Best Rhyme Nor Reason Poems
Eulogy For An Unsung Hero ©
The late John Sidney McCain III,
now flies with Arrow Smith,
Babbitt, and Jefferson Airplane
five days shy of his
eighty second birthday,
taken down (to his demise)
courtesy, sans metastatic cancer of brain
defeated by an aggressive
deadly linkedin chain,
yet still earns kudos
no matter 1967 USS Forrestal fire
(during the Vietnam War)
his life source did
nearly completely drain
though purposeless prevails,
asper absolute zero gainsay,
no rhyme nor reason
can even feebly explain,
when approximately
a quarter million young men
(oh...yes, perhaps
some women too) perished
at sea, on land, or floatplain
sacrificed their lives for nought,
zip, nada nothing to GAIN
(my bald, billed,
and bold assertion,
a mere minor tirade
subpar class 1 hurricane
non-veteran civilian personnel),
nonetheless afflictions by said
United States veteran and,
subsequent Senator from Arizona,
what posthumous praise me expresses
merely mildly silly putty,
piddly, paltry and inane
as anti septic (of danger)
such as books
for children star
ring Dick and Jane
does disservice, injustice offends,
(perhaps descriptive word choices
might smack of hyperbole,
my humble apology if in apropos),
thus a more app pealing appellation,
could be Citizen Kane,
whose corporeal being got lain
to rest on a grassy hill
adjacent to the main
starting point of his storied existence,
the burial plot (right next to
lifelong friend Chuck Larson)
amidst a plain
extolling grandeur and solemnity,
where grim reaper didst slain
of Arlington National
Cemetery in Virginia terrain
concluding mine poetic epistle,
that didst wax and wane.
I took a trip through hell.
Not to visit but to settle a debt.
Actually, I just visited a different part of hell,
One I wasn’t familiar with,
Having spent a great deal of my life
In a hell opened on my behalf by others.
The trip across town didn’t phase me,
Or change my situation.
Hell is not where the devil’s live,
Nor where Satan hangs his horns.
Hell is an uncharted wasteland
Into which the unsuspecting victim is cast.
There is no rhyme nor reason
To the presence of those present
Save unfortunate circumstance.
The debt I chose to settle centered
Around the years I languished in this hell.
The debt, I knew, could never be repaid.
I also knew that those who claimed
They owed no debt must be confronted
By the mockery of their fear.
They had to see the face of those
They stole from, defrauded and banished
To a hellishly angry and lonely exile.
So I took this trip to hell
Just to piss them off
To put them on notice
That they were not the one’s in charge
Of my hell.
I bent their trident forks
Pissed on their fire
Chewed on their brimstone
And asked them for some hot sauce.
For hell had made a man of me!
Not a good man, not the best man,
But a man “tried of the fire”
Still pissed off and ready to kick
Some Satanic ass.
To those who doubt there is a hell
I offer this warning
You may be there already
Yet unaware of your circumstance.
I have been to hell, and had a Hell of a time.
Now that time is over
As is the fear of the demons
And the bastards who allow them reign.
John G. Lawless
©3/6/2023
I can remember a February
away back in nineteen seventy-four
'Twas a first meeting of my family
and my intended whom I'd spoken for.
Two hour ride to Kentucky's western part
with a basketball game planned to follow
home-cooked meal - key to a son-in-law's heart.
The tension on both sides, hard to swallow.
Driving home after the game my sweetheart
suffered an attack, much worse shall we say,
than a mere gastrointestinal fart.
Gas stations, closed; fast food stops, gone astray.
No rhyme nor reason fits distension's distress;
My beloved sensed a connection, right off -
key to dad’s workplace suspended a big mess
as mom wonders, "Was it my rice pilaf?"
written February 9, 2018
A duck, is a duck, is a duck.
It’s not supposed to cluck.
A dog does not meow,
Nor moo like a cow,
It’s in its own mold stuck.
A car out of gas
Will not a truck pass.
It purposely remains still
Giving the owner no thrill
It simply will no mileage amass.
Things such as this
Drive clear thinking amiss.
There’s neither rhyme nor reason,
Regardless of the season,
So don’t ever sensibility miss.
frankly zapped after wildly oscillating
in tandem with seven bobble heads and ten French horns)
a devilish trumpeting event
by pre-Christian Celtic festival standards
with a “proto” Don twick or tweeting
like a Taj Mahal wonder of webbed, wide world scout
Samhain celebrated on nightfall of October 31
for bachanalia, candy corn, dreaded locks tot tout.
Now, the Celts I met lived 2,000 years ago
in the area now Ireland,
the United Kingdom and northern France,
believed that the dead,
cuz the underworld could not tolerate nor find stand
ding room, thus returned to earth on Samhain –
accessing a outdated map drawn by Rand McNally.
Though all roads leading to Rome,
would be millenniums as future did advance
but (mentioned for no particular rhyme nor reason)
only for discordant anachronism
Lewis Carroll took a tumble,
and neither fat nor slim chance,
would never find him completing Alice in Wonderland,
cuz quite an expanse
of centuries extant between his accidental slip
somewhere back in time at a glance
hence, he befell the same fate,
how Alice would never en hance
her life, yet the first stanza hailed
as powerful punch from grunting naked tribesman
with armstrong brandishing big lance
which phallic symbol extolled bare necessity,
and no need to wear seer sucker pants
even when inaugurating the ritual, including the verse
..."The time has come," the Walrus said
"To talk of ma ny things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."...
set the listeners in a trance
emptying coffers of bipedal feral simians to add vance
this yearly practice filling rucksacks
with berries, carrion and twigs.
Whether ya favor Golem, Hobgoblins, or Dybyk,
take pause buffer ja pour out massed goodies heck
enjoy satiating yar sweet tooth while still able to lick
every morsel of junk food afterwards a tooth pick
might be necessary to remove gobs that didst stick
analogous to tallow melted from candle wick.
(an All Poetry feat to walk in
the poetic feet of Robert Frost)
Bucolic New England, circa
Early twentieth century New England
awash with dynamic harmonic leisureliness,
when much of North America favored rustic
visual whirled wide webbed watercolor
waiting afield at dusk, the thrum
of nature all abuzz didst feed thine
dizzily green jovial mien
unlike mean Gary Lewis
veritable innocence and naiveté
rollicked with mine lanky frame
relishing ambling into my own quietude
an infinite breadth, length and scope
of infrequently trammeled near virgin
woodland paths grown over with brambles
nonetheless a faintly trussed harbinger
marked by weatherbeaten
for sale signposts
with here and there an abandoned plow
long since given over
to rust when the pasture
seasons elapsed since
farmer(s) left unharvested
fecund fields absent
the cloven hoof,
and deprived enrichment
manure, sans ungulates
ceased sufficing healthy
free ranging bovines,
where etudes punctuated
the terribly gross fresh air,
now no longer audibly quickening,
snapchatting, nor twittering
with the last word of a bluebird
deathly silence now 'cept
the wind in the willows
whispering woebegone laments
tree tops pining to cradle
idle youthful dreamers
boughs devoid of
psalm quivering romantic songstress
clattering debris merely
delivering echoed whooshing refrains
continually disintegrating among
in a disused graveyard
prescient ken aches with nostalgia
hallucinogenic nightmare slams
irrevocably shut the door in the dark
closed for good upon the onset,
wrought genocide against
the vanishing Red man,
a ghostly scarification meaningless ritual
wrested, removed, and highjacked
from indigenous peoples
without rhyme, nor reason
as fraternities no
longer pledge allegiance.
Telling "White Lies"
My mother got born November
thirteenth, nineteen hundred thirty five
within poverty stricken household
of Canarsie, Brooklyn, the youngest
(most mollycoddled) of four siblings,
experienced grinding poverty, no
matter maternal grandfather (Moishe
Kuritsky), a tailor he lacked drive
to support his family two parents +
remainder offspring, he helped sire
lacked positive role models, none the
less gumption taught her to strive
at tender age livid with rage to escape
caricature living poor, thus sought
employment when/wherever sheik hood
if necessary fibbed to survive
plus rash of healthy nurturing, and
absolute zero constraints, perhaps five
or thereabout years old attested
much later, suspected her papa did jive
with unspeakable improper behavior
(nobody dare discuss taboo issues),
yet intuition awoke within immoral
conclusion Harriet Kuritsky did arrive,
and perhaps resorted to stretching
the truth (fibbing a "white lie") the only
recourse available plied sweet innocence
knowing little or nothing about birds
feathering their nest, nor little about
buzzfeeding activity in beehive
naivete flirtatious coyness advantage worked,
I bet young thang did connive
and probably never did contemplate,
deliberate, generate and wrongdoing,
where mother of necessity spurred
angelic demureness strategy to contrive
securing bare necessities, hence fast
forward, when unsolicited advice given
to this sole son, or either sibling, (an older
& younger sister) tactics upbringing did deprive
ma mum of positive role models, hence
only blueprint to acquire essential needs
serendipitous series of unfortunate events
before Lemony Snicket did derive
school of hard knocks, (I do believe
formerly called Abraham Lincoln High)
rather than impugn, judge, revile, et cetera
kernels/nuggets of wisdom memory did revive
within my mind for rhyme, nor reason
blunt honesty, not always best policy
despite ten commandments
to husbands with many a wive.
An ode-a to Yoda love I,
in language I’ll understand, try.
Completely, the words are awry
and no rhyme nor reason, comply
Could please, someone now clarify
and give me a lucid reply;
then tell me right now, why oh why
he can’t talk all proper – like I?
~
For Jim'S "BEST Yoda-speak" Competition.
Winkin Blinkin And Nod, Sans...
Wonderful World Of Dreamland Furloughed!
Hours elapsed since I did sleep off
and feed my belly from the trough.
What...the...creaking screech re: sound
ding, (an unexpected pro noun
sub bull mashup attributed
to partial government shutdown
point middle finger at dented prez clown.)
The night of my spectacularly
exhausting seventh birth,
I dreamt about an amazing fictitious place,
and taint nope pull lace on Earth
cozily warm like a wood burning hearth
where embers snap,
crackle, and pop with mirth
best show in shutterfly REM
hmm...memory wool worth
(at least for near future) stayin alive
whiskey indeed no comparison, dip pin dive
ving into subconscious realm, and drive
ving devotees mad, 'specially when bing
a barf hull lie ("FAKE"),
thus wide awake temper
aerily perhaps til five
(more minutes), when buzz zee as bee hive
honey combed noggin will cease to jive,
and crown jewel will suddenly seize
gnome hatter, hatter how hard I strive
to stay awake
for no particular rhyme, nor reason
won during, how far
this chap can push himself to break
king point, which presently me make
foolish poem just to slake
hun heed to slather palaver
which yukon leave or take,
since essentially nary a clue
handy dan dee blues zee drew
pea senseless blather
basically (AWOL) din flue
zee brooked stream of consciousness
writing whatever zaps glue
pee bobbing sponge with grayish hue
cranking out words as they snap,
crackle and pop to this Jew
dishy us scrivener knew
dulling in an attempt
to splash unexpurgated lue
nah see gobbledygook, yes
sigh hug gree quite loo
pee, yet this long
(in the dent chord tooth) fell hoo,
he experiences silly (NOT solid) state
ready to moo
myself to supine pose new
matter, an unusual burst
of energy recharged
ordinarily inactive cerebral queue,
hence maximization left no time to rue
rationality upended in
frenetic attempt to spew
until...capacity to type another letter
sputters, a dog send to you
and all otter readers within
the webbed whirled wide human zoo!
Deep within throes of writer's block cerebral cortex feels frozen to the core
Haint no rhyme nor reason
why writing a poem such an arduous chore
twenty two days afore
winter solstice twenty twenty more
or less three weeks from tomorrow
November thirtieth, I implore
the god/goddess of poetry,
perhaps found within Bangalore
highlighted by the 'Green Door'
guarded by the key don Eeyore
also known as Al Gore
him of Earth in the Balance fame
who by George got ambushed unsure
if he chad chance to claim victory tour
when former candidate did score
less electoral college votes
nevertheless in my mind before
thoroughgoing count did ignore
discarded ballots scattered
all across the floor
which outcome incurred Iraq war
insinuating weapons of mass destruction
the gung ho forty third president forswore
existed but quite a few
respectable Republicans did abhor
pinning such ambiguous lore
upon head of recalcitrant Saddam Hussein
bombed back to stone age
think lavishing primitive home decor
no imprecation heaped and hurled
upon United States military, nor
thug, who nobody did adore
asking politely "por favor
can I pretty please take detour
to Galapagos Islands of Ecuador
made famous courtesy Charles Darwin
still popular best selling author
at garden variety generic bookstore
which borders on ridiculous for sure
yet inane rhyme tore
thru my noggin after writer's block
yours truly did deplore
he would spend countless hours in vain
every burst of creativity I did explore
found me smack dab against
figurative cul de sac and bonjour
to you too three score
orbitz after me late papa did bore
mama, she passed away
fifteen years before.
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXXI - 81
IF ever I had a country, a country without even a single Shredding Machine
And if ever I were elected/nominated/appointed by the powers that be SPEAKER of the Lower House of Parliament whose power to shine however were to be curtailed by the Upper House’s sheen
A country where all laws were enacted without much heed to the rhyme nor reason of the Bard’s Stratford-upon-Avon’s mellifluous flow of theme
Where every legal analyst: Professor of law Attorney-at-Law entertained his or her own opinion as to what the Laws of the State: relating to the Chief Executive, Rules and Regulations of Proceedings in or out of officialdom: libels, torts, crimes, misdemeanours or even what the Constitution may mean
And if ever any elected official or foreign dignitary were to be invited or chose to invite himself whether by rights or not to address the House and read from a
« tele-prompter » or printed text that was obviously Ghost-written, I’d shred the Speech with my front-teeth and unkempt nails and jump up and down with glee as though I were dancing the polka on the printed pages as they most certainly blatantly comport ideas, words and expressions of some heinous GHOST come to tease, torture, detract, confound, contradict and condemn all that is decent in the human being which is not mean
And all this, so be it, I swear before the populace I can never be GUILTY of breaking the LAW should I shred the words of some GHOST who lies, distorts, turns on head some or all the TRUTHS held to be sacred in my Nation’s History since no ghost may rightfully sue me (Sleep tight, Peach of a Teach !) for having even stolen a measly red, yellow or green pea, pod or bean
And this, even if I were to be put through the piranha jaws of the Republic’s Shredding-Immigration-Machine
Even if I never ever had no country worthy of being shredded and pulverized in the Wall of Black Holes’s grinding-machine
(c) T. Wignesan, Paris, February 8, 2020
There is no rhyme nor reason
For Christmas shopping season
Only during this season do you find out things you never knew
Like 80 year old women get football scholarships to BYU
An old man saw a dress that was just his wife’s style
So he tackled the woman holding it in the third aisle
A daddy bought Elmo to give his child some joy
A nun said I got a gun, so hand over the toy
It isn’t bad enough that someone’s stepping on your toes
But she’s letting her kid pull off Rudolph’s nose
Then I hear Santa saying ha ha ha hee hee hee
Because ho ho ho isn’t politically correct you see
Now I’m fuming, if there was a fire I’d fan it
I began to wonder if I was on the right planet
A little old lady put a bruise on my face
Then smiled at me so I sprayed her with mace
No one can imagine the way I felt
Until I put some mistletoe on the back of my belt
One thing for certain next year I’ll try
To do my Christmas shopping in July.
Walking down the dark hallway
Wishing for the break of day
For light to penetrate
All the places that I hate
Filling them with bright white light
Driving out all fear or fright
Keeping beasts at bay
Letting me frolic and play
Going into vast black spaces
Making them well lit places
All is cheerful and bright
Filling my heart with delight
Kicking out my inner demons
Who torment my without rhyme nor reason
I see the sun peak over the sky
All terrible feelings are let go to fly
No more burdens no more pain
All possessing spirits have been slain
New year's day 2021
Disinclination regarding tradition
to make resolutions stance
adopted courtesy yours truly.
Though such proclamation
may smack of high treason
no matter convenience to season
and ideal time to leaven existence,
I discern no rhyme nor reason
to make a promise unable to keep
whereby only disappointment I reap
inducing tears whether awake or asleep,
thus Matthew Scott Harris utters nary a peep.
as he doth vigilantly creep
along the information superhighway
hooping to sow (sew) what he didst reap
re:pair so I can strut (wool ewe bull eve)
like a Mummer wannabe counting sheep
while he does sleep.
E'er since Pope Gregory XIII effectively
(furnished, generated, and
instituted his holy mojo)
introducing Gregorian calendar
approximately four hundred
thirty nine years ago
chroniclers of time - mostly
religious Norwegian farming bachelors
casually referred to brethren as bro
ejaculated (sometimes premature) invocations,
which echoed across
Lake Wobegon, said incantations
devout followers among populace
did likewise parrot and crow
generation after generation
whereupon enigmatic, dogmatic, charismatic
monk native to Burma
stoked one after another ego
artificial construct did ebb and flow
amazingly enough maintaining accuracy
with marginal probability of error
precision parsing seconds, minutes, hours...
would only tolerate absolute zero
variation regarding prediction
of weeks, months, years...
as sophistication of civilization did grow
allowing, enabling, and providing
jolly fellow bellowing ho... ho... ho
could make his round the world wide web
timely trek linkedin with timepiece
assembled with B Corporation approval.
certification of "social and
environmental performance"
a private certification of for-profit companies,
distinct from legal designation
as Benefit corporation.
The above plug an unsolicited commentary
regarding San Francisco, California
based eco friendly and socially conscious company
and recent employer of eldest daughter,
an engineering University of Pennsylvania alumna.
Mysterious rumbling noises, I hear them
Wherever I am, I cannot escape the sound
Somewhat like zombies singing an old hymn
Or a loaded barge about to run aground.
Occasionally they will go away for a season
Then, just as suddenly, they will reappear
There seems to be neither rhyme nor reason
A friend suggested I’ve had too much beer
I laugh and refrain from disputing them, but
That can’t be the reason, since I don’t imbibe,
It appears these noises emanate from my gut
At least, as best I can, that’s how I’d describe.
A doctor will put a lantern down my throat
And, technically, take a good look around
So I suppose I’ll have to wait for his vote
As to the origins of this mysterious sound.
Written June 17, 2022