundred dusty years have come and gone
And separation is much harder now
Than when my mother’s parents took that train.
I put aside the chance to lean upon
The siren Holy Call, and make my vow
Instead to stay – and grow against the grain.

We grow together as we grow apart

(a villanelle)

The restless yearning of the heart
Finds truest freedom in this paradox:
We grow together as we grow apart.

It is not wise to think that Cupid’s dart
Can tranquilize and lock within a box
The restless yearning of the heart,

For though we fuse together at the start
We must acknowledge lest we hit the rocks
We grow together as we grow apart.

The taste of love can turn from sweet to tart
When forced conformity cannot outfox
The restless yearning of the heart.

Much better to acknowledge, and then chart
How as each partner’s calling comes and knocks,
We grow together as we grow apart.

This wisdom long experience imparts:
It is our trust which at the last unlocks
The restless yearning of the heart –
We grow together as we grow apart.

Are we there yet?

Come on
Come on
Step on it
Are we there yet?

Hang on
Hang on
Edge of town
Are we there yet?

Shut up
Shut up
Quit yelling
Are we there yet?

Breathe out
Breathe out
Don’t bear down
Are we there yet?

Fourth floor
Fourth floor
Are they nuts?
Are we there yet?

Complete
Complete
Eight nine ten
Are we there yet?

Hallway
Hallway
Right here
Right now
Don’t care
Don’t care
Don’t care
Owwwwwwwwwwww!
Oh my good lord…

We’re there.

It's easier to shop than practice

Long-haired Dave calls me from the music store
To see how I’m getting on with the amp
I bought from him – his over-friendly tone
Annoying me because he calls me “Dude,”
But even more because I recognize
That on Tuesday I once again succumbed
To the illusion that my lack of skill
As a guitarist could be swept away
By the purchase of one more piece of gear.
Sadly, I am still not Eric Clapton.
“It’s easier to shop than practice, Dude,”
I tell him. “I’ll be returning the amp.”

On Hampstead Heath

(A rondeau)

On Hampstead Heath, we watched the golden light
Bewitch and then seduce the coming night.
A space like this no lover wants to leave,
When there is so much magic yet to weave,
And so we walked home slowly, holding tight

And laughing, as we tried to write
The story of our future, just to fight
For one last memory we could retrieve
On Hampstead Heath.

That was the place, in black and white,
We promised it would be all right
To let each other go, and grieve
While many miles apart – and yet believe
That we would one day reunite
On Hampstead Heath.