I went to school to try and find
new ways to write creatively.
Professors challenged my young mind
with homework drills approved by the
Academy.
Postmodernism ruled the day.
No metered rhymes were ever heard-
such verse considered "too passé".
Creative Writing profs preferred
some obscure word.
The free verse that I wrote while there
was abstract, cynical, rhyme-free,
sophisticated, debonair.
The one flaw in such poetry -
it wasn't me.
With time, I learned to find my voice -
words forming my biography.
I write in styles that suit my choice,
not those of some Academy
of poetry.
written 22 July 2023
Categories:
profs, poetry, school,
Form: Rhyme
She(she in her looking) looks in romantic light at jewels under gemstones in silver bone-plates and such and such and now she turns to midnight city in roaring by cars outside windows and the claims and conjectures of these one-day nuclear think tank professors prof yes and prof no, and so and so. The state might be, they say, it may, but the individual, the belief in Christ, the salvation of the one, they say, it may be nihilo ex nihilo ex.
Poised in the most feline and learned manner does her silken engine turn to looking, looking and looking and something within this nothing-all, is being as looking at her in. To midnight is owed a sincere apology. I have blasphemed against my ignorance, says such and such, as swords are incised into the most loving of flesh by profs yes and no, who scream out in perfect unison, 'I have turned in on my looking, and here we are looking-forever towards the love of love!'. So be so, aliquid ex nihilo, et non placet.
Categories:
profs, england,
Form: Free verse
Flying is booming
planes are crashing
everywhere, anywhere, anytime
What is safe about it?!
men and women locked in a faulty box
young and old, profs and novices
trapped with their dreams
slashed and burnt into ashes
yet it's exotic, yet it's the fastest
while the world is losing its finest
it's not mere accidents
it's more accidents
most times, it's a miniature fault
the engineers never say it's elaborate
perhaps to disarm the blames
and then, retain business
on the blood of those who pay for the business
but it's always the black box
that bears the brunt
a lifeless machine
of the deaths of hundreds
in a twinkle of an eye
so lets take it away from the gigantic box
or instead paint it white
let the engineers replace the small box
with a life who can accept blames
and go to jail
for letting innocent souls be buried
in the graves they never envisaged
Categories:
profs, anger, poems,
Form: I do not know?
My granddaughter loves me,
that's all I need to know.
I will let the toffs and profs
who came my way now go.
For all their disparagement
why should I have the slightest care?
My granddaughter loves me
and everything is fair.
Then hark my dear detractors,
and there are many I recall,
my granddaughter loves me,
and it's yah-boo to you all.
Categories:
profs, anger, granddaughter,
Form: Couplet
Yesterday:
Ant-hillers danced within the sky
(Pig-watchers and men clashed!)
Today:
(The sky still cloudy for ant-hillers)
Every ant is summoned
To departmental communions
Where pot-bellied acolytes
(Armed with their mater’s song)
Meet the hungry lads & lasses –
The vergers
Spoke like verslibrists
Their lines out-varying all poets;
Darest Vicar –
Today’s messengers
(Of course: singers of the empty solace!)
Might turn out tomorrow’s vicars
The angry lads are used to big words
Of Profs and doctored-rabbis:
They seek communions of solid solutions!
Categories:
profs, educationsky,
Form: I do not know?