It’s maddening to hear someone
So wrong who thinks he’s right,
Who says the market’s going down,
Who gives my bullish hopes a frown,
Who paints bright day as night.
It’s true: I do not have a clue.
There might be danger there.
The herd I follow faithfully
Has got its mind made up for me.
Why fight it? I don’t care.
And when we can’t avoid the cliff
Stampeding to the fall,
I will rethink what he had said
At least before I’ve landed dead:
He’s wrong still after all.
Linked to dVerse Meeting the Bar.
Photo: “Wings Go Up and Down” by the author.
I am hosting today and for some odd reason picked the theme of “irony”. Hopefully you will find what I wrote above understandable enough and yet ambiguous enough to be at least remotely ironical. Stop by and link up some of your own ironical poetry.
White, white, white and snowy bright
The snowscape piled high last night.
Winter wrapped its evening show
With spread-on-thick, wet, wondrous snow.
Today will bounce reflected light
From sad-cloud gray to spot-on white.
Linked to dVerse Meeting the Bar Impressionism hosted by Björn.
Linked to crow’s March 2017 Open Mic.
Photo by the author
What a sky-is-blue-grass-is-green day! I love sitting on this park bench with my imaginary friend, Alice. While I’m enjoying reality she’s telling me that if she ever hears another rhyme between “night” and “light” or “death” and “breath” she’s going to do something I’ll regret. Furthermore she insists I stop writing those happy-happy poems because as a fully deconstructed, beyond-whatever-existential adult she would rather have angst, dread and drivel smothering her than sentimentality. I tell her that I kind of like those rhymes. She pulls out some pills, “Here. Take these.” As I swallow sending them down, down into the depths of deconstruction she jumps up from her existential happy place and proclaims, “Haha! That’s arsenic! You’re dead!”
Then Alice cries, “I’m sorry I gave you that arsenic even if it was only imaginary arsenic.” “That’s OK.” (What else am I going to say?) She explains that it is all because she’s not real. That’s why she acts the way she does. I tell her, “Look at those atoms. They’re just empty space! They aren’t any more real than you are!” She stops crying and asks, “Really?” And I say, “Sure!” Then she wants to know about that tiny stuff in the middle of the atoms. She starts crying again. I tell her that tiny stuff isn’t real either. “Really?” At this point I have to think. I don’t want to lie to her, but I don’t want her to start crying again and for all I know she’s as real as anything else I can imagine out there and so I say, “Sure!”
I am hosting dVerse Meeting the Bar Prose Poetry today. The challenge is to write either a prose poem or a poem explaining why prose poetry doesn’t exist. Any similarity to real people in this prose poem is purely imaginary.
I’ll cartoon all the things we do.
I’ll place me by your side.
I’ll make some funny jokes for you.
Together we will hide
Until you ride away from me
And freedom says we’re through.
Though speckled green with jealousy
My happy skies stay blue.
Linked to dVerse Meet the Bar with Expressionism hosted by Björn Rudberg.
The “I” in the poem is fictional. However, I kind of like to think this is how I would behave.