n Earnest's evocative Emporium
there's odds ends a whatnot or two
or they can do a brickbat
novelty knick-knack bugaboo
all nice and bright as a button
altho' they're twice as kitsch
odd oddments and sodments
curious curios contained in a niche
as well as folderol and bric-a-brac
brought from across the border
but the house specialty is really
antiques made to order
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
I test the gum
And the scum
That came from
So many feet
Scrape the blood
And the crud
Between mud
Smooshed on concrete
I sample spit
Ample birds***
All with a flick
Of the wrist
Coz I’m your local
Wearing bifocal
Antisocial
Sidewalk chemist
I run a lab
And own a lab
Called Ahab
And when we walk
I grab a glut
Of cigarette butts
Ahab sniffs mutts
We rarely talk
I test the muck
Assay green yuck
Prod black guck
With tender care
Then it’s all tagged
Labeled and bagged
But I can’t drag
It to a fair
Data is sorted
Then transported
Where it’s reported
By sidewalk chemist
But the town hall
Says I have some gall
With my folderol
And I’m promptly dismissed
I’ve paid my dues
Been on the news
With great reviews
Now for an encore
I’ve been promoted
To test the foetid
And sweaty coated
Men’s locker room floor
AFTER CUMMINGS POEMS
These are poems I wrote after the poems of e. e. cummings...
teacher
by michael r. burch, age 16-17
teacher, take a look at my life,
for it has just begun
and u think that i am “misinformed”
merely because i'm young;
but the truth is often hidden
(what lies lurk behind ur eyes?)
and maybe Puff can tell u
where the Dragon flies.
teacher, take a look at my life:
urs is a dull-edged knife
(the white-hot blade long blunted).
now ur as cold as ice.
still, when u come to class,
act like u know it all,
for if u show insecurity,
surely wee will folderol.
I wrote "teacher" in either 10th or 11th grade after hearing the song "Old Man" by Neil Young. "Wee" is a pun, not a typo.
don’t forget
by michael r. burch
for Beth
don’t forget to remember
that Space is curved
(like your Heart)
and that even Light is bent
by your Gravity.
The opening lines of my poem were inspired by a famous love poem by e. e. cummings.
Keywords/Tags: e. e. cummings, teacher, teach, teaching, teachers' day, student, school, class, eduction, space, curved, gravity, heart, love
At the 150th International Golfers’ Annual Ball,
Headliner was a duffer named Donald Trump
An exceptionally boring time was had by all
As Trump insisted on reviewing his Par 3 slump.
Seems they had very little in common, in fact,
While Trump’s ball lay languishing in the rough
No one had anything good to offer, not even tact
Only Donald, it appears, had it so darned tough.
Turns out the 150th was the last annual ball
No one cared a repeat of the whining and such,
Having suffered through hours of the folderol
Especially when dinner turned out to be dutch!
Seems no one had the money they pretended
And half of the appeal was getting a free meal,
Not to mention no true golf “greats” attended
Seems the Arab league had seized their appeal.
Written November 26, 2022
Folderol and balderdash,
nonsensical, sweet whimsy.
Musical, so airily,
she prances round the elm tree.
Mimsy do, in flimsy blue
with bells upon her head, ho!
Where she goes, I do not know,
exquisite, never chintzy.
A woodland sprite, her face alight,
she coyly beckons fireflies.
Off into the dark, they go,
playing out a dance mid-flight.
Mirthfully, her friends in tow,
she’s chasing moonbeams in the night.
A Dyson is an animal
That you can buy for bucks.
The only thing about this beast:
The price tag really sucks!
But if you get the kind that sleeps
All cradled on the wall,
It’s easy to entice to play
With little folderol.
The nicest thing about this kind:
It cleans after itself,
And after animated play,
Goes back upon the shelf.
And if you splurge and spend a bit
More than you can afford,
There’ll be no tripping when you romp;
You’ll be of one accord.
You cannot play for very long
Or it will drag and drain,
But after a few hours’ nap,
It’s right as rain again!
A Dyson is an animal
That you can keep for life;
The happiest that you are pals
Is sure to be your wife.
It’s another red-letter day
a holiday in the U.S.
a national, religious holiday
known also as a ‘Turkey Day’
a very important day.
A chance to be reconnected,
a moment of being together,
a salutary occasion for gratitude,
full with family folderol.
There are historic reasons
this American celebration
has its origin centuries ago;
as the Pilgrims did it and -
invited neighboring Indian tribes.
To hold it with a feast –
A celebration for God’s blessing.
giving thanks for a common purpose,
freedom, justice, and worship in God.
Through Sarah Josepha Hale
this event has become a tradition
a realization that came to fulfillment
marked with significance, thus far.
With church services elsewhere
wth family reunions all over
with customary turkey dinner
oh, a reminder of the historic past:
at the Pilgrims’ big celebration.
In many homes and families
Table fellowships spice up the day
with turkey, mashed potatoes,
cranberry sauce, maize, pumpkin pie
and other vegetables and desserts.
a complete picture of this great tradition.
A yawning gargoyle shares with me the morn.
We sit, reading the Sunday newspaper
about the world's events, mostly forlorn.
He notes how clean is his kind's ledger
compared with the blood of my people's news.
He say he lives without our illusions.
At night he culls without regard for views,
sates his hunger without the delusions
that he is doing it for God, nation,
or some psychological folderol.
"Admit to your primitive origin,
face up to your blood lust, you cannibal!
Then, perhaps, we might be able to discuss
how you could live honestly, without stress.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.