Doggerel

Some write poems to communicate their beliefs, some to reflect their emotions, and others to demonstrate problems with the world through gripping satire. I just do it to prove to myself that I have class and am not a complete idiot. That’s why I do a lot of the things I do.

So here are most of them. Enjoy.

"I wrote this one in middle school as a last minute project. The bathroom doesn't only inspire blogs, it also inspires grade A BS. It started when I was young and obviously not much has changed."

 A Beast                                            

In the bathroom there is a beast,                    

A pile of slop is its feast.                               

It’s big and bald and has no eyes,                  

And its smell is what I most despise.             

I try to tell people but nobody cares-

I haven’t yet told them there are two more upstairs.

It has a circular body with pearly white skin,

It has a giant mouth with one silver fin.

When I go near it I get a sudden rush

When I hear an unexpected --FLUSH

-2000

"This Lymric and "The Game" were both written for a high school project. I spent too much time on the next one that I ran out time and had to come up with one in about 5 Seconds. Behold the 5 second poem about a man named Joe and a lengthy story about war (too lengthy if you ask me.)"

A man named Joe                        

There once was a man named Joe        

who had one curious pet crow.             

The crow fly away but Joe had to stay   

and I’m making this up as I go.

-2006

The Game

The game board was set the pieces in place

Both sides were ready to bring on the chase

The right time had come in formation they stood

Each game piece determined to do what it could

As the match began the pones now in play

They lusted for blood and their hate lead the way

Thunder shook round them and smoke scorched the skies

They ignored all distractions kept their eye on the prize

They scaled terrain quickly this game they knew well

For weeks they were hiding in this living hell

But now it was time all the waiting was done

The threat was to be eliminated the battle won

Stealthily they maneuvered through what once were streets

And engulfed the enemy flawlessly which tried to retreat

In a line of fire the troop dropped to the ground

But survivors raised from the bodies and scattered round

The game was still going as they overtook their prey

The group tightly woven except one lead astray

He pursued a man further adrenaline flaring

Heart pounding, lungs heaving, rage overbearing

They approached some ruins the only remains

Of a building now rubble bombed by enemy planes

He wove through debris he was closing in fast

But when the sounds ceased he stopped dead in his tracks

Everything fell silent- he now held his breath

All he could hear was the heart in his chest

He began to advance where he last heard a sound

But then a man bolted and a shot echoed round

The bullet had caught him. The man stumbled and fell

No noise was uttered, not a grunt or a yell

The life was gone from him, his eyes were now dull

Yet he felt no satisfaction in the life he had stole

He had been so eager to join in revenge

Against this threat with brothers to avenge

The mission was done he looked back on the corpse

This enemy who had brought only pain and remorse

This man wanted to destroy everything he held dear

But this man was a man in his mind it was clear

All this evil intent now a meaningless trifle

He turned his back on the man and abandoned his rifle

This game was now over, one pone was now stained

Though the pieces can change the game stays the same

-2006

"Originally this poem was not meant to make any sense but the more I wrote The more it did. It became symbolic of discouragement. It's an unpleasant feeling that we oft times just endure instead of ridding ourselves of it. It's not an emotion that we need to keep around."

 The Girl with Black Eyes

As the peasants gathered round to hear what was said      

a girl came to town on a tattered old bed.                     

From the south came a whistle that sounded like cries       

as entered the town the girl with black eyes.                  

She brought with her stories and tales quite eerie,            

But this town had no color and was all the time dreary.     

A voice spoke to no one, and said nothing but lies.          

The voice came from that one, the girl with black eyes.      

Voluntarily ears listened though not everyone saw.           

The girl was visible but ignorance was law.

They heard every word of the voice they despised.

The voice that came from the girl with black eyes.

She’d come from the void where nothing was pleasant,

the past was forgotten all they had was the present.

As the sun set darkness fell from the skies.

The sunlight had gone from the girl with black eyes.

She sat on her bed planting thoughts in their minds,

dark thoughts that discouraged all good of all kinds.

But of all the peasants that spoke nothing but sighs

a boy was approaching the girl with black eyes.

He grasped on the frame of the bed which she sat

and with a great push sent her off just like that.

She was gone from the village which she came to chastise,

she was gone from that village, the girl with black eyes.

As the village was silenced, evil thoughts been tossed hence

the people looked round and tried to make sense.

Nobody was cheerful with evil there for demise.

Happiness came when left the girl with black eyes.

-2008

"Whilst navigating facebook in the early hours, being quite sleep deprived, I happened upon a picture of a good friend who had grown an impressive beard. I was convinced that it deserved a tribute and this is what I wrote. Insomnia makes me do strange things."

An ode to the beard                                   
                                                                      

And thus began a lofty tale                             

told by the scruffles filled with ale,                 
That no one can quite understand                   

as it is spoken by drunken man.                    
But the story was told all the same                 

with no remorse, thought or shame.             
So what is this story now you ask

told by one whose mind was thrashed.
The story of the beard of course,

red as flame demanding attention with force.
No man could tame this mane of fire

and no one dared or had the desire.
It reeked of legend and oozed with adventure.

Its bold appearance did not merit censure.
But instead inspired a feeling of craze

to all the people who lived in those days.
It could not be explained but only felt

and if you caught the strange wiles it dealt
Then you too would gladly leave

and live among the wither firth trees
Singing odes to the shag that leads any which way

and dance about (but not in a gay way).
So goes the tale of the scruff unrestrained

that influenced weirdness where ever it reined. 
Although scruffles have been known to lie

as truth is skewed when your drunk and high.

-2011

"Hmm, well I'm not sure what happened here. I suppose I just wanted to disappoint someone with an anti-climax. I do hope you're disappointed."

      

        Something worth hearing

Sunday I heard something worth hearing,       

so I think it’s a story that’s worth sharing.           

And as it’s a tale worth telling,                            

this conversation we should be conversing.         

Now obtain the knowledge worth knowing

and understand this grand understanding.

Then once you get that which needs getting

and begin then to do that which needs doing.

Assuming this intrigue’s intriguing,

you will follow the advice I’m advising.

Which will empower above all that’s empowering

….Once I remember what I keep forgetting.

-2011

"Is curiosity really worth having? Maybe. Sometimes it’s best to just walk away. You’ll never know until the aftermath."

Curiosity                                        

When have you gone with the steed you were on to a pit overlooked with intension

Where a secret is kept and has until now slept undisturbed by desired discretion.

Indeed you have not but your interest is caught as who knows what inside might be sleeping.

With every thought curiosity’s rot to give into what might be worth reaping.

Only finding will tell if worth searching a spell was the time spent to try and discover.

By ringing the bell as reality fell which allowed us this thing to uncover.

It isn’t a crime to chase the sublime unless the sublime is destructive.

A familiar chime which was then lost in time and made all this quite unproductive.

Given with the recluse that might to you seem obtuse we might have the means to an end.

And within the caboose a bolt that was loose in the fabric of space that was rent.

Explanations are hard when we’re dealt this card and all is then stuck in a gamble.

But hope is a shard and for that we have sparred to catch the words lost in a ramble.

This problem you’ve caused when procession you’ve paused corking the flow of events.

Now knowing the flaws to be trapped in the jaws of something that sort of makes sense.

If we just let alone that which caused us to moan when the unread contract we signed

The silent tone from a half broken phone existent but purged from our mind.

The mysterious sigh that we made say goodbye sent off on the back of your steed.

Would asking why maybe cause us to die? The answer eludes us indeed.

-2011

“A good friend of mine wanted a poem as her birth day present. I was glad when it was well received. It explains a little bit about her personality in a surreal way.”

 The Fox

An unwritten tale was whisping about with no perceivable signs of slowing.

An audible whisper as opposed to a shout, not knowing quite where it was going.

This tale made mention of a person quite odd, although strange she was not counted mad.

Maybe out of the norm but in no way flawed is what thought the spectators she had.

Her name was inspired by the life she was leading, not coined out of dislike or spite.

It was not because she was in the least bit misleading or stole chickens in the dead of night.

T’was because she was sly and quick with her wit and disliked wearing shoes or socks,

And liked shiny things that her pockets could fit. For these reasons they called her the fox.

Out into the dusk she ventured for naught on the eve of her nineteenth year.

Bringing along her favorite thought as she always did keep it quite near.

She passed on her way many peddlers and vendors, higglers and hucksters with jiggers.

Magic shows, borrowers , fixers and lenders. A gent with old hats and elixirs.

Despite the amusement nothing could catch her eye, what she had was not easily spent.

As good thoughts were rare, brilliance ran dry. With her thought she was very content.

Trading thoughts once was common but faded away as people decided on lives of routine.

They lost their ideas and in result had turned grey, being different was like swimming upstream.

But Fox couldn’t look at life through that lens. Her thought brought her to wonderful places.

She wished that these people could soon made amends with ideas that could brighten their faces.

Night after night she followed her thought down paths that were seldom explored.

Leading to places the rest couldn’t spot, entertaining her with things often ignored.

With her thought she was happy as she wandered about told the story someone thought was worth knowing.

An audible whisper as opposed to a shout not knowing quite where it was going.

-2011

“This one doesn’t really have a story. Curious isn’t it? I guess the story is I was bored so I wrote a poem.”

                                      The Boat

You want a poem that says a lot in a couple lines of verse.

Something to reach inside your soul and quench your gnawing thirst.

Some sort of lesson to change your view about everything you know.

And with a voice plain as day lead to the boat you need to row.

Floating over the trials you’d otherwise face if you had to swim without

and make safe passage with a carefully drawn map displaying the fastest route.

All I can say is there’s no such boat or map to ease the journey

But to your legacy you’ll never get unless you know to hurry.

The water is full of difficult things that will try to drag you down

or rip you away in directions unknown where regret and shame abound.

Of all those things that you cannot know of two you can be sure.

If you sit on the beach with your hands in the sand these things you will never endure,

but to your reward you will never arrive and your joy imagined in vain.

But as long as you’re swimming and never let up you treasure you shall obtain.

 -2011

“I was in one of those moods inspired by things not happening according to plan, felt a little lost and then reminded myself I didn’t have to feel that way if I didn’t want to. I would like to say I got it all out of my system through this poem but I think the cure was actually nutella and a nap.”

Are You Lost?

A question I posed in an uncharted place

surrounded by trees and mist,

as I was walking with no need for haste

someone grasped my wrist.

I turned to a man who was conflicted inside

someone I never knew.

I asked are you lost to which he replied:

I’m not really sure, are you?

It was then I noticed I too didn’t know.

I bid him a brief goodbye.

I must have been lost having nowhere to go

but what kind of lost was I?

A few on their travels will misread their maps

or lose them when they roam.

For others odd struggles are dropped in their laps

getting lost without leaving home.

These ones lost sight of their beacon or guide,

in a place or just in their mind.

But then there are those who get lost to hide.

To escape their distress for a time

Some get lost just to see what they’ll find

or by whom they will be discovered.

Because someone who’s lost doesn’t have to walk blind

losing some things can make room for others.

This truth I learned in a familiar place

As sunlight drove out the frost

You can find yourself and continue the race

if you know why you are lost.

-2012