Because my brilliant hooks read indirect,
But bait directly one illiterate,
They likely slip stripped fish-net intellect,
Thus, now, I’ll lure completely different:
Just like the redwood trees that grow sooooooo tall,
Gapetto’s puppet’s nose Pinocchios,
And since I’m not a strung-out ancient doll,
I guess it’s you who picks the snotty rose.
You might believe you harness magic string;
The pixie dust of Pan in Neverland;
But don’t forget what came of Gollum’s ring
Once Frodo lost a finger from his hand -
It was rewound, re-reeled, forged gleefully,
Forever lost in false reality.
3/18/2017
Note: In keeping with John’s “Something Completely Different - Monty Pythonesque” theme I wrote this after randomly pointing to 14 different words in a Hustler magazine article that I then forced myself to integrate into a sonnet, one per line, in the order they were selected and implemented a rule of “no-edits” after a line was complete. The list went like this:
hooks, *****baits, fish-net, I’ll, grow, nose, strung-out, guess, harness, never, what, finger, glee, lost
Categories:
unpoetic, parody,
Form: Sonnet
I should have been contented with squeezing out
neat verses from jumbled, random thoughts,
with fashioning stanzas pretending profundity,
and with dashing off lines of serious lyrical nonsense.
I should have been detached and insulated
from pedestrian dalliances with the raw jubilations
and searing sorrows of the all-too-familiar souls.
I should have taken to heart the art of being aloof
to the stirrings of the mind about what to you
are such artless triflings with good and evil,
with justice and inequity, with ethics in politics.
Then I would have been to you a true poet,
your cold comrade at the shrine of your stoic art
of the brain, not of the heart.. but I'm the unpoetic.
.
Categories:
unpoetic, on writing and wordsart,
Form: Free verse
it would have been so easy to squeeze out
neat verses from jumbled random thoughts,
or fashion stanzas pretending profundity,
or dash off lines of serious
lyrical nonsense
had I taken to heart the presumed propriety
to be aloof, numb to the muffled stirrings
of the mind over artless triflings
with good and evil, justice,
ethics or politics,
had I been detached and insulated
from pedestrian dalliances
with the raw jubilations
and searing sorrows of
too familiar souls,
and I would have been to you a true poet,
your cold comrade at the shrine
of a stoic art of the brain,
not of the heart...but I'm
the unpoetic.
Categories:
unpoetic, art, imagination, introspection, philosophy,
Form: Free verse