When it came to iambic pentameter
Alexander Pope was no dumb amateur.
In his strict use of it he achieved a skill
often with a monotonous overkill –
a danger every poet should not commit
unless he likes his thoughts in a straitjacket,
and the flow so turgid and mechanical
the line will cease to sound natural –
more strident, unmellifluous and harsh
like a stomping, goose-stepping march.
Now here’s a fast and easy suggestion
to unclog a line’s bumpy congestion
which Pope and other poets used to great
effect when they deemed it appropriate :
they added an extra syllable or stress
which opened it and gave it smoothness.
These little extras acted like a breach
and made the line read like spoken speech.
It may not work even with a first try
and take it from me, it’s not a lie.
In fact, you may require a new line or couplet
to be rewritten with a little extra sweat.
But, hey, think back to when you started writing
how many drafts required no editing?
The echoes in cartoons,
The sermons in static,
How every chorus begs us
To wake, or vanish.
Maybe God is a director.
I don’t know.
But the script is too perfect,
And the extras too hollow,
Like the background forgot
How to breathe on its own.
There goes the Baker.
Popping pills in his blue buggy
with one red ball and another blue dangling from the rear view.
The grandkids are heading to sleepaway camp,
Their clothing all labeled and packed,
Plus all of the extras they may or not need -
Way too much, as a matter of fact.
They bring pillows and blankets and flashlights and fans
And shin guards and sandals and cleats
And towels and bug spray and sunscreen and stamps
And shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste and sheets.
They need rain gear and sleeping bags, books and canteens,
A laundry bag, backpack and socks,
Plus sweatshirts and jackets and underwear (lots!)
And their sneakers and rain boots and Crocs.
Of course there are bathing suits, t-shirts and shorts
And sweatpants and PJ’s and fleece,
But there are no iPads or Switches or phones
So some wonders, I guess, never cease.
The days spent at camp will fly quickly until
All that stuff gets repacked to go home,
With some missing or ruined or filthy, but that
Is a topic for some future poem.
Only when my costume’s
Been hissed at with steel
Do my garments ripple in small, stormless waves.
Only when my mask
Has been greased in pale mud
Do my blemishes blend with the sea of my face.
Only when my hair’s
Met a shower of glue
Does it cow to the waves that my fingers might make.
Only when my prop
Has been sharpened in stone
Does it shimmer like sun-shatter left in a wake.
Why preparation
To such a degree
When an extra’s the part you’re most likely to play?
True, when you’re starring,
I’m off to the side,
Doing my best to stay out of your way.
But I have a stage,
As do you, in the mind,
Somewhere my name’s at the top of the bill.
There, I’m flood-soaked
And pregnant with lines
And you’re in the dark standing perfectly still.
Oh, noble strangers,
Who pass through my life,
Storied and nameless, busy and kind.
There in the passing,
Your extra I’ll be,
And in my performance, maybe you can be mine.
Embroidery thread comes in hundreds of hues
And searching the shelves it’s not easy to choose.
One purple’s too dark but the next one’s too light;
It’s hard to find one that is perfectly right.
Yet buying some extras just makes lots of sense
Since the thread isn’t close to a major expense;
So when I get some fabric to work on a quilt,
I purchase a bunch of new threads with no guilt.
Today my collection increased by a few,
Including a bold and bright turquoise-type blue.
I know that wherever my project has led,
I’ll never get stuck, hanging there by a thread.
It’s a play within a play
Where my role is improvised
With the extras of each day
Not intended to surprise
There’s no cause to show concern
No opinions to express
What I know I’ll never learn
What you know, I’ll never guess
The main characters look worn
Their trivial speeches fail
I keep hearing the horn
Of unanswered questions sale
Flying slowly over trees
Notes repeat the same remark
Do we mean much more than leaves
Underfoot in some old park?
In the gardens of belief
Shall I speak what’s left to say
Words of happiness and grief
For a play within a play..
When it comes to wrapping presents,
I am really not that good.
The edges aren’t neat and don’t
Lie flat the way they should.
The paper that I use, though,
Is quite festive, to distract
From all the perfect extras
That my presentation lacked.
And if I have a lot to wrap,
My efforts just get worse,
Though fortunately, the receivers
Cannot hear me curse.
It really makes no difference, since
To get at what’s inside,
The wrapping gets ripped off
No matter how it’s sealed or tied.
And once that paper’s in a heap
Or crumpled on the floor,
Nobody can remember how
That present looked before.
She chapped my door
Said she was a whore
She was in the area
Offering discounts and more
I was a bit taken aback
Usually it was double glazing, broadband and that
Or Jehovah's witnesses
Into the night
She even took cards
Explained the APR
Extras and all
S&M on a Saturday night
Would I like a call
I must admit
Impressed I was
She was a woman with a cause
Sadly, the good lady screamed
Who’s at the door
I told her a whore
Bloody Jehovah's she swore
On stage he struts in sequined costume,
a plume of feathers cocked high on head
A thespian poet of no account is ranting
though his troupe boasts of his skill and talent
But the look of a charlatan paints his face
when he's alone. Heartache he embraces
for he's aware that he's been misleading
himself and his bleeding heart followers,
the extras he casts to applaud his show.
"Bravo! Bravo!"
He paid them to sit in the audience shouting,
and boasting on him while standing in ovation.
They whistle for more, for his unearned encore.
He promises, "I'll support you all one day."
Foolish would-be, presume without a doubt
that he's a man of his word, but that's absurd
for actors such as he never share the limelight
once the spotlight shines on a narcissist's face.
What price does he pay for his moment of glory?
The highest toll is the loss of a soul.
Each bow he takes should give cause for worry
that one day the bird catcher will collect his due.
He'll barter with Satan for being haughtily boastful
for being puffed up with pride, and for his crime
the foolish one must relinquish his soul.
You can't beat feet,
They're really kind of neat!
Toes and heels,
Small bones in between.
Travels the world,
Wherever you've been.
Can't leave them behind,
When you pack.
They are attached,
You can't give them back!
There are also extras you see,
Nails, boils, and callouses for free.
No extra cost for each separate toe,
Fitted quite well.
In descending order almost like a bell.
You could play them very well,
With a toe stick,
Maybe buy one or make one for free!
Toes on your feet,
Can be a treat!
All can be tickled,
And that causes a shriek!
Who was it who said
Housework prolongs your life?
Surely they jest!
They can go take a hike
I've collapsed on the couch
From just the mere thought
After leaving it it far longer
Than I reasonably ought
Where on earth do I start?
I just can't decide where
Each job worse than the last
I feel down in despair
If only.. if only.. if only
I'd done a bit every day
I'd be feeling self righteous
Instead of filled with dismay
I've practiced avoidance
Become expert at ignoring
Now I'm full of regrets
At the state of the flooring
The windows are grimy
The bathroom needs scrubbing
The washings piled up
Somethings blocking the plumbing
Who on earth has the time
To do extras like dusting?
When the fridge in the kitchen
Is looking disgusting?
I'm sure I'd be keener
And find motivation
If housework attracted
CEO compensation
Instead I lie here inert
Filled up with dread
Paralysed with reluctance
I'll eat biscuits instead
I was a Holistic Therapist
with oils and creams galore.
most clients were lovely
but some you had to ignore.
One came asking for 'extras'
which i answered with a threat
I said I'd throw his clothes outside
which I'm sure he would regret.
The thing that really bothered me
made me want to beat him down,
wasn't just the suggestion,
but he only offered me ten pounds!
Though my faith in God is firmly entrenched
still rainy days serve to get me down,
"What's for Supper?" like continual downpour
bears down on four-o'clock like I've been drenched.
God, my thirst for this rain to quit, be quenched!
Home from school at three, three kids start asking
"What's for Supper?" while in poetry I'm basking.
#Gallimaufry had brought to light - heavenly hash
when searching online I'd used the hashtag.
Hallelujah! tonight's supper I'm unmasking.
Loosing the fridge door I look around
Leftover roast beef looms round about
which brings smiles as my delight shuts it.
My prayer answered, a meal that cuts it.
Thank God, Sunday's feast becomes my whatsit.
In my galley I forage for food I can fry,
pantry reveals four spuds not sprouting eyes,
two lone onions and garlic in plain eyesight.
The extras I am needing sit on standby.
Praise God who does my hope supply.
August 4, 2022
Letters
I write letters to friends.
I write letters to those,
I care about and want to say,
how much I miss them,
and remember them,
every day,
of my life.
I send cards,
and little notes.
I try to put my heart into each,
so that they will be alive,
and beat...
I choose stamps,
with flowers, and pictures...
that I pray will entertain,
and amuse.
I add creative extras,
like poems,
and drawings,
funny jokes,
and recipes...
I want to send the whole world,
to my special people...
in a 6x9 envelope,
that will open up on the other end,
and give the readers all
a moment
of peace, calm, and maybe
joy.
I don’t need too much in life –
A book, a bench, a breeze,
Some friends and family for support,
A bagel and some cheese.
Of course, the extras add a lot –
The coffee, ice cream, beer,
The pension I can live on from
A long, fulfilled career.
As time goes by, I realize
There is less that I desire
And very little, therefore,
That I actually require.
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