This Morning's Anagram

'Drumpf' misspell'd reads 'Dr. Fump.'
(What sort of dudes dream this stuff up?)
I spied him on a big rig's* bump-
er sticker. (In a red state? Yup!)

When re-rearranged, he's 'Mr. Pfud,'
with shades of Bugs's nemesis.
However spell'd, he's such a dud.
I wish he'd quit the premises.

* Some late mss show 'trailer's' here. 
Others show 'RV's.' All are palimpsests.
What varia have you run across? 

One Further Tercet I'm Thoroughly Sure(cet) Has Never Been Written Till Now: More Nonsense in Meters & Rhymes

Four score and seven years ago,
the Quarter Horse in Devon, near where Joe
Dombrowski drown'd, became the Crown and Crow.

"His family's 'extremeing'..." The Oneirocriticologist's Notebook: an Illustrated ABC

(Illustrations to come: a work in progress) 

The Prologue 

His family’s "extremeing." 
His kids, who are teeming,
are (most of 'em) beaming. 
Still, "Daddy" is screaming...

at "Mother," who's steaming,
(her parents are seeming
to forgo redeeming).
His colleagues, esteeming...

his meme, have been deeming
to increase their memeing.
)His sister, the judge? She's still 
transition teaming.)

And every last one
of the (bleep)ers is scheming.
So: what foul and frightening  
scenes fill his dreaming?

The Oneirocriticologist's Notebook Entries

“Arm! 
An Arm! 
Who’ll arm the alarm?”
(His dream's of an arm.) 
“Alert the gendarmes!
And, once I’m alone, shall I 
suffer great harm?”

“Bear! 
A bear! 
Ascending the stair!" 
(His dream’s of a bear.) 
“Who’s trespassing there?
Boo! Yoo-hoo! Is that you, Vlad? 
(Lil' Kim wouldn't dare.)”

“Crows! 
These crows! 
Befouling my clothes!”
(His dreams are of crows!) 
“Still…anything goes.
Can't my dirty tricks boomerang, 
don't you suppose?” 

“Dawn! 
It’s dawn! 
Yet they’re still on the lawn.
(He dreams of the dawn.) 
“Am I somebody’s pawn?
Do I vamp through November? 
All Hallows…then…gone?”

“Egg! 
An Egg! 
Extending a leg!
(He dreams of an egg.) 
“They’ll get nowt till they beg!
Ev’ry tactic seems clear. 
The agenda’s what’s vague.” 

“Fire! 
A fire! 
I’ve got to climb higher.”
(His dreams are of fire.) 
“My funeral pyre?
For my failure to…what? 
To constrain my desire?” 

“Ground! 
The ground! 
It’s growing unsound!”
(He dreams of the ground.) 
“Just say, “Nothing was found.
Give ‘em platitudes! (Hope there’s 
enough to go ‘round.)" 

“Hall! 
The hall! 
It’s becoming too small!”
(He dreams of a hall.) 
“Tell them, ‘Visit the mall!’
Hell! That minimum wage buys… 
Oops! Nothing at all.” 

“Ice! 
The ice! 
It’s forming a vice!”
(His dreams are of ice.) 
“Ignore Gore’s advice!
Is a life without polar bears 
all that not nice?"

“Jar! 
The jar! 
It’s leaning too far.”
(He dreams of a jar.) 
“Still, I love being Czar.
Just was wond’ring what year it is…
in Kandahar.”

“Klan! 
The Klan! 
They’re murd’ring that man.”
(He dreams of the Klan.) 
“They kill ‘cuz they can.
Keep your hands off of Kanye, though: 
I’m a big fan.”

“Light! 
The light! 
So blindingly bright!”
(He dreams of the light.) 
“Steer much further right!
Let’s us pray it’s not Socialist
Democrat Night.”

“Moon! 
The moon! 
It’s descending too soon.
(He dreams of the moon.) 
"Some hum; others croon.
Most will lose, nonetheless, lest they 
whistle my tune."

“Noose!
This noose! 
I can’t get it loose.”
(His dream's of a noose.) 
“Is my puss turning puce?
Now they’re saying I’m (shock!) 
sabotaging some truce.” 

“Oil! 
The oil! 
It’s beginning to boil.
(His dream is of oil.) 
“Keep on sifting that soil!
Only, no 'global warming.' 
Say that? You’re disloyal.”

“Pain! 
The pain! 
It’s returning again.”
(His dreams are of pain.) 
“Is that newsy insane?
Put a sock in it, media! 
More Novocain!”

“Queen! 
A queen! 
She’s caught in between.”
(He dreams of a queen.) 
“She’s gifted. She’s keen.
Queer as hell, but don’t tell: 
she’s a U.S. Marine.” 

“Rake! 
The rake! 
It’s becoming a snake.”
(He dreams of a snake.) 
“It’s alive! It’s awake!
Risking lives? Worth the risk 
when there’s billions to make.” 

“Sand! 
The sand! 
Quick! Lend me a hand!
(His dream is of sand.) 
“This is no place to land.
So: I’m chummy with Saudi Arabia. 
Grand!” 

“Thumb! 
My thumb! 
It’s totally numb.” 
(He dreams of his thumb.) 
“Charles Darwin was dumb.
'Tis a world safe for stem cells. 
May my kingdom come!”

“Udder! 
The udder! 
It’s starting to shudder.”
(He dreams of an udder.) 
“Up guns! Down with butter!
(Up creeks call'd Fake News 
with no paddle, no rudder.)” 

“Vine! 
The vine’s 
looking none too benign.”
(He dreams of a vine.) 
“Don’t make waves. I'll be fine.
Vill ve virebomb Tehran? 
Gott, just gimme das sign!”

“Wife! 
Your wife! 
She’s pulling a knife.”
(He dreams of your wife.) 
“With resentment she’s rife.
We will spare her. Though loopy, 
she votes Right to Life.” 

“X! 
An X! 
The site of the wrecks.”
(He dreams of an X.) 
“Do we stick out our necks
‘X’ing [YES], coaxing OPEC 
to trade oil for sex?” 

“Yak! 
A yak 
begins it’s attack.”
(He dreams of a yak.) 
“Am I getting the sack?
You must give me my last four 
(Eight? Forty?) years back.”

“Zoo! 
The zoo! 
It hasn’t a loo.”
(He dreams of the zoo.) 
“So: what do I do?
Zut! I tarnish the Oval. 
I can, thanks to…
Who…?

"Stule, the Soiling Buddha..." A Friends of the Laughing Buddha Connect the Dots Buddha Bonus: More Nonsense in Meters and Rhymes (Illustrated)

Stule, 

the Soiling Buddha,

dreads dirty-di'per days.

No puerile pup,

Stule messes up

in"adult-lescent" ways.

His soul's a bod-

hisattiva's. But

his bod's sour creme brulees.

How to Compose a Fifteener, the DIY Poem Boasting a New Poetic Form and a Sampling Methodology: More Nonsense in Meters & Rhymes

Begin by quoting the opening line of a well-known poem, ideally a pentameter line. (Adopting for yourself as author of this new work a pseudonym derived from the name of the composer of the poem you've chosen to amplify is optional.) 

Example: 

Quality by Tyll Wakespeare 

The quality of mercy is not strain’d. 

The five accented syllables appear in boldface. 

Compose a second pentameter line which, if ever so loosely, follows the narrative or other sense of the first, making sure its five accented syllables rhyme with those syllables in similar positions within the first line. 

Example: 

The quality of mercy is not strain’d.
Still, Dali, being nervous, kiss’d, then caned

Compose a third pentameter line in which internal rhyme is optional – except for the final syllable, which must rhyme with the final syllables of the first two lines. The “sense” -- narrative or otherwise -- of the line should – again, more or less loosely – complete that of the first two lines. 

Example:

The quality of mercy is not strain'd.
Still, Dali, being nervous, kiss’d, then caned
each freshman, fuming, “Let this swamp be drain’d!”

This completes the first tercet.

For the second tercet, compose a pentameter line whose five accented syllables are identical or nearly identical with those of the first tercet’s opening line but you array in a different order. Compose a second pentameter line whose accented syllables rhyme with those of the first, as was done in the first tercet. The internal rhymes of the third line are, as before, optional for all but the last syllable which must rhyme with the final syllables of the first two lines. This completes the second tercet.

Tercets three through five are composed in similar fashion, with an attempt made to have the last line of each tercet in some fashion wrap up the sense of the whole tercet -- though this wrapping up may be set aside in favor of continuity from one tercet to that following -- and to have the final tercet in some fashion meaningfully – perhaps meta-meaningfully? -- wrap up the whole poem, a poem of five tercets totaling fifteen lines.

Example:

Force by Tyll Andrahmas

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower,
of course, shows new, pristine and lively power.
It eyes me as it cries, “You need a shower.”

As through its green fuse thrives this flow’r, its force
lets two pre-teens with knives devour my horse.
Ingesting beasts? Alert Inspector Morse!

Weak green-fuse-driving flowers’ forces? Through!
We’ve seen Bath’s wives -- yours? Ours? Divorce won’t do.
What’s needed’s discombobulation, nu? 

What drives said flow’r (if force be through) is green.
It strives (though sour, though course) to “screw that scene.”
Now, ple-e-e-ease don’t claim you don’t know what we mean.)

So: flower force is through. It’s green fuse drives,
Which, dour of source (though blue of jean) apes chives.
(Grandstanding stanzas find their feet in fives.)

Ready to try one of your own? The following will get you started: 

Midway by Ollie (“Dan”) Teejerry

Midway on the journey of our life...

"The Weather Lady's waving..." Climate Changes; or, Tilaka Toccata: A Nonsense in Meter & Rhyme

The Weather Lady’s wavings indi-
cate, in missionary Hindi,
how conditions, waxing windy,
warn each Buddha: “Mind your bindi!
You have been consign'd your bindi: 
Be inclined to bind your bindi --
lest you fail to find your bindi!
(What's that...there...behind...? Your bindi!") 

"Sing me stories of O..." Arcanagrammatic Invocation to the Muse of Poetry -- on P O E T R Y: A Nonsense in Meter & Rhyme

(Regular readers have probably already noted that what follows is not a pure arcanagram. This is because, although the last word of each line is spelt using only the letters P O E T R Y, the last line does not end in the word ‘poetry,’ which it should were this a strict arcanagram.)

Sing me stories of O. Mingle Gorey with Poe.
Let a hollow horse (oy!) tell me tales set in Troy.
Chants of Klansmen and rope, hymns of faith and lost ‘ope.
Sell me sagas of yore, epics empt’ing each pore.

Tales of climbing High Tor, “49”ing gold ore.
Fonts of poetry ope: sev’ral stanzas, a trope.
In a shout-out re ‘toy,’ shout ‘bout Siegfried re Roy.
Serve up catfishes’ roe. Swerve from treetop to toe.

Sing me Sidon and Tyre. Fan that funeral pyre.
Rap of San Luis Rey: do a deuce; do a trey.
Who’ll object if you pry? You’ll not know till you try.
Drink deep draughts. Pour your pote. (I’ll hear nothing by rote.)

Say not ‘sed,’ only ‘et.’ (Be I bed-raed? Not yet.)
Never ‘con-,’ always ‘pro-,’ nor of nothing de trop.
Tack your tales hard to port, each poetical ort.
On my artiness prey: it’s well known you’re o’tre.

Should your rap need a rep, who will volunteer? Yep!
Sing ye! Rage till ye rot! Po’ms are better than pot.
Something dolorous? Nope: songs to sing skipping rope 
sung like Gorey and Poe. (Skip those stories of O.)

"Pins and needles..." Calendar Caliente; or, Chili Doggerel Featuring an ABAB BCBC Rhyme Scheme in Every Two-part Octave: A Nonsense in Meter & Rhyme

Pins and needles! Eyes and hooks!
Chill January's hues? Slick slates,
a grey display in sleet. She looks
a climate prime for skis and skates.

One chili pepper celebrates

by donning earmuffs, scarf and gloves
to undertake not guff he hates
but thin-ice skating -- stuff he loves.

Pins and needles! Hooks and eyes!
Fleet February's twenty eight, 
in falling three days shy, supplies
less time to venerate a mate.

One chili pepper's running late

delivering his valentine.
He must (and soon!) accelerate:
"Get goin'!" That's his bottom line.

Hooks and eyes and nuts and bolts!
Mid-March's Ides can’t hide Spring's flowers.
Lads towards love cavort like colts,
big blossoms copped from blooming bowers.

Thefts like these take sev'ral hours,

maybe less. (No more than two.) 
One chili's savoir faire ne'er sours:
just hear him blurt, "These buds? For you!"

Hooks and eyes and bolts and nuts!
Escape an April's Easter eggs?
Nope! Basket filled, one chili struts,
sashaying on his own two pegs.

"May I make mucho more?" he begs. 

"The ankle biters love 'em so,
nor's FDA releasing regs
suppressing eggs. Say I, ‘Let's go!’"

Bolts and nuts and forks and spoons! 
Which gifting day in May's the worst?
De Mayo Cinco France impugns;
preferring May Day -- that's the first.

"The best," rants William Randolph Hearst, 

"is World Press Freedom Day -- the third." 
(One chili, Mother's gifts dispersed,
orates. He prates, "They're all absurd!")

Bolts and nuts and spoons and forks!

In June, platoons of grads and dads
(though tagged by family dweebs and dorks) 
get gifts: designer ties, all plaids.

One chili'd rather troll for shads.

With six-packs in his tackle box,
he trawls among the lily pads.
(This catch roes cache with proto-lox.) 

Spoons and forks and Spocks and Kirks!
Jejune July's supremacists
malign, ‘midst flags and fireworks,
more recent settlers in their midsts.

One chili simply coexists.

Like Pete and Woody belts out he
(in dissing these recidivists),
"...this land was made for you 'n' mee-e-e-e!"

Spoons and forks and Kirks and Spocks!

The puns of August beam their rays
on circus clowns in pleated frocks
who juggle balls come circus days.

But do not think these chilis gays --

their frocks and fright wigs notwithstanding:
also, they play cabarets:
there, juggling stuff is most demanding.

Kirks and Spocks and things and wings!
September signals: “Back to school!”
One chili in his backpack brings
an Apple XR iPhone. (Cool!)

But there be jealous chilis who’ll
report this to his home-room teacher.
She’ll impound that phone (the ghoul!).
'Tis worse than pointless to beseech her.

Kirks and Spocks and wings and things!
Is this a chili or a spook?
October Hallow'd weenies brings,
but watch out! Milk Duds make you puke.
This chili lost his plum peruke
(he'd plann'd to trick-or-treat as Dame
E. Everage). 'Twas just a fluke,
his hairpiece loss. No one's to blame.

Wings and things and needles and pins!

Wings and things and pins and needles!

"The world, too much with us..." What the World Really Needs; or, Seuss Resusitated: A Nonsense Alphabet in Meter & Rhyme

The world, too much with us, propels toward the gravel –
oe’r-heated, o'er-greeded and, once again, flat.
What’s needed to save us? A knight? Or a knave?
No, what’s actu’lly needed’s a cat in a hat.

No afghans in caftans. No bluejays in PJs.

No cock in a frock. No cravat-adorned rat.
No doe dans chapeau. No dugongs in sarongs.
Not a ewe in J. Crew. Just a cat in a hat.

For a super-sized storm, formed as oceans wax warm,

can’t be calmed by some nattily jacketed sprat.
Nor is strife in Beirut rooted out by some coot
In a coat multi-colored. Think “cat in a hat.”

Not a flea in a T. No gazelle in Chanel.

Not a wig-wearin’ heron in Karan – not that.
Not wild Irish setters in styled Irish sweaters.
Not jays in berets. Just a cat in a hat.

For to regulate guns run by Nazis and Huns

can’t get done by some outerwear-outfitted gnat.
Nor can car-coated larks prevent racist remarks.
That can only be done by a cat in a hat.

Not some coy kangaroos wearing sensible shoes.

Not a lamb in a tam – there’s just no call for that.
Not some white marmosets in too-tight farmerettes.
Not some newts wearing boots. Just a cat in a hat.

For the plight of the poor won’t be given “what for’

by some eels in high heels or some bonneted bats.
Nor can views fundamental be rendered more gentle
by foxes in socks. Just by top-hatted cats.

No giraffe-like okapis in Spanish serapes.

No pythons in nylons: those aren’t where it’s at.
Not a quail in chain mail nor some rabbits in sabots.
No shad clad in plaid. Just a cat in a hat.

For while healthcare for all seems an order too tall

for a fruit fly in drip-dry supplied by his frat
or a lemur-like lynx draped in ermines and minks,
it’s as easy as pie for a cat in a hat.

Neither turtles in girdles, ukaris in saris

nor voles draped in stoles – these would just leave us flat.
Not a whale in a veil nor a Harris-tweed xerus.
No yak in a mac. Just a cat in a hat.

For no pederast priest can be curbed by a beast

in a fleece that’s pre-creased – after all: tit for tat.
Nor are worm cans debugged by some slugs rya-rugged.
All’s best left, in the end, to a cat in a hat.

(Might a gussied-up zorse try to save us? Of course.

But that zorse and his ilk lack the needed “eclat.”
“Neither goose, mouse nor moose is requir'd,” observes Seuss.
“All we actu’lly need is a cat in a hat.”)

Arcanagram on M A C H I N E: A Nonsense in Meter & Rhyme

(The arcanagram, a verse form of the author’s own invention, is a poetic elaboration on a single word, the spring word, which functions as a partial, near- or quasi anagram in that numbers of smaller words are extracted from it using its letters These so-called seed words are then used as end rhymes in an extended composition, the final word of which is the spring word. The metric scheme of this arcanagram mimics, in part, that of Carroll’s “The Hunting of the Snark”.)

Though he claimed, “I’m descended from Ham,”

as he conquered and saw and then came,
he’s descended from Eve, 
as I am, I believe.
Still, I fear I’ve forgotten his name.

Next, he chanted, “I’m Cuban, like Che.
And you’re right: I’m a knight who says “Ni.”
(I suspect the guy’s gay, 

or is ex-CIA

on a time out-- or is it just me?)

When he crowed, “I’m a beau o' yer ma’s.

We two met when we tour’d Viet Nam,”
contradict him did Ma – 

with her vim and her “Nah!

Come in, lad, from the cold. Remain calm.”

Why he whispered, “Mom christen'd me ‘Chen’

while supportin' my chin in her han’”
remains vague – much like Zen – 

for, in fact, he’s a hen

someone (you?) chose to re-baptize ‘Chan.’

Then he claimed, “I’m a son o' that Eichman

folks pretended descended from Cain."
(That his father was Eichman, 

that rabid Third Reich man,

was roundly rebuked, in the main.)

Next he feign'd, “Dare I finger the hem

of the Buddha, the Christ or such men?”
Nope. Their hems – though pro-tem – 

are as long as an em,

while his finger’s as short as an en.

Then he jaw'd, “What’s my job? Feedin' mice.

Without me, mice go hungry,” quoth he.
“And, till you – 'tain't no vice – 

begin treatin' ‘em nice,

you shall never be mein bon ami.”

He supplies ‘em with cookies and chai,

treats they access by ringing a chime.
When you spot ‘em pass by, 

don’t neglect to say ‘Hi!’

(If they ask, “Who’s your daddy?” say I’m.)”

“Anti-rodents be no friends o' mine.”

(He said that as he patted his chin.)
“You’re like Seven-of-Nine, 

or that ‘-stein’ known as ‘Ein-.‘

Or Mao’s kin-‘neath-the-skin, Ho Chi Minh.”

"Is your surname initialed with ‘ai’ch,'

as is ‘Hortense,’ the name of my niece?
Or ‘Hludowic the Vane, 

who’s called ‘Louis’ in Maine?"

I enjoined: "Or the Butcher of Nice’?"

"Nope, it starts, as does ‘ass,’ with an ‘A,’”

he replied, whereupon I honked, "Ha!"
“That's entir'ly OK,” 

he returned. “Your ‘Ha!,' eh?

Though I so-o-o-o wish you’d answered with ‘ah-h-h…’”

Then he sung me a solfege: “…re-mi…”

“Why?” I asked. Answered he: “’Cuz I can.
I’m a ‘-man’ o' that brand 

known as ‘he-‘ 'cross this land.

I am the one-man band,” he said. An’...

...out he drew from his shirtsleeve an ace.
(‘Twas of spades: I’d bid sev’ral at NIMH.*)
Then he grinned as he took 

up his mace with grim look

and trisected the card. (Ain't that him!?)

     * Pronounced ‘nim,’ as you might well anticipate.

Then he hiccough'd three times – each a mean ‘hic!’ –

and remark'd, “Though I loathe bakin' miche
(such a pain* turns me wan 

an' anemic en fin),

it is still my patisseri’l niche."

     * French for ‘bread’ and pronounced ‘pan.’

Lastly, grabbing a Coke with no ice,

he, with mostly maniacal mien --
yes, with mien mostly manic, 

in panic began: “Ich

bin ein seifenblase…” 
(ronamtische strasse)
i.e., I’m your bubble machine!”