"A version of straw..." Constrained Nonsense Verse on the Anagram 'ARTS'

A, R, T and S rearranged several ways yield (with the addition of punctuation) a series of words and phrases which in turn prompt an array of explanatory verses, albeit nonsensical.

                  STRA and SART
Here? A version of 'straw' drawl'd down rural UK...
and some Sunnis, of whom one is labeled "Uday."   

                         SR. T. A. -- i.e., S(iste)r T. A.-- and RATS
Here is Sister Tish Anne, my parochial school third-grade teach-...(the ol' bat)... 
and some mice (?) (see 'S' RAT*)    

                  TRAS -- i.e., SART reversed -- and STAR
Here? A 's(m)art' reassembly (its order reversed!)... 
and a heavenly body. (Let's hope she don't burst!)   

                  TRAS (again) and ‘TRA’S -- i.e., several of the first third of ‘tra-la-la’s 
Here are certain tin coins, known to net but small worth... 
and some vocables sung 'round the day of His birth.    

                  SAT‘R -- i.e., ‘sat(y)r’ -- and “S” RAT -- i.e., the 19^th squealer in the series
Here's a half man/half goat... 
and the 19th lab rodent (See RATS) in experiments needin' a coat.

                  ARTS and AR‘ST
Here are more than the single aesthetical skill... 
and to take into "custodie officielle."  

                  TSAR and T.S., RA!
Here? Imperial Russia's ex-ruler (so-called)... 
and "Tough shit, Senor Sun God!" (You've not heard? He's bald!) 

                  R: SAT and RT. SA – i.e., the lower half of some trans-American highway
Here's the Student Achievement Test taken for Russe... 
and the road from Caracas to Chile's caboose.

                  AT’RS – i.e., ‘at(ta)rs – and A.T., SR. – i.e., A.T. S(enio)r.
Here? Aromas and odors, some scents and a smell...
and one Art (Fish 'n’ Chips) Treacher's paterfamil-'.  

                  RAST and R’STA – i.e., ‘r(a)sta’
Here's the past participle of "reest" -- viz., "to balk" (lingua veterinarian)...
or Rastafarian.

                  AST’R – i.e., ast(i)r’ – and AS’RT – i.e., ‘as(so)rt’
Here is 'early to rise'... 
and -- according to one or another criterion -- 'categorize.'  

                 TAS’R – i.e., ‘tas'r” – and TARS
An electroshock gun, used precipitously... 
and Brit sailors (named Jack, serendipitously).  

                  T’R S.A.! – i.e., ‘T(ou)r S(outh) A(merica)!
(verses to come: a work in progress)

                  R’TAS – i.e., ‘sat(y)r’ spelt backwards
Here's that half man/half goat runnin’ 'round...in reverse (cf  SAT'R above)... 
and the end of my verse!

"I am gone to the fair..." One Gone Boy's Ongoing Monograph on 'Going...Going..."

(Is my sorry ass outta here? Whatta you think?)


I am gone to the fair. I am gone to the moon. 
Much like Vincent van Gogh, I am gone much too soon.  
(I am gone to the Congo with Margo and Mongo
and Santo Domingo with Mingo and Ringo.)

I'm gone and forgotten. I’m gone with the wind. 
I am gone off the rails and I'm wholly chagrin'd.
(I am gone to Oswego with Pete, mi amigo.
I'm gone, too, to Togo with cineman Vigo.)  

I'm gone for a soldier, gone out of my way, 
'cuz in 60-some seconds my car's gone away.
(I am gone to Chicago with Joachin Rodrigo.
To, too, former -slavia, Yugo-...with Hugo.) 

That pioneer Gone Girl, Maud Gonne, had gone viral 
before she'd been seen gone to ground in the Tyrol.
(To Don's Mar-a-Lago I'm gone with Iago.
Skip Trinidad, prego! I'm gone to Tobago.) 

I'm long gone, gone missing -- gone quietly, too. 
I am gone off the deep end. (I'm gone West. Are you?)
(Cryin,' "Leggo my Eggo!" I'm gone with Diego.
I'm gone to play bingo with quolls and a dingo.) 

I'm goin' bananas. I'm gone all the way. 
I am gone by tomorrow -- though not gone today.    
(I am gone to a Gogo with Albert and Pogo.
Permit me my ego: I fashion'd their logo.) 

I'm gone to Gondwana -- gone out on a limb 
with The Sting's Henry Gondorff. (You do recall him?)
I am gone to tell Rhody, my great-aunt from Goshen,
who, when she plays Go, always goes in slow motion. 

I am gone to the Golan with Magog and Gog.
I'm gone through the Gobi with Phileas Fogg.
I'm gone, too, to Goa -- that trip's quite the slog.
I am gone on about it all, here on my blog. 

Aboard -sauruses, Stego-, past sagebrush and sego,
I'm gone -- Pago Pago -- with Melville's Tashtego. 
(I'm gone on "The Gong Show" when only a child. 
I am gone in a gondola...twice...going wild!)

I do not go for Godot with Didi and Gogo.
I'm gone, though, to Gondar, Republic of Congo.
I'm gone there to oogle Godiva, a Virgo.
I'm gone Decartesian...with "Sum, ergo cogo."

Gone native, gone bankrupt, gone soft and gone glass.* 
And when gone to my final rest, I'm gone first class...
...cryin', "Go fly a kite, Gophers! Go fuck yourselves! 
Make sure Go Set a Watchman's long gone from your shelves!"
     * In basketball, said of a scorer who banks his shot 
off the hoop's glass backboard.

I am goin' down, Moses. I’m gone! Gone for good. 
(Who? Me? Go on a diet? I’m not – though I should.)  
What's not gone? Gonorrhea: each gonad's gone rotten. 
('Tis hard, gone too far, to know what one has gotten.)

Gone south and gone fishin,' I’m gone for the gold. 
I am gone, in a handcart, to hell, so I’m told.  
I am gone to the dogs. I'm gone thither, gone yon. 
Just like George Gershwin’s Robbins, I’m gone, gone, gone...gone.



(Further departures being immanent, this work is perhaps 
best considered "gonegoing." Or perhaps not.)

"T.S.E. won't eat..." Seconal-Amendment Remedy in Rhyme; or, J. Alfred Pruf Rocks as Drumpf's Head Rolls!

(How many New Jersey citizens, Muslim or infidel, will be spotted cheering ecstatically once this rhyme is widely broadcast? Estimates vary. Still, all readers are encouraged to use any or all of these verses as double-Dutch counting rhymes in their celebratory festivities.)

“T.S.E. won’t eat no peach.”* (Prufrock...Prufrock!) Mermaids bleat so, each to each. Oh-h-h-h, Prufrock! Eh?

Donald's dome: drench'd -- deep! -- in bleach? (Forelock...forelock!) Clorox circumscribes his speech.* Oh-h-h-h, forelock! Eh? 

Compromise? Not Mitch's niche. (Gridlock...gridlock!) Congress comes to halting screech! O-h-h-h, gridlock! Eh?

“Holmes conceit? No solo beech,”* (Sherlock...Sherlock!) Watson tweets, though Doc won't preach. O-h-h-h, Sherlock! Eh?
     * Cf Conan Doyle's "The Copper Beeches."

Bolton's keen to treaties breach.* (Warlock...warlock!) "John: just cool it," we beseech. O-h-h-h, warlock! Eh? 

Arms avail'd with barrel breech? (Flintlock...flintlock!) Background checks? That’s overreach.* O-h-h-h, flintlock! Eh?

If we fail to "Pote" impeach (hemlock...hemlock!), poison that embloaten'd creature!* O-h-h-h-h-h-h, hemlock...h'rra-a-ay!
     * Cf any article on fat tick removal. (Fat ticks are known carriers of Lyin' Disease, a lot of which is going around.)

"A is for Abe and his unfunded pension" The Gashlycrumb Seniors: A Short Sojourn At Archaedian Acres Retirement Village with a Nod to Edward Gorey

(B/w line illustrations prompted by those appearing in Gorey's "Gashlycrumb Tinies" are on the drawing board: a work in progress.) 

A is for Abe and his unfunded pension.
B is for Babs with severe hypertension.

C is for Carl, largely vegetative.
D is for Dotty. Her mem’ry? A sieve.

E is for Esther awaiting a heart.
F is for Fred of the flatulent fart.

G is for Gordon who suffers from gout.
H is for Helga. Her hair’s falling out.

I is for Ida. That itching’s come back.
J is for Johnny. His stools have turn'd black.

K is for Kurt with three holes in his colon.
L is for Lu. Her identity? Stolen.

M is for Maud with a face like a prune.
N is for Nick. Turned 100 in June.

O is for Oscar. The man is obese.
P is for Pearl. (Best to leave Pearl in peace.)

Q is for Queenie who has to be fed.
R is for Ralph: "Am I better off dead?"

S is for Sylvie. Can’t hear worth a damn.
T is for Tim. Suffers flashbacks from Nam.

U’s for Umberto. As yet there's no cure.
V is for Vince: old…but still immature.

W’s Wilfred whose hemorrhoids swell.
X is for Xan: Senor Singular Smell.

Y’s for Yolanda who'll pass come the Fall.
Z is for ZaSu. She’ll outlive us all.

"Take note: what's Potus fear..." Events, My Dear...Events

(Asked what would most likely send a government off the rails, one-time UK PM Harold McMillan is reported to have answered, “Events, my dear boy, events.” Below is a reposting, with a few emendations, of an earlier poem updating the PM's observation. In this revised form it's just been published as one of Light Poetry Magazine's Poems of the Week for the week of September 24th.)
  
Take note: what's Potus fear the most?
Misdeeds by dissidents?
Nope! Let's be clear: his greatest fear? 
Events, my dear...events. 
Need Trump beware the Koch-choked air
his laissez faire augments?
You heard it here: What checks his cheer?
Events, my dear...events.

Apologize does Trump for lies,
for fake news he invents?
Nope! What's he do when day is through?
He vents! Mon Dieu: he vents: 
"So sad" (Trump tweets) “how Congress meets,
advises and consents."
Still, worse than they? His tweets might say:
“Events, okay? Events.” 

Trump's blackest bane? Iraq's kids slain 
by ISIS malcontents?
Though dreaded, fa-a-ar more dreadful are
events, Akbar...events. 
What scares the pants off Potus? Rants
by former presidents?
Nope! Worse than those, he duly knows:
events, my bros…events.

What fans Trump’s fright 'round three at night?
The ninety-nine percents?
That mob he’ll bear. His bigly scare?
Events, mes freres...events. 
So: what might you do to undo
the troubles Trump foments?
This message send when you attend
events, my friend, events: 

Till Donald pivots or relents,
till lui-même he reinvents;
till less psychosis he presents,
till allies’ ties he re-cements;
until he vaults the White House fence
and cedes its deed to VeePee Pence;
until, in short, Trump shows some sense,
support all anti-Trump events! 

"He calls her aunt..." Name Calling; or, He Calls/She Calls: A Nonsense Alphabet

(This isn't called 'nonsense' for nothing.)

I 

It's "he calls/she calls, she calls/he calls," 
all call'd oddball names. 
Be "she calls/he calls, he calls/she calls" 
homonymble games? 

He calls her aunt 'Aunt Tipp O'Dees.' 
So solitary, she. 
She calls his brother 'Brother ‘Hood.' 
Small-town. Small-time. (Small t.)

She calls his cat 'Cat Astrofee,' 
a "fee"-line wild when wet. 
He calls her dog 'Dog Mattic.' 
Spot's her high-'n'-mighty pet!

II

He calls her eyes 'Eye Tinnerants.' 
One's lazy. One's oblique. 
She calls his face 'Face Seeshuss.' 
Wily. Wry. And tongue-in-cheek.

She calls his gal 'Gal Lip O'Lee.' 
Gal sheds Italic tears. 
He calls her home 'Home Eric.' 
She's lived rough a score of years.

He calls her ire 'Ire Restmycase.' 
Her rages swiftly wane. 
She calls his jests 'Jest Tickle-8s.' 
He lives to yank her chain.

III 

She calls his kiss 'Kiss Seamy.' 
Both his lips be woebegones. 
He calls her legs 'Leg Yumes'n'peas.' 
All tops for hops on johns.*
     * And for Hoppin' John as well, 
of course.

He calls her mom 'Mom Mentum.' 
Ma's one universal force. 
She calls his neon 'Neon Nate.' 
"Let there be light"? Of course.

She calls his "om" 'Om Mega.' 
'Om''s the final word in wu.* 
He calls her pies 'Pies Zannoze.' 
He prefers peach pies. (Don't you?)
     * Wu is a Chinese equivalent 
to enlightenment.

IV 

He calls her quips 'Quips Psychosi?'* 
when sanity's in doubt. 
She calls his rap 'Rap Unzel' 
when it lets stuff all hang out. 
     * Roughly, "She's nutty, right?" 
in Late (very Late) Latin.

She calls his shoe 'Shoe Doldacquaint'
to dance each New Year in.
He calls her tie 'Tie Maftertime.'
(Same tie, reworn...ag'in.)

He calls her urn 'Urn Extrabucks.'
She hides one dime each week.
She calls his vest 'Vestibulees,'
a well-dressed ancient Greek.

V 

She calls his wig 'Wig Getthejoke.'
He lives for Halloween.
He calls her X 'X Marksthespot.'
Not here. Not there. Between!

He calls her Yule 'Yule Walkalone.'
Her same sad Xmas story.
She calls his zen 'Zen Offtosleep."
He snoozes through satori.

It's he calls/she calls, she calls/he calls:
homonymble games.
(But though they both call -- he calls/she calls --
neither calls me 'James.')

"I'd window shopp'd..." Handustan, the Land of Palms: A Doggerel Gazetteer In Rhyme As An Hommage To Manguel & Guadalupi, With A Verse Itinerarial Coda, A Nonsense Glossary & A Selective Map Including Detail

Handustan, the Land of Palms

I 

I’d window shopp'd in Hindustan. I'd flip-flopp'd o'er Balochistan. 
I’d cotton chopp'd in Kurdistan. I'd acid dropp'd near Kazakhstan. 

I’d razors stropp'd in Pakistan. I’d wet mopp'd dry Uzbekistan. 
I’d charts topp'd in Tajikistan. I’d hip-hopp'd ‘round Turkmenistan. 

I’d pleas copp'd in Afghanistan. I’d island hopp'd ‘cross Baltistan. 
And though I'd never opted to, I’d whistle stopp'd in Kyrgyzstan. 

I'd thought I’d haunted ev'ry “-stan,” as tourist, tramp or triggerman. 
Surprise! 'Twas one I'd fail'd to scan. The natives call'd it Handustan.  

II 

Thought I: "Treks there require aplombs. One untrod '-stan'?" I suffer'd qualms 
(which ale – two pints of Bass – becalms). One fret? Those unexploded bombs. 

My roommates, via intercoms, inform'd me how their aunts and moms 
wept, urging me to chant the Psalms while gifting local beggars alms. 

I ponder'd: "Were they Vietnam’s?" (The bombs, I'd meant, not roomies moms. 
It turn'd out most of ‘em were Guam’s, though some proved French, perhaps La Prom’s.) 

Ukraine's still famous for pogroms, as Arab states are, for salaams. 
As Gilead's the land of balms, so Handustan’s the land of palms. 

III 

'Cross Handustan stretch Finger Lakes. Ring Finger's home to Old World crakes. 
In Index Finger? Schools of hakes. (The natives crave their Hakefish steaks.)

For Middle Finger Lake make drakes. Young rappers? No! (For heaven sakes!) 
In Pinky Finger slither snakes. One bite and...ouch! One's tummy aches!

In Handustan a forest grows -- for short call'd F'ist. (Why? No one knows.)
Its full names's ForeWrist -- rows on rows of palms wherein perch ForeWrist Crows...

...who'll claw clean off your back clean clothes and nonchalantly lop your nose. 
These fowls are quite les quelque choses. But few've encounter'd one of those.

IV 

Handustan tors number two. The higher? Venus Mount. The view
when climbers summit Venus? Whew! (The view from Luna Mount's nice, too.)

The northern bit, call'd Upper Hand, is skirted by a blist'ring strand
where suckers once for hangnails pann'd. (None struck it rich, though all got tann'd.)

The rolling hills of Knuckle Down (in Spring, shagreen -- though now turn'd brown), 
are work'd by shepherds from the town by pastur'd goats with wool like down...

from which stemm'd Handustan's renown when warpp'd and woof'd into a gown
then donn'd by Clarabelle the Clown, who'd "thumbs-down'd" ev'ry hand-me-down. 

V 

The western quarter, mostly sand, is label'd Left Hand. In demand
there? Bedrock. Multi-stories? Bann'd. (There are some yurts and hogans plann'd.)

Due east of Left Hand lies a plain call'd Right Hand, where dwell, in the main,
the polis, nurtur'd by these twain: an Asian sun plus Europe's rain.

Listen! Don't you hear that hum? In Right Hand lies the town of Thumb.
Thumb's charter, call'd the Rule of Thumb, keeps "underThumb" that burg, by gum.

The tithes folks pay, the Thumb Tax, some believe to be, put briefly, dumb.
But pay Thumb's suckers do. In sum: for tax relief none beat the drum. 

VI 

At last I'd pass'd through ev'ry "-stan." I'd caravan'd through Handustan,
now, "-stan"-wise, just an also-ran. (Regarding "-stan"s, I'm Superman.)

En fin each man does all he can within his three-score-ten-year span.
Still, one "-stan" rocks like Harmattan. The natives call it Handustan. 

Getting There: A Coda 
  

Handustan-

bound...?

My best suggestion? Go well dressed. Set forth chemise'd – a shirt, at least

(or, though unpressed, a special vest. Mine (leather)? Leased and well policed).

From east of Pest, finesse your geste by heading east – three weeks at least.

At Bucharest – I would not jest – your vest divest...or, have it creased. 

When's ceased your quest (oh, good: you've guess'd), just stop. And rest. Then, on the feast
of San Baptiste (I'm his high priest), you take (if past tense, 'took') a look a-

round.

The HanduBook: An Abecedarial Glossary for the Land of Palms

(Full entries to come: a work in progress) 

All handus on deck! 
Back of my handu, the

Clap your handus! 

Dead man's handu
Dishpan handus
Dry your handus! 

Empty handu'd 
Fold your handus!

Glad handu
Grandma's handus 
Handuaxe 
Handubag

Handuball

Handubasket, hell in a

Handubrake

Handucapp’d parking

Handucraft

Handucuffs

Handu-dandu 
Handul, George Frideric

Handugun

Handu-held camera

Handu-in-glove 
Handu-in-handu 
Handujive

handukerchief
Handumaiden

Handuman 

Handu-me-down 
Handuprints

Handurail

Handus across the water 

Handu sanitizer 

Handusaw

Handushake

Handus off! 
Handustand

Handutowel

Handus up!

Handuwriting on the wall 
Hired handu

In God's handus

Jesus's handus 
Kiss on the hand, a 
Left Handu 
Living handu-mouth 
Made by handu 
My handus are tied

Mojo handu
Nine handus hight 
Out of my handus
Praying Handus 

Quick handus 
Right Handu 
Short-handu'd 
Single-handu'd 
Sound of one handu clapping, the
Take my handu, I'm a stranger in paradise 
Three-handu'd cribbage 
Upper Handu 
Wash your handus!
X handu tattoo 
You're in safe handus
Zoo handuler