monosyllabic

This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a haiku.

monosyllabic
is not what it says it is
just like long

 

By the way, I record myself reading all my word tastings, including these poems. They’re usually up on the site (and on SoundCloud) by a week after, sometimes sooner, and they’re on Patreon for my patrons sooner than that.

weltschmerz

This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a poem in the Anglo-Saxon style.

Well. We world-weary word workers,
sitting silent, swilling bean-juice,
tell our tales to Twitter’s press-gang,
feed Instagram our film-eyed food,
blindly bypass the fake-news book,
pin and post, perchance to chat,
type and tap on folding fruit-metal.
In honest hours we earn our homage,
tracing tributes, training lightning,
watering word-hordes with our bit-buckets,
moving memes for money-trimmings.
Bending our backs, we bring the bacon
we slice slowly from our selfsame sides
to feed the few who own the farmyard,
who give us a cut and call us cured.
In easy evenings we engage again,
recycling revenue, feeding retail,
feasting on culture freshly defrosted,
putting our pay in stuff-sellers’ pockets.
Trying travel, we trip advisedly,
braving boulevards of honking boxes,
crawling crowd-adders, unfaced contumely,
forfeit fluids, shed our footwear.
Requiring rights, we receive assurance
that folk are as free to fire at will
as to shelter from shooting and shout for help;
in case of conflict twixt coney and tiger
there’s liberty alike to lunge and bite,
and mole and elephant get matching mic-time.
Looking for ladders to leave a pit,
we find our forerunners frowning downward,
raising the rungs away from our reach,
telling us to take cliff-climbing classes.
Wit-stressed, we wonder what the future
shifts will show to shock our minds,
our smoldering wicks, the weakling world-smarts.
Tell us, translators of troubled times,
what elder enchanter or electronic prophet
can devise a wise to vanquish the weltschmertz!

alexithymia

This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a terzanelle. Alexithymia is an inability to identify and describe emotions or to distinguish them from other sensations; alexithymic people tend to be very literal and concrete – and, of course, to be unable to talk about their emotions. This word was suggested by @nabetafish.

I felt some tightness earlier. It’s OK.
Let’s skip the coffee. I don’t need caffeine.
We’re talking, but I don’t know what to say.

Alexithymia, he said. What does that mean?
Won’t matter. Now I’m here. What can I do?
Let’s skip the coffee. I don’t need caffeine.

I wrote a list of things to fix for you.
Just say what you want first, though. What I think
Won’t matter. Now I’m here. What can I do

To help you? Change the lights? Unclog the sink?
I brought supplies and things. Is this enough?
Just say what you want. First, though, what I think

Is you can just relax. I’ll go get stuff
together. We can make it work, I guess.
I brought supplies and things. Is this enough?

Come closer. Try this. Put your hand there. Yes.
I felt some tightness earlier. It’s OK.
Together we can make it work. I guess
We’re talking, but I don’t know what to say.

metempsychotic

This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, rhyming triplets as in the Dies Irae, using words suggested by friends from Twitter: @sarathegood, @theoriginaledi, @Editor_Clark, @grammartable, @amateurdancer, @CurmudgeonChief, @jennie1ofmany, and @CollinsMandy.

day of danger, day of moggy
better kitty than a doggie
when the light of life grows foggy

when the texture turns quixotic
when the twitching tail’s hypnotic
nine times ply metempsychotic

come for cat and come for kitten
scratch the post where it is written
never shy though eight times bitten

when the volume’s at eleven
as you play stairway to heaven
reaper whispers “number seven”

lacking motive, leaping, flying
airtime, hangtime, lifetime buying
six more tickets for the dying

be you saint or be you sinner
seek you sex or seek you dinner
five times still your chance gets thinner

lost in moor or forest frolic,
cursed with polyp, cramped with colic
four shots left, you deathaholic

when you’re stuck and stuff turns sucky
wickets sticky, succor mucky
thrice it rests you to get lucky

when the trumpet plays crescendo
on the death tune from Nintendo
two turns yet you’ll meet your endo

now you’re basking in the sunlight
sorry, kitty, here’s your done light
vacuum sucked you to the one light

henceforth

This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a cinquain.

these hands
sow these letters
on your humus tongue so
opulently words will burgeon
henceforth

slush, slosh

This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a sonnet – in the Italian (Petrarchan) style. Continue reading

bologna

This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a rondel. Listen to the audio for an important clue on how this is intended to be read. Continue reading