A Terse Seafarer’s Verse

(A poem using only the left side of the keyboard! Plus punctuation.)

Ever at sea, we sweat, swear.
Savage, as ravaged seafarers we are.
Steadfast at greed, we swagger, carefree,
draw daggers as fast as a westward breeze.

Grave faces scarred, a tad fevered at best,
a starved, battered crew, few feet at rest
as we scatter wet streets, barrage bearded braggarts,
grab ragged carafes, grab axes, grab scabbards.

Rewards are sweet, a scared bawd wears a bra.
Defaced a red dress, we aggressed as we awed.
Sacred as stargazers’ garbage. Avast!
Retreat ere arrest, afar seaward we cast.

As dead as we dare. Beware tattered craft,
as crass caws reverberate abaft.

Already Been Cultured

(continuation of “Alpha Beta Can’t Don’t Eat Food Gross”)

Now,
old
people!
Quick:
retire!
Sail
to
unending
vacations
where
xenophiles
year-round,
zillions,
all
boisterously
congregate,
dining,
eating
foreign
gourmet,
hand
in
jangles;
Killjoy
locals
mercifully
not
obstructing
perfection.

Protagonize

(The challenge was to end every line with an anagram of the title–  Protagonize  being the name of our collaborative writing community.)

I never was a painter,
never mastered the piano.
But maybe with a pointer,
and another glass of pinot
or a giant
cappuccino, I’d be great.

Encouragement, and such ornate
discussion can be quite a gain
for talents to which they pertain,
for those who choose to ask instead of agonize.

Better that we organize,
and then, though we might feel inept,
and secretly our ego
may be torn…

we’ll soon uncover things we can’t ignore…

The stoic, eager ogre
who, befuddled by a tiger
that was hoodwinked by a pirate,
stole the everlasting opiate,
and never could get over it
and vowed to kick the pirate in the groin.

Which never was, and needn’t be, the point.

The Alphabet of Physics

(a terrible alphabet poem for sciency types. GET IT?)

Accelerate I can, but only in a few
Barns– which is area, not length, but I don’t give a darn!
The Speed of Light can always go the
Distance, but I have no more
Energy. It’s all I can do to
Force myself to not fall down, allow my constant
Acceleration Due to Gravity to pull me under.
Henry’s faster, (my imaginary friend), but his speed’s just an
Imaginary Number in my head. And
Joule’s law tells me, the heat from my jealousy, is proportional (in
Kelvins) to the duration of Henry’s resistance.
Avogadro’s Number can kiss my ass, forget about moles, let’s measure in
Mass.
Newton ran hard, beat us all, with less
Oxygen, although he was not under
Pressure. The information he left at large, about
Electric Charge, just wasn’t in a 2-mile
Radius.
SIEMENS, the reciprocal of Ohm-my-god, this is completely out of context this
Time. I laugh, and suddenly,
Potential Energy warms up inside me, and soon my
Velocity increases. Will this really
Work? I wonder, as I dominate the
X-Axis, the
Y, then the
Z.

Jezebel et al.

Jezebel

(in which I only use one vowel letter, that being E)

Jezebel reflects, remembers,
pens her sweetest verses–
never tends neglected embers,
etches perfect tercets.

Her pen remembers, the slender pews
were then red velvet dressed.
She’d spent endless vespers there,
sheltered, free, blessed.

The elders there, they’d served her well,
whence she’d left the streets.
Yet ere she’d wed,
she swelled.
The wench, the temptress,
dwelled
between the bedsheets.

Thence, even the Reverend jeered,
“Serpent, we beseech thee…
Repent! Else we’ll decree:
Be ended here!”

She fell, she knelt, expressed regret,
yet they were hellbent, vehement.
Even whence she’d wept,
she’d been expelled.

Every letter thence she’d spelled
reserved, repressed her secret.
She’d never tell.
She kept the Reverend’s secret.

Guru

(in which I critically fail an attempt to follow up “Jezebel”, and discover that U is an inherently disgusting letter)

Numbskulls trust smug gurus.
Dumb guru drunk gnu cum, yuck!
Must upchuck hummus lunch.
Guru drunk skunk mucus,
Plus butt fungus pus, ugh…
Shut up, stuck up guru.
Just run thru suburbs,
Humdrum’s dull,
But thus, much un-yuck-ful.

Re- Your Airy Aura

(Trying to write a poem using only one consonant letter. And y, dammit!)

Re: your airy aura…
aye, you are rare.
your rear,
your ear area, your eye…
Rue your error, ere you ire,
or I roar “oi!”

A year, our era,
our eerie aurora ray array
o’er a rare arroyo.
Aye, irie!

A Sassy Sis

(It’s just getting silly now and I promise this is the last one!)

Sissy is Sue’s sis, so
Sissy issues Sue a sassy essay,
says,
“Sue, you ass, use yo eyes, ése!”
Sue’s eyes see USA seas.
Sissy eyes Asia.
Sissy’s essay says “Asia is easy!”
Sue says “So?”
Sue souses Sissy’s essay, uses soy.
Sissy susses, assesses… yes!
Sissy sues Sue.

Sesquipedalianism

I’ve got hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliaphobia, and that’s not
eellogofusciouhipoppokunurious.
Please stop your floccinaucinihilipilification of it, you
podobromhidrotic, sesquipedalian bastard.
Forgive me if I just lost my honorificabilitudinity, but
I will not indulge you with any disingenuous blandiloquence.

Face-Off

A gruesome deed,
But necessary, the one I must
Commit.

Dirty jobs
Entail a bit of
Force, a little
Grit.

Here,
I’m faced with a
Juicy problem to
Knock around a bit…

Look, don’t
Mean to burst your bubble, but you’re
Not hard to
Outwit.

Pain contorts my face, my
Quarry
Reddens but doesn’t
Submit…

Tweezing, pinching, squeezing…
Until my
Valiant efforts quit.

Wait, I’ll just use my
X-Acto knife.
Yes! Take that,
Zit.

Scrabble Zongs

A Zong

(memorizing Z words for Scrabble)

You idolize, you seize the prize,
you vocalize of vitalizing zombies.
It’s amazing how lazily you breeze the maze,
you crazy lizards zooming through the kudzu.
Raze the roof with jazz kazoo,
you klutzes never sneezing to amaze me.
Waltzing with a dozen zebras;
Tis a zany thing to do,
but there’s zero else as ritzy at the zoo.
Keep your gaze at the horizon;
Be exorcized, or be blazed by my bazooka.
Blitzed into your hazy daze,
you doze into your booze.
It’s cozy here in these bizarre azaleas.

A Xong

(a logical followup)

Excuse me as I expunge an excrement, I know it’s extra rude,
But this excess is exasperating, and excruciating to exude.
Please don’t get excited when I express my exultation.
If I exclaim, “I exalt this excretion!” – that may be an exaggeration.

And please do not examine it; though it’s extraordinary, I expect.
But it’s just an example of the exquisite extractions I can dexterously eject.
Why I’m exploiting this experience is not exactly plain.
I’m experimenting, exposing my exports… I cannot explicitly explain.

This is an exoteric piece, I just had to externalize.
But to expedite the flux, I will expire that exercise.
Ixnay on the excerpt there, I’ll exchange it for this tale,
Take a Xanax for my anxiety, relax and then exhale.

You may think that I’m explosive and I think outside the box,
But from Xmas to the crucifix, I’m extremely orthodox.
Except – I’m excommunicated, and I’m lucky I still exist.
See, I had a little mix-up with a sexy exorcist…

We took an exotic excursion on an excellent equinox.
We went to explore the exosphere, and that’s not a paradox.
When we returned to Oxford, we were exiled, yes, expelled!
And quite transfixed by the six-six-six that damned us both to hell.

My exorcist was an extrovert who had claimed to be an expert,
But because of his hoax we joined the exodus, exiting the earth.
The crux of the story is not complex, it’s a simple axiom:
Expecially regarding oxygen, don’t exceed the maximum!

Exeunt

A Qong

(I should’ve quit before this one!)

Once upon a quiet quag
Under a quart of maqui
A squab was squatting, with quite a qualm
Quailing, squegging, rocking.

She quaffed some aqua to quench the qualm
Then queried to all of her quins:
“Won’t you quit that croquet game?
you’re acting like a bunch of quids!”

The quint, that is: the queen, the quean,
The quey, the squaw, and the squab
Were queer quintuplets, that’s a quack,
A roque and quoit squad.

The queen, qua the queerest one
Quipped back at the squibbing squab,
“Quit your piquing, you quirky quale,
or we’ll quoin you in a quod.”

The squab took her qurshes and flew away
On a quest to find a quern or quay.
and her quins just queued and quoted the squab
While listening to all the SQUAWK!

A Stong

(extending the challenge to use as many “st” sounds as possible, and to not write something really depressing and shitty. Whoops!)

I’m standing still by the whistling stream,
studying the stars,
and staring straight through the steady storm,
aghast at the vast distance.
This instant of existence
must be my last,
lest my stress persists.
I’m stripped of strength, I can no longer resist.
I insist
that this is best.
For I am lost until I rest.

A Thong

(ending on a good one)

Filthy authors, authorizing
thugs and meth and brothels,
enthralling youth with wealth and leather,
thin, with thighs that thongs untether,
though they’d rather
play the zither,
think, and bathe,
and thank their mothers,
and further their own growth in mathematics.

The thing is, youth are thorough, ruthless thieves
of filth and loathsome clothing,
thirteenth birthdays,
goth and deathly,
atheist and inauthentic,
not athletic, or otherwise worthy
of the thousands of things they slather on
and lather in,
and hither and thither, a swath gets on their teeth.
Their pathetic pathos
leaves them loath to breathe.

Therefore gather all together,
fathers, authors, faithful brothers:
think, rethink, and thumb your thick thesaurus.
Then stealthily your pithy words
will slither through with soothing warmth,
and put forth
what the soothsayer sooth-saith.
Then, thunderstruck, the youth will laugh,
and, rathe to take another path,
throw away their thongs and things of leather.
(The meth, though, is another thing altogether!)

Riddle

(No one has answered this yet! Have they tried hard? Idk. But you could be the first!)

Put me in the front and I am not;
Put me at the end and I am many.
I am put together, I am: