"'Alms?' asks the Abba, an anchorite, making amends..." Hac Ego Feci (I Made This): A Nonsense Alphabet in Rhyme

“Alms?” asks the Abba, an anchorite, making amends,
The Brooklyn-bred bookie makes book for his flutter-prone friends.
The caffeine-addicted make coffee in quantums absurd.
The divorced single mother of two must make do, dreams deferred.
The ex-employees make ends meet though they op at a loss.
Make fists, freedom fighter, to let the whole world know who’s boss.
The feminist’s first to make fun when her female friends marry.

The greengrocer’s grapes make the grade: “Our garnachas don’t vary.”
The governor-general makes good – as his pockets he’s lining.
The husbandman makes him some hay while the sun keeps on shining.
“Make haste, Hound of Heaven,: the bard Francis Thompson insists.
The headsman can’t make heads nor tails. (“Chop I necks? Lop I wrists?”)
The interpreter makes it his business to make it look simple.
The Jesuit jester makes jokes in a tunic and wimple.

The killer could make each Kardashian disappear fast.
Making landfall, the landlubber loves to make light of storms past.
The laddie makes love to his lassie, Loch Lomond in view.
The mom’s making mountains of molehills; she’s not unlike you.
The midget manqué makes the most of his height (he’s an elf).
The Norwegian who's made nothing of makes a name for himself.
Making out like a bandit, the outlaw makes off with your chest.

The octogenarian’s make-over’s make-shift – at best.
The optimist always makes out; make of that what you will.
The plump politician makes policy up on the Hill.
The Pope’s making peace, though he makes it post partisan slaughter.
The pederast priest makes a play for the President’s daughter.
The quarryman makes quite a splash, cannonballing from heights.
The Royalist raves: “Pairs of wrongs (when they’re mine) can make rights!”

The symposium student makes small talk. Such sucking up sucks.
The shark makes short work of the slow-swimming sailor. Aw-w-w, shucks!
The senator/statesman makes sure that his state remains free.
The traitor makes trouble by making things up – on TV.
The terrorist tries making tracks but gets taken in tow.
The urchin wears make-up in hopes of uploading a beau.
The vegan’s dilemma? That veal makes a very good stew.

The waiter makes water. (We all do: I do; you do, too.)
Is the wigmaker’s wife making waves when she wades without Wellies?
Women watching make way while these widowers writhe on their bellies.
The X-Acto knife expert makes ‘x’s by way of example
The yogi (named Yul) makes you wonder: are five yamas ample?
The zodiac makes zero sense: it’s no good in the day.
(Having first made my marks, I must now make a clean getaway.)

"One ponders twin strands as one wanders through lands..." Geschlechtes or Of Kinds: A Nonsense in Rhyme

One ponders twin strands
as one wanders through lands
where no circumspect man’s ever been.
And none more than the one
where the men are all women
and all of the women are men.
Guys are gals. Moms are Dads.
Sisters? Bros! Lasses? Lads!
Boys are girls. L’hommes are femmes. So it goes.
Hes are shes. Hims are hers.
But a question occurs:
How’s one know how one knows how one knows?

"Foreign Wendy, black op, hurts: so soul-sick, she..." Faux Words March: Nonsense Abecedarial Pictures at an Exhibition in Rhyme

The art exhibition's portable audio 
guide said: "...A is Four And Twenty 
Blanc Birds..." but the near-sighted, 
hard-of-hearing art critic Ms. Orgski 
heard and saw: "...A's Foreign Wendy, 
Black Op, Hurts..." Thus Ms. Orgski’s 
verse review ran as follows:

Foreign Wendy, black op, hurts: 

so soul-sick, she! 

Her divorce from The Force...? 
Fully fait accompli.
Wendy's sublet a bed-sit 
near Southend-on-Sea.
Wend sees well-wishers Wend's Days  
from "t'wendy" past three.

The audio guide said: "...B is Forbidden 
Fruit..." but Ms Orgski heard and saw: 
"...B is for Bitten Fruit..." Thus, her 
review:

Inch-thick skin of once-bitten fruit 

(rough to the touch...?

Tough!), when tapp'd for its sap, 
lacks all savor as such.
Four'll score mileage as silage 
for shoats -- in a clutch.
(As a rule, though, shoats drool...
but don't fancy it much.)

The guide said: "...C is Forceps 
Anterior..." but Ms. Orgski heard: 
"...C is for Cepp's Sand Terrier..." 
Thus, her review:

Prince Çepp's Sand Terrier, 
like his Skye,

(unless vets 
oversimplify)
stands long of calf 
(though short of thigh)
and, folks say, 
favors Zhou En-lai.

The guide said: "...D is Ford Madox 
Ford..." but Orgski heard: "...D is 
for D'Mååd Dücs Fjørd..." Thus, 
her review:

Fåmed Viking Ørn shøüts, 
"All's åbøård!"

then chårts a cøürse 
thrøügh D'Mååd Dücs Fjørd.
"We're wårr'n'," wårns Ørn, 
"før Dånegeld høård.
Meåntime, thøügh, 
try dås smörgåsbørd!"

The guide said: "...E is Forensic 
Chemistry..." but Orgski heard: 
"...E is for 'End Sikkim' Mystery..." 
Thus, her review:

Asks the 'End Sikkim' Mystery: 
"Who might there be

who'd turn cartwheels 
if Sikkim slipp'd into the sea...?
Is't the Nepalese Nuisance, 
the Bad Bhutanee
or the Sour Pakistani...?" 
(Could be it's all three.)

The guide: "...F is Forfeits Your 
Deposit..." Orgski heard: "...F is for 
Fitz/Geordie Bus Hit...” Her review:

Twee Geordie and Fitz, Scots -- 
last seen

aboard a bus 
from Aberdeen --
are dead. (One contract 
on the 'tween'
slew two: three Grendels 
through each spleen.)

The guide: "...G is Forget-Me-Not..." 
Orgski heard: "...G is for 'Get Mean!' 
Knot..." Her review:

The Rooskie 'knout' 
(pronounc'd like 'k'noot')…? 

S'for floggin' folk 
of foul repute.
Abus'd 
in 19th-cent'ry Butte,
'twas term'd 
"The 'Get Mean!' Knot," to boot!

Guide: "...H is Four-H Club..." 
Orgski: "...H is for Haitch/Cull Hub..." 
Review:

The road from Cull, 
near Achnasheen,

skirts Haitch Heights 
(olim Gretna Green).
The Haitch/Cull Hub, 
lies nigh its mean,
and links all life forms 
in between.

Guide: "...I is Foreign Legionnaire..." 
Orgski: "...I is for 'In-Lesion' Hair..." 
Review:

I'm supine as Herr Zorro 
"zip-zip-zip"s my chest,

so Z's 'Z' proves more 'N'-like, 
I'd proffer (if press'd).
Where it scabs, a coarse thatch thrives, 
a narrowish nest.
How's my "in-lesion" hair...? 
Very -- ouch! -- barb'd, at best!

"...J is Forging Ahead..." 
"...J is for Jinga Head..."

Enjoyin' one's Jinga Ale 
starts with the pour.
As to heads, here's one rule 
no beer geek dare ignore:
always think, "Just one pinky of foam...
but no more!"
(Proper Jinga heads bode
"mucho gusto," Señor.)

"...K is Fork In The Road..." 
"...K is for King Thor Ode..."

In Paris, B.N. Lat. 2121 
(a palimpsest)

was found, preserved upon a flyleaf, 
in a minuscule, from Brest,
four lines of verse -- a runic charm 
by Saxon choir monks finess'd:
The King Thor Ode is sung once more, 
tho' through twelve centuries repress'd.

"...L is Forlorn Hope..." 
"...L is for "Lorne...?" "Nope!"..."

Bonanza's cast 
casts votes today. 

With Pa's cheek hair 
they'd do away.
Pernell 'n' Dan, with Mike, 
vote, "Yea!" 
But Lorne's "Nope!" trumps: 
those sideburns stay!

"...M is Formaldehydes..." 
"...M is for Mal De Ides..."

Rome's Senate's 
plottin' Caesarcides: 

the lord who'd live 
be'd he who hides --
unless he's bonkers...
or abides
a deadly dose 
of Mal De Ides!

"...N is Fornicator..." 
"...N is for Nick/Kate Tour..."

No lie, Katy Hepburn: 
you're fronting a band...?

Playin' rhythm guitar, 
though unable to stand...?
Upright bassist Nick Cage 
needs to lend you a hand...? 
Nineteen Nick/Kate Tour tees 
can be mine for a grand...?

"...O is Four O'Clock Rock!..." 
"...O is for Oake Loch Roc..."

Great Scotland's lochs 

boast beasts galore:

Loch Ness...? 
Its bashful brontosaur.
Loch Lomond 
masks a manticore.
(Green Scots call Oake Loch's Roc 
'Al Gore.')

"...P is For Purple Mountains' Majesty..." 
"...P is Porp! Pull him out an' match 
his tee..."

Our porpoise 
wears this tee shirt, see...? 

Shall all our fish 
dress sim'larly...? 
They shall 
if we supply shirts free:
Porp! Pull him out 
an' match his tee!*

     * Clearly there appears to be no
correspondence between the image 
Ms. Orgski imagined and her verse 
review, nor can this lack be readily 
explained. 

"...Q is Fork It Over!..." 
"...Q is for Quito Fur..."

Chic Ecuadoran 
doñas wear

sombreros -- hats! -- 
to hide their hair,
hats lined with Quito fur. 
They're (like) 
ubique-...ubick-... 
They're everywhere!

"...R is Forest Of Arden..." 
"...R is for Rasta, Fartin!..."

Haute Rastafarian 
cookin' art

blen' goat kabob 
wit' mango tart.
So, when meal done 
'n' Rast' depart,
dat Rasta man 
fart fragrant fart!

"...S is Forsyte Saga..." 
"...S is for '...Sites Aga!'..."

The Trib, 
with trenchant lexicon,

reads, "Neo-Cons 
Sight Aga Khan!"
"That turkey's toast!" 
notes Paula Zahn.
"'T'will surely prove
'ArMÁgeddon'!"

"...T is Fortissimo!..." 
"...T is for Tease 'Em, Mo!..."

Three Shanghai Stooges 
steal the show --

not Larry, Shemp 
'n' Curly Joe,
but Quanzhou, Chou 
'n' Zangjikou.
Still, who steps up to "tease" 'em...? 
Mo!

"...U is Forum Romanum..." 
"...U is for 'Ummer! Oim Ah' Numb!'..."

Our unarmor'd Humvee 
draws fire: "Rat-tat-tat!"s. 

"Cor! Oim 'it!" cries our Irish embedee, 
Colm Katz.
"Frickin' 'Ummer! Oim ah' numb...
plus, look: we've four flats:
unless sprung afore sundown, 
we're News Hour stats!"

"...V is Four Virtuous Maidens..." 
"...V is for Veered: Jewish Mavens..."

In Isaac Israeli 
'n' Jeshua Ben Judah,

in Saadia Ben Joseph 
'n' Ibn Pakuda
you've three sapient sharks 
'n' one bright baracuda,
yet -- Vey! -- all four've veer'd 
from "vi' trita, vi' tuta." * 

     * Translation: The beaten path 
is the safe way. 

"...W is 'Forward...March!'..." 
"...W is for 'We're Dim, Arch!'..."

"We scarf,” says Arch, 
Miss V’s hors-d'oeuvres,

pork out on Betty's 
plum preserves,
yet 'Dank!' 'em not 
for 'stuffs each serves.
Why...?” "We're dim, Arch!" 
Jughead observes.

"...X is Forks And Knives..." 
"...X is for Xan Knives..."

To mallets 
swiped from gamelan,
shrewd smiths affix'd, 
in ancient Xan,
keen blades 
for fighting man-to-man:
what Uzzis can't do, 
Xan knives can!

"...Y is Fourteen Years In Solitary..." 
"...Y is for Ten Years Since Sol Ate Harry..."

Dawns the fourth 
of February!

Ten long years 
since Sol ate Harry.
Still, those clean 
kohanim query,
"What of Hal was meat, 
what dairy...?"

The exhibition's portable audio track 
said: "...Z is Forza Del Destino..." What 
Ms Orgski heard and saw: "... Z is for 
Zed-Delta's Teen 'Ho'..."Thus, her 
verse review:

Zealous Zeta-Delt lads 
launch'd their Latin casino,

installing roulette, craps 
and video Keno.
One hooker they book'd 
turn'd their metier El-Mean. Yo!
My cousin Carmina, 
said Zed-Delta's teen 'ho'.

Ladies and gentlemen; the exhibition is closed.

"There's this guy, do or die, Bernie Sanders..." Three Exquisite Limericks

  

A    A    B

A    A    B

C    C

C    C

(A)  A    B

I 

There’s this guy, do or die, Bernie Sanders.

Pumpkin pie, ham on rye, Peter panders.
Merwyn Peake, so to speak.
Wednesday week, hide-‘n’-seek.
Please stand by, eye for eye, geese or ganders.

II 

Lived this man, cheek of tan, Don DeLillo.
Spic and Span, Ku Klux Klan, cigarillo.
Come to grief, twelve-mile reef.
Are you “deef”? Where’s the beef?
Or (to pan the Qur’an): “Armadillo!”

III 

‘Twas this bloke, country folk, Raul Julia.
Pig-in-poke, Roanoke. (Would I fool ya?)
Over there, share 'n' share. 
Truth or dare, braid the hair.
Take a toke, have a soak, hallelujah!

"Who shot the spotted ocelot in Gaza, plot diglossal...?" Gaza Border Incident, 4/20/18, Constrained (But Just Barely)

Who shot the spotted ocelot
in Gaza, plot diglossal...? 
A tot, that ocelot they got, 
though now a rotting fossil. 
His siblings (quot...?*), a docile lot,
engage. Their rage...? Colossal!
They mobilize en masse, all hot
with Nazi Occ** to jostle,
thus following Abbas*** a lot! 
their blotted-out apostle.
A toast! But Gott! Don't kvass allot:
just mocktails*****: Muslim wassail.
       * Latin for "how many...?"
     ** The Occupation of Palestine
     *** Abu Abbas: founder/leader of the PLO.
       **** Non-alcoholic versions of cocktails.

"For op'ners, don't apologize! Whose fault is it? the other guy's..." GOP Midterm Campaign Decorum Checklist

For op’ners, don’t apologize! Whose fault is it? The other guy’s.
Don’t let ‘em see you break a sweat! It’s simply not that hot. (Not yet.)
Do not go leading with your chin! When last we checked, you planned to win.
Don’t ever let ‘em see you drool! "Eschew saliva!" is the rule.
Your comments on the elephant that stalks the room? Irrelevant.
Don’t let their fact redact your frame! Prevarication: that’s your game.
Refuse to let ‘em get your goat! Relax! Just grab ‘em by the throat.
Don’t let ‘em spot you hugging Nazis! Woods are ‘hoods for paparazzis.
Lastly, if you're racist, lewd, misogynistic, crooked, lewd,
a pederast who’s juiced on booze…but white male Christian? You can’t lose.

"Pins and needles! Eyes and hooks! Chill'd January's tinctures? Slates..." Calendar Caliente or Chili Doggerel: A Partially DIY Nonsense in Rhyme

The first three words, the second accented,
 of the final line of the final stanza of the poem 
"Chili Doggerel," each by metrical necessity a 
single syllable, are to be supplied by the reader, 
as is the selection of any requisite punctuation.

Pins and needles! Eyes and hooks!
Chill'd January's tinctures? Slates,
with grey displays of sleets. 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!

Mad 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!

Escaping April's Easter eggs?

Nope! Basket filled, one chili struts,

sashaying on his own two pegs.

"I must make mucho more," he begs. 

"My ankle biters love 'em so,

nor's FDA releasing regs

suppressing eggs. I say, ‘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 -- dawning 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 in plaids.
One chili'd rather troll for shads.
With six-packs in his tackle box,
he trawls among lush lily pads.
(These catches cache shad roes, shad lox.)

Spoons and forks and Spocks and Kirks!
Jejune July's supremacists
malign, ‘mid flags ‘n’ 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 and mee-e-e-e!"

Spoons and forks and Kirks and Spocks!
The puns of August rake their rays
'cross circus clowns in pleated frocks
who juggle balls come circus days.
But do not deem one chili gay 
(his frock and fright wig notwithstanding):
chann'ling Cabaret's Joel Grey
he juggles souls. (His job's demanding.)

Kirks and Spocks and things and wings!
September's song's a song sung blue.
September's back-to-school bell rings;
its tolling telling, "Summer's through."
One chili knows what's next to do:
through textbook stores' remainder bins
he trolls for volumes nearly new,
discov'ring sev'ral, for his sins.

Kirks and Spocks and wings and things!
October's tail toasts Halloweenies
with the nosh that season brings:
hot cocoas, caviar on blinis,
piping potions poured by genies
and adored by (say) one chili.
(Pepper plants prefer martinis?
Nope. Such cynicism's silly.)

Wings and things and needles and pins!
Five Thursdays this November shows.
Four follow when the month begins
on Thursday (as this year it "does.")
One chili, sporting Pilgrim clothes
(a practice not unknown in peppers),
carves a turkey, for he knows:
like Jesus, he's to dine with lepers.

Wings and things; a pin, a needle!
Deep December's holiday
persuades all, "Prance to pipe and 'feedle'!
Sing 'Cuckoo! Callooh! Callay!'"
One chili, like his mate in May,
confronting such absurdity,
eschews "Noel!"s and opts to say,
"____  ____  ____" (in a word -- or three).

"There's asses and bottoms. there's cans and there's duffs..." Fundamentals: An Abecedarial Nonsense in Rhyme

There's asses and bottoms. There's cans and there's duffs. 
There's ends and there's fannies. There's glutei max.
There's heinies; il botto. There's Junk in the trunk.
There's keisters. Les tooshe (that's how Frenchies say 'cracks'). 

There’s matakos and new moons. There's onions and poopers.
There's quailtails and rumps and there's seats (in the rear). 
There's a tuchus. Une breech. A va-voom and a whoopie cake.
(X, Y, Z? Wa-a-a-a-a-a-y too exotic, my dear.)

Film-Flam or Brief Histories of Cinema Classics

 

     1939 The Wizard of Oz

In Oz, your monkeys soar, your wizards roar.

You’re not, young Dot, in Kansas anymore.

     1939 Gone with the Wind

More ante-bellum “bim-bam, thank you, ma’am!”

Quite frankly, Yankees just don’t give a damn.

     1941 Citizen Kane

What nonsense! “Rosebud!” signifies a sled?

To wit, Kane’s lit. “Rosé, Bud!”’s what he said.

     1942 Casablanca

Though famed for Bogart’s bid, “Again, Sam! Play it!”

the question bides: did Bogie even say it? 

     1950 All About Eve

A bitter Bette rides the stairs. (Takes flight…?)

“Make fast those belts. This bodes a bumpy night.”

     1954 On the Waterfront

Steiger’s Chas “The Gent,” while Cobb’s the jerk.

Mauldin’s priest goads Marlon’s brash Young Turk.

Saint, god knows, as good as goes berserk.

But who’s the dude who crows, “Let’s go to work!”?

     1979 Alien

“Aliens!!” cries poor Sigourney’s team.

(‘Tis space, my dear: they cannot hear you scream.)