Best Pedigrees Poems
The Power of the Tron
Said the Big Computer to the Human Computee:
“Without me, sir, you must concur,
Wherever would you be?
I tally all your numbers, and I even give advice,
Unlike you, I’m objective and predictably precise.
‘Way down my epicenter, I’ve a calculating brain
That can compile, compute, compound, expound, explore, explain.
Oh, don’t you wish you had my wits, if only an iota,
For I’ve more news than I can use -
I'm programmed to my quota.”
And on and on it carried on, continuing to scoff,
Until the Human Computee reached down and turned it OFF.
And now The Big Computer sits there idle all the day,
Without a boasting, bragging, calculating thing to say,
While on the chair, beside it there, the Human Factor lingers,
Computing trig and calculus by counting on its fingers,
And when its used its fingers up, it can simply transpose
And still deduce, deduct, add up, by counting on its toes!
Take heed, you Mighty IBMs, and other pedigrees,
Before you get too taken with your capabilities –
You may have stores of knowledge;
You may be an Alpha Tron,
But it’s the Human Digit
Ultimately
Turns
You
ON.
We hear, then reason; "-ane" becomes a chain,
Mundane, inane, profane — in one shared refrain.
The ear makes kin; the mind supplies the blame.
Their sound alone condemns an innocent name.
But '-ane' has no common ancestor that's known.
No single root from which these shades have grown.
They're joined by sound, not blood; a chance refrain,
They're strange bedfellows, lodged inside the brain.
'Mundane' simply means the earth beneath our feet.
The dust, the stars, the bitter, and the so sweet.
No dullness is dealt within its core domain;
We dulled the world, then christened it 'Mundane'.
'Profane' stood simply outside sacred ground,
Beyond the shrine, where ordinary life was found.
But thresholds hardened; differences gathered blame.
What stood beyond the sacred, gathered within its shame.
'Inane' was empty, hollow, a void within.
While 'vain' knew emptiness through a different kin.
Their meanings conjoined, though separate they remain—
Two roads to nothing, rhyming within the brain.
Then 'bane' arrived from quite another tree,
In Old English it's 'bana': death and enmity.
No Latin cousins riding on the train—
A killer merely dressed to rhyme with “-ane.”
So 'mundane', 'vain', 'profane', 'inane' and 'bane'.
Parade like blood relations throughout the brain.
The rhyme persuades; resemblance stakes its claim.
The ear invents a bloodline with which to inflame.
We hear resemblance, then presume a chain.
One word's dark shadow stains another's name.
A rhyme becomes a verdict; sound becomes blame.
Those unrelated roots all inherit borrowed shame.
We forge from echoes pedigrees of blame.
Make strangers kin, then stain them in our game.
Each word stood innocent; our ears supplied the stain—
We dulled the world, then christened it “Mundane”.
I arrived before the final showing,
Before your heart was erased.
When we run the gamut
There are rules
That cannot be broken.
There are spirals in the mind
That annoy even the great ones,
With pedigrees like tulips.
Free at last--
Or so I thought, but
All hope of winning the prize is lost.
My harmonies plead for mercy.
Do you remember your name? I asked.
There was no answer.
But I knew it was Stephen--
Stephen who paints windows
And affixes doors--
Stephen the unhinged.
Fiction, he said, is the truth
Behind the facts,
The wandering of lost sheep
Who walk in your dreams.
There are those, who in a trance
Like frogs, burrow beneath the mud
And wait for rain.
Rain was a long time coming that year.
Everyone knew it would be dry;
The almanac said so.
The signs were posted everywhere:
Seven years of drought,
A long waiting to be born.
Did I arrive before the final showing?
Before your heart was erased?
All I know is that
When we run the gamut
There are rules
That cannot be broken
And shattered like an icicle
Falling to the ground.
There are spirals in the mind
That annoy even the great ones,
With pedigrees like tulips.
Free at last--
Or so he thought--
Before the final undertaking.
All hope of winning the prize is lost,
Yet beauty stands out
And is known.
In this prison of mortality,
I am a limp doll.
My features show the age of years;
My harmonies plead for mercy.
Do you remember a name, I asked.
There was no answer.
But I knew it was Stephen--
Stephen who paints windows
And affixes doors--
Stephen the unhinged.
Fiction, he said, is the truth
Behind the facts,
The wandering of lost sheep
Who walk in their dreams.
They are those who in a trance
Can appear quite normal.
Like frogs, they burrow beneath the mud
And wait for rain.
Rain was a long time coming that year.
Everyone knew it would be dry;
The almanac said so.
The signs were posted everywhere:
Seven years of drought,
A long waiting to be born.
III
This is the land of the convectional rains
Which vie on the monsoon back scrubbing streets
This is the land at half-past four
The rainbow rubs the chilli face of the afternoon
And an evening-morning pervades the dripping, weeping
Rain tree, and gushing, tumbling, sewerless rain drains
Sub-cutaneously eddy sampan fed, muddy, fingerless rivers
Down with crocodile logs to the Malacca Sea.
This is the land of stately dipterocarp, casuarina
And coco-palms reeding north easterly over ancient rites
Of turtle bound breeding sands.
This is the land of the chignoned swaying bottoms
Of sarong-kebaya, sari and cheongsam.
The residual perch of promises
That threw the meek in within
The legs of the over-eager fledgelings.
The land since the Carnatic conquerors
Shovelling at the bottom of the offering mountains
The bounceable verdure brought to its bowers
The three adventurers.
A land frozen in a thousand
Climatic, communal ages
Wags its primordial bushy tail to the Himalayas
Within a three cornered monsoon sea -
In reincarnate churches
And cracker carousels.
The stranglehold of boasting strutting pedigrees
And infidel hordes of marauding thieves,
Where pullulant ideals
Long rocketed in other climes
Ride flat-foot on flat tyres.
IV
Let us go then, hurrying by
Second show nights and jogget parks
Listening to the distant whinings of wayangs
Down the sidewalk frying stalls on Campbell Road
Cheong-Kee mee and queh teow plates
Sateh, rojak and kachang puteh
(rediffusion vigil plates)
Let us then dash to the Madras stalls
To the five cent lye chee slakes.
la la la step stepping
Each in his own inordinate step
Shuffling the terang bulan.
Blindly buzzes the bee
Criss-crossing
Weep, rain tree, weep
The grass untrampled with laughter
In the noonday sobering shade.
Go Cheena-becha Kling-qui Sakai
(continued from Parts One & Two)
peas do it
whole forests of
deciduous trees do it
we's could do it too
let's copulate
complete phylums of
pedigrees do it
i hope you'll agrees, 'n' do it
all desires to appease, do it
let's copulate
the paupers and the potentates
everyone wants to procreate
all manner of fauna and flora
do desire and simply adora
to copulate, they think it's great
every species wants its mate
giraffes are always necking
pretty parrots prefer pecking
gouramis like their kissing
waiting ladies, other blissing
so let's copulate
orchids all colored and scenting
attracting insects by augmenting
instincts desire to copulate
life’s fascination to procreate
arthropods genetically driven
give nods to drives unforgivin'
the whole world's standard of livin'
is driven by a desire insatiate
to copulate and procreate
so i hope that you'll agrees
don't give my affections a tease
i prefer not to beg, but please
i'll get down on my knees to
assume my position
on this admonition
let's copulate
oh baby, slake my burning desire
to amorously set your pipes on fire
all i really wanna do
is water your Archimedean screw
so let's do it baby, let's copulate
to tell you now, my own discourse
it's just our mattered intercourse
a filibuster would be remiss
I vote for you and me to congress
I'm unimpeachable
if you're reachable
let's do it, let's copulate
© Goode Guy 2011-06-02
with thanks, (and sincere apologies) to Cole Porter
The dungarees I used to wear
Were Levis, Wranglers, Lees;
There were no upscale denims then,
With fancy pedigrees.
They hugged my hips and fit real snug,
With bottoms flared like bells.
I wore them ‘til the hems were frayed
And then said my farewells.
Today I cleaned a closet, finding
Jeans in every shade –
Light ones, stonewashed, dusky blue,
Enough for a parade.
Some are baggy, others tight;
Most have legs quite straight.
Several hit the thrift store pile,
Sorely out of date.
As I tried them on, I thought,
I wish that I had kept
Just one old pair of dungarees
From days gone by, except…
You cannot resurrect the past,
So what would be my goal?
The girl who wore those Levis out
Was strictly rock and roll.
I still love rock but also jazz
And Mozart, I admit;
And sad to say, my current jeans
Seem like a better fit.
Outside new rose buds contemplate
the future, should we bloom or no,
and tempt our own vermillion fate?
We are not winter's afterglow,
they muse, but amulets of grace,
consider buildings stacked in place
without decorum or brio!
Which is the greater of the two
in March--intentions must not mar
the garden cloister--to eschew
the world or flutter like a star
or horse manes lilting in the breeze?
Remember thus: our pedigrees
grant entree to a love's boudoir!
Iambic Tetrameter
aba bccb ded effe
3/3/18
Today’s the day to celebrate
A food that few dislike or hate
For pizza’s found most everywhere;
A town without it would be rare.
From big round pies served by the slice
To square Sicilians, all entice,
No matter if they’re topped with cheese
Or have more fancy pedigrees
‘Cause toppings vary; where you eat it
May decide what tops complete it –
Pepperoni, veggies, ham,
Pineapple or shrimp or clam
Sausage, meatballs, spinach, ‘shrooms,
Even tofu, one assumes.
Sprinkle with oregano
Or pepper flakes; you’re good to go.
We should all indulge today
So if you’re home or you’re away,
Go find yourself a sizzling slice
Of gastronomic paradise!
Cloud Nine
It's Been Nine years,
They seem Short and Sweet,
Eyes Full of Joy Tears,
Shoes Full of Feet.
It's Been Nine Annuals,
Of Blues & Green Blossoms of Smiles,
Sans GPS or Shalom Manuals,
Our Careening Inner-Outer Space Miles.
It's Been a Team of Nine,
But Rookie Roster of Two,
On Purim, Said the Rebbetzin,
"A Remarkable Pair are You".
It's Been Nine Annums,
Date Starting Over Starbuck's Coffee,
Then Favorite Englander Kitchen Table Crumbs,
Soared Us High, to Orbits Lofty.
It's Been Nine Degrees,
Of Seeing the Plus & Flaw Blindness,
Each Listing Spouse Pedigrees,
Beginning & Ending With Kindness.
It's Been Nine Lives,
To Borrow from the Cat World,
You Inched Bravely to the High Dive,
Breathed Deep, Dove & Deserve to be Pearled.
(Now, Barbara Opens the Necklace Case)
Cloud Nine
It's Been Nine years,
They seem Short and Sweet,
Eyes Full of Joy Tears,
Shoes Full of Feet.
It's Been Nine Annuals,
Of Blues & Green Blossoms of Smiles,
Sans GPS or Shalom Manuals,
Our Careening Inner-Outer Space Miles.
It's Been a Team of Nine,
But Rookie Roster of Two,
On Purim, Said the Rebbetzin,
"A Remarkable Pair are You".
It's Been Nine Annums,
Date Starting Over Starbuck's Coffee,
Then Favorite Englander Kitchen Table Crumbs,
Soared Us High, to Orbits Lofty.
It's Been Nine Degrees,
Of Seeing the Plus & Flaw Blindness,
Each Listing Spouse Pedigrees,
Beginning & Ending With Kindness.
It's Been Nine Lives,
To Borrow from the Cat World,
You Inched Bravely to the High Dive,
Breathed Deep, Dove & Deserve to be Pearled.
(Now, Barbara Opens the Necklace Case)
Dandelion puff clouds
tickle the air with their flossy flights.
Other weeds cannot fly
they are deeply rooted, their seeds
flop low.
Landscapers grind the ground grimly,
mowers grapple and growl
but the low gravity and the fluffy,
the wind-walking dandelions
sneeze up their fuzziness
and care not
as they ride the sky, their
high-flown wispy pedigrees
waving goodbye.
Hurry up! Barry the boorish bulldog urged Priss the poodle.
There are others here who want to unwind their noodle.
Is that surly curly still in the bath? Is she getting her legs waxed?
German shepherd’s temper was being severely taxed.
Move over a bit so I can reach the sink!
Said a beagle who was trying to get a drink.
The bathroom was filled up with dogs of variety of pedigrees.
They were hopping around on fat legs that had chased a good breeze.
How many more roommates are we going to get?
Yelped a blue heeler with sass who was throwing a fit.
The puppies barked, and the old dogs passed big gas.
All of them ready to leap around on some grass.
Imagine a topsy turvy upset
Where humans were pets
President Jack Russell in talks
With terriers from york
Debating about pest control
Keeping humans in control
Women kept for breading and tame
Men kept for hunting and games
Imagine the chaos if dogs ruled
Who'd stop them being cruel
Locking humans in the garden
Barking and beating hard men
Would they prepare the food?
And clean up the poop?
Would dogs walk on two legs?
And humans use all four instead?
Defining humans into pedigrees
A caged human? Set it free
Lassie would be a heart throb
Wellards the highest payed dog
Workin for the BBC company
Barking beyond companionity
Bathrooms wouldn't be invented
Forests for public conveniences
Politics would still be as bad
Even Jack Russells barking mad
Arguing about the price of meat
From butcher dogs superleads
The largest franchise dog bone
Lots of treats to take home
Second place home barkings
Where they get pets bargains
German shepherds policing the street
As the other breeds are too weak
If the topsy turvy world was true
Not differ much from our rule
I think it would be less confusing
As the dogs life is more amusing
Most people aren’t blessed with all the zest
Of money, power and fame,
But live their lives in “quiet desperation,”
As Thoreau once famously claimed.
As for me I once believed
I was headed toward the stars,
But time has taught me well it seems,
I didn’t get too far.
For I didn’t climb the highest rungs
Up the ladder of success,
I missed the bar that shows how far
“I made it,” more or less.
No marquis lights or political fights
That history might resound,
No Guiness World Records or Olympic Gold Medals
Could I claim back then or now.
Nor did I unearth some treasure well worth
It’s place in future books,
No secrets revealed that may have concealed
How King Priam might have looked.
No pedigrees or higher degrees
Of learned education,
But a simple man who understands
Life’s more meaningful and deeper than one’s station.
With memories made in sun and shade
I wouldn’t trade for diamonds blue,
It’s been a good ride both in and outside
That’s made me both old and new…
Through this life I surrender to all that’s been rendered,
Striven or given to me,
The highs and lows, praises and blows,
Struggles and troubles between.
Miles of travels that left me baffled,
Befuddled, bewitched and besieged,
By moments uplifting, soul filling and gifting
As if this was all meant to be.
A plan in the making and all for the taking
For this nobody of renown,
Invisible me out wandering free
The best way I knew how.
Bereft of the greatness some others attained
Near empty of all but this:
The goodness shown by those I’ve known
And whose faces and souls I miss.
© Terrell Martin, 01/24/2025