When President Eisenhower sent the troops to Little Rock
in ’57 to enforce brand-new federal desegregation laws, you liberals didn’t object
After all, Governor Faubus‘ states’ rights’ was a lawless Confederate anachronism
an obsolete holdover from the racist South in the Civil War
But now that DJT is trying to enforce long-standing immigration law in America
you sanctuarians are up in arms, obstructing justice and invoking ‘states rights!!’
the most revolting moniker I can think of
~ But then again, you’all are pretty revolting yourselves
Not over-delicately
but matter-of-factly –
because he’d appreciate knowing
And so, he wondered
when he had become
an ‘anachronism’
And what else, of course
he hadn't known
At the risk of coming off turgid
I offer this tale esoteric
Hoping it’s not found insipid
Nor causes one to be apoplectic
But rather received with alacrity
Without the need for paroxysm
My word there’ll be no chicanery
And avoidance of anachronism
Far from being sesquipedalian
Nor need for any razzmatazz
The tale of the slubberdegullion
Who thought himself full with pizzazz
Though being so supercilious
His affect stirred only dudgeon
Any good was so very fugacious
From this untoward tatterdemalion
Yet still he persisted a mumpsimus
If you will, and worse a panjandrum
So aggravating and rumbustious
Redeeming qualities not a modicum
An unquestioned snollygoster
Given to being quite vagary
An ill-reputed hugger-mugger
And a voice of such cacophony
But I see that you are insouciant
And consider my warning malarkey
Since you wish to be recalcitrant
My apologies for being persnickety
I end my tale of the rapscallion
Without further ado or rigmarole
Avoiding becoming ultracrepidarian
I have met my supererogatory parole
Don’t add me to some country if you can
Affiliation of the small to something big
Is not my thing, I’m only what I am
Not greater than I was, and used to be
Don’t mix me with the current politicians
Do not expect that I would stage a coup
I was an artist but I lacked ambition
I do not paint since twenty twenty two
There are much better artists whose conception
Is in someway akin to realism
I don’t belong to that most popular direction
My art is something like anachronism
Nobody buys it anyway, and I can’t sell
The world appears more stupid every day
Dear Lord up there, can you stop this hell
This boring hell, with endless games to play
The devils part became way more expanded
Than it was meant to be in your dividing plan
Return me to my home, for here I’m stranded
Bring back to life my love and me again.
There’s no reason for this change
Make us move our clocks all forward
Always leaves me feeling strange
Maybe better if we ignored
Daylight Saving’s overblown
Not like it is farming season
Why can’t they leave time alone
There’s no reason
————
A Leigh Hunt Rondeau: (Da)babcdcD using trochaic tetrameter and catalectic feet (missing the final metrical foot), so 7:8:7:8:7:8:7:4
Many people sweat the time change - I can't really say it bothers me much, but seems an anachronism of times past...
superlative in wrath as one who avenges nemeses
sometimes a man out of hate is subsumed in sounds
propagating the use of onomatopoeias
stomping slapping and gerunding
the ancient and eternal anachronism
of what is now in the cocoon and now is in larva
and what is this painful scream eroding the deaf world...
this man
this insect
the rare element that rubs its stems
swirls in the air and like a plume of lead
falls too mature in this life of less.
in wrath he utters the sounds of this holocaust.
he yearns and desires the cataclysm
so if a big earthquake breaks the plates
there is a breakdown in gravity
and the shaft rebalances the glasses in the bars
and the transit of capitals,
the lines of cars naturally reborn
and it's on the oil-splattered roads
where men test the speed of their anguish
and while the sun illuminates what he doesn't even know
that man silences his anger
chewing and swallowing the gerunds once more.
Yarns are swerving right now,
as sadly as a fall coat of leaves
It's crimson for a split second,
sending cures from the last zest.
the shade then fades to yellow,
I wish I could be so buoyant and upbeat.
as if it haunts an anachronism,
the glow dims to an amber hue.
thusly, like the acrid tangy taste.
my heart kindles a jauntier tomorrow.
1st PLACE CONTEST WINNER
Written: March 25, 2022
A Brian Strand 1096 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Guitar
Acoustic, Electric
Strumming, Resonating, Soloing
Modern, Popular, Antique, Anachronism
Plucking, Projecting, Accompanying
Medieval, Baroque
Lute
As the drunk teacher was saying:
The hum of the computer
Was a common feature
In 5 BC one student
Was looking up:
Anachronism
You’re jealous of my passions
Don’t think I haven’t noticed
‘cause I don’t keep up with fashions
And I don’t eat of your Lotus
I don’t fall for your heroes
Hook, line, and sinker
Don’t worship in the shadows
Of your latest hit dead-ringer
I’m a little bit out of step
And that’s okay
I’d rather be a cripple any day
Than join your march into oblivion
And join the empire of your setting sons
You eye me with suspicion –
I’m a curiosity
A weird anachronism
In the real-time that you see
I don’t fall for your answers
Or your ancient, lowbrow wisdom
As you blare your scripted scriptures
From your belfry in the mission
I’m a little bit out of step
And that’s okay
I’d rather be a cripple any day
Than join your march into oblivion
And join the empire of your setting sons
Every sucker, two to take him
Every culture, paved to wasteland
Every sucker, two to take him
Every culture, paved to wasteland
You question my conviction
And dispel my sense of freedom
‘cause I don’t sleep with your women
And I don’t dream of your Eden
Marriage is not an anachronism
Marriage is a bond
Marriage is not a calypso
It is a marathon
Marriage is not a gentle breeze
Nor is it pristine
Marriage is a choppy sea
Above a listing submarine
Marriage is not a pretty toy
Nor is it a fancy poodle
Marriage is frozen TV dinners
Topped off with mystery noodles
Marriage is not just "I Love You"
Nor is it eternal romance
Marriage is a power outage
Sweaty T-shirt, crawling pants
Yet for all the unanticipated things that marriage isn't
And all the disappointing things it is
I wouldn't have it any other way
~ One towel Hers, the other His
Escape the shade
Evade the thought police
Slip into the shadows
So cool
Oh so cool
Fenced in, fenced out
Got you trapped in doubt
Don't believe me?
Rip away the veil
See the scale of the whale
When you hear their voice
Know it drips with poison
Got you spinnin' with their last surprise
Honeyed words don't mean a damn thing
Your heart shines brightest
We're victims of the game
Got us convinced we're to blame
So we hide in shame
All so they can afford fame
All the same, all the same
I dropped rhyme like it's hot
I ripped my own verse in two
I married prose and slang
Slinging these poems on street corners
I might be a poeteer
My mind is a prism
Of manic masochism
So perverse my verse is like anachronism
With each line break a schism
For society like Darwinism
And they don't need armies to check us
They got FaceBook and Google to do that
Truth is we're sucked in by social media
Selling our identities for likes
With love from Russia
They'll take until there's nothing left
Only then will everything be right
And there's no opposition to corruption
Prisms and masochism
Sign me up for Gnosticism
a doG meditation...
this is about what we call "pets"
about ownership..objectivity..
an anachronism now..?
the inner model of
consciousness-only
may provide a hint:
only consciousness Knows
not plants..not animals..not us..
that is a radical reversal
of our heretofore belief
that consciousness springs separately
from each compartment of life..
considering again:
only consciousness Knows
is aware..and is expressed in
every-thing..every-where..
this equality of Knowing
filters through our finiteness
our body and mind
and through our "pet" dog
and through the turtle at sea..
So.. we pause:
consciousness only..Knows
All
things made
yesterday
are too clunky:
phones and computers,
cars and televisions,
ships, airplanes and satellites,
huge machines that human hands created.
Now technology is evolving;
is God also an anachronistic?
Written on 7/25/2016
That old clock on the mantle
That measured the moments
Of so many mortals
Enmeshed in mere time
Now dusty and disregarded
Disdained and discarded
No longer the master
Nor server of time
One could offer that it’s
Time has passed
That it can no longer proffer
The measure of time
That it no longer dictates
A definitive number
When to rise or to slumber
Gives no longer life reason or rhyme
The clockworks have stilled
The hours no longer chime
Gears no longer mesh
Nor it’s hands tell the time
It’s an anachronism now
Lost in time somehow
Relegated, delegated, exiled,
To the trash pile of time
It sits alone, quite content with the fact
That it’s exactly right….twice a day
And that’s much , much more
Than most people can say
…at least most of the time…
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