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Nice dogbelle.
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I told ya she'd be mad. You didnt believe me!!
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There was a reluctant poet named bill carsen
who was ordered to write poems, ten
that Huey cant be all the ticket
That number just isnt cricket
coz she finks im Lord Byren!! 
Ok ok so i changed the letters. And it was crap. But it was Arteeste lice-arnse!!
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Posted: |
Jan 28, 2018 - 4:00 PM
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By: |
Graham Watt
(Member)
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There was a reluctant poet named bill carsen
who was ordered to write poems, ten
that Huey cant be all the ticket
That number just isnt cricket
coz she finks im Lord Byren!!
Ok ok so i changed the letters. And it was crap. But it was Arteeste lice-arnse!!
Bill, joan likes it, so I can be cruel to you. 1-1 draw. You have no idea of rhythm, man! Listen to what you just did to a limerick form. You massacred it.
Da DA da da DA da da da da da DA da
Da da DA da da da DA da, da
Da DA da da da da da da da
Da DA da da da da DA da
Da da DA da da DA da
There must be some kind of rules to follow! Here's one I'm going to make up as I go along -
There once was a fellow named Carson
Who was trained as a qualified parson
When asked if his nose
Was just veg'table prose
He said, "Wait till I put my new arse on".
That was poor, I'll admit. I wanted to work in the idea of "parson's nose" and some kind of incendiary comment about arson related to the burning of veg, but at least I got music, I got rhythm.
As Steve Martin once demonstrated on stage -
"I got mu-sic
I got rhy-i-i- rhy-rhythm"
Calling Professor McCrumble!
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Posted: |
Jan 28, 2018 - 6:50 PM
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By: |
joan hue
(Member)
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I think my next few poems will be about the “JOYS” of being a teacher. (Or the heartaches of being a teacher.)
HER: MY STUDENT
She wore loneliness like a birthmark.
The tops of her shoulders hunched
towards each other like a capital U,
camouflaging any femininity.
In the corner of my class, she wrapped silence
around her like an olive green sweater.
I did my duty, approached her twice,
then went on with my teaching show.
In June, I watched her from my window,
a solitary stain slouching towards
the school bus.
I clutched my students’ evaluations,
their choirs singing across my room.
“You’re the greatest teacher, I love you,
and this was the best class,”
except for one I crumbled
that could only be hers:
“I was here.”
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Oi Si Que watt, aint nuffin wrong with my rivum, matey.
Anyway its subtle, its deliberately irregular comedy rivum.
Lice-arsne. and imagination.
And pushing the envelope.
Im like ennio morricone - i instinctively know whatever quirkiness or complexity the theme can handle. And which apparently random spot to place it. So there. Nerr. How d'ya like them potatoe (heads) oh Bearded One?
that said, i did like your poem.
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Very good C K Watt. Ex Bearded One. You win a cookie. 
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Posted: |
Feb 2, 2018 - 4:01 PM
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By: |
joan hue
(Member)
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Josh, hope you return with more poems that use our thread titles. That was fun.
VACANCY
A few students are attentive;
others yawn, sneak peaks at phones,
and entertain margins and desks with scrawls.
Like my Sisyphean peers, I intensify
what already isn’t working,
inhaling an angry tongue,
longing to lecture their lethargy.
How to attack their complacency
with only frayed texts full
of obtuse, ancient poems, markers,
whiteboards, and ominous grade books?
This class is a one room motel
with each student jig sawed
across desk beds yearning
for the glare of a television.
They crave remote controls
to warp speed my futility
while I, toes blistered
in my eroding sand,
arms straw weak from shoving
my boulders up their
impenetrable hills,
desperately still search
for each of them to wear
permanent intellectual
Vacancy signs.
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