Spoon: Guns, Mobys, Days

Guns and knives...? Some gear retrieved 
from enemy incursion.
Nuns and gyves...? Some kinky brand 
of sexual perversion.
     Moral:
Don't fire until...(you know the drill).
Moby Dick's one tar's tall tale 
of eggshell whales I've read.
In Dough Be Mick, one Gael named Michael's 
made of gingerbread.
     Moral:
When Ahab preys, when Ahab slays,
when Ahab flays, lose "mild, mild day"s.
In The Days of Wine and Roses, 
alcoholics air their ills
while The Ways of Rhine and Doses
plies its path through plonk and pills.
     Moral:
Ope' not the door 
not there before.

Take a Haiku!

Boco  dofogo,  
ha -- Joka  "lomona"  pa:
quaro  SoTavo!  

Nine ten -- 1312!
Five! For 'three-to-one.' Zero:
Seven eleven!

Waxaya,  Zoba;  
ca  (dabaca) da fago -- 
hajaka loma...? 

Transliterations
are in progress as we speak.
Keep tabs on this space!

No poqorasa,
tova woxo yo zabo: 
codo boca...da.

I come to bury
the quality of mercy.
To be...? Or not to...?

Beboppa, Lula! 
Abadab: a dabadab!
Zizzi. Zizzi-zing...?

Come to the Stable, Jenius or the Oranges of Psychovfefe

     It's reported (perhaps accurately) that
it's reported in "Vanity Fair," 1/10/2020 that
pollster F. Luntz asks POTUS D. Trump what 
the J in his middle name stands for. "'Jenius'," 
POTUS replies. What goes -- again reportedly -- 
unreported...? The unorthodox orthography of 
a self-designated "Chosen One"'s subsequent 
elaborating rodomontade:

That J in my name 
stands for 'jenius.' 
As you know, I've got 
ALL the best words.
Polls are saying I've got 
the best letters as well. 
Dems don't get it: SAD! 
(Neither do Kurds.)

I've got A's, 
like the op'ning of 'ateball.' 
(Speaker P thinks 
she's got me behind it.)
I've got silent B's, 
left off 'subpenis' 
(Did I get one...? 
Who knows! I can't find it.)

I've got C's, 
like the C launching 'ceesick.' 
Silent D's I've got. 
('Wensdee' does, too.)
I've got E's (take 'Eeyago'), 
got F's, like in 'ffegy.' 
(Hey! Let's set Libs alight, 
nu...?)

I've got G's, like in 'Geeves.' 
(I like Brits who are white.) 
I've got H's, 
like ol' 'h-ed' Joe.
I've got I's, like in 'i-sore' -- 
those turbines offshore 
mar my golf course in Scotland. 
They BLOW!

The J, like I said, 
stands for 'jenius.' 
My K's...? For 'KASE KLOSED!,' 
like Barr said.
I've got L's, like in 'll-efant,' 
M's like in 'mm-press.' 
(One oval rooms roams; 
one I wed.)

I've got N's, 
like those kick-starting 'nn-ema,' 
which I need 
post my ninth Happy Meal.
I've got O's, like in 'oh-revwah': 
So long, Iran Deal! 
'Bye, Climate Accord! 
It's been real!

I've got P's -- silent P's! -- 
like in 'pcoup' (not like 'swimming'). 
The Deep State launch'd 
THOUSANDS of those.
I've got Q's like in 'q-tickle,'
R's like in 'rr-dvark.' 
My S...? 
(Where's my ss-kimo...?) 
Froze!

I've got T's, like 'tomane.' 
(Many people don't know this:
you get it 
off small chocolate cakes.)
I've got U's, like in 'ufemist.' 
(Hannity's one. 
Trump-brand purses from sow's ears 
Sean makes.) 

I've got V's, like in 'viener.' 
My viener's so-o-o-o BIG! 
Just ask Marla, 
Ivana et. al.
(Don't bother Melania. 
I tried. Said she, 
"Not tonight, Sir. 
I've got petit mal.")

I've got W's -- 'Dubya,'
world's second-worst POTUS. 
(Obama, of course, 
is the WORST!!
I've got X's, like 'x-it.' 
(Hey! Should I stay on 
post November...? 
I do "unrehears'd"!

I've got Y's, like in 'yysguys.' 
My White House is full of 'em: 
Miller...Pompeo...
Bob Barr... 
Z's in 'rondayzvooz' come. 
Z's in 'rondayzvooz' go. 
Soon I'll not recall 
who those men are. 

But, we'll all see what happens 
(a pluperfect call).
But, we'll all see what happens 
(it's finish'd: my wall).
But, we'll all see what happens 
(my fingers aren't small).
But, we'll all see...covfefe. 
So: thank...thank you...all.

Locus of Points

The Sphinx at Giza. The Tower of Pisa.

Casino Royale. The OK Corral.

Le Tour Eiffel. The Greensburg Well.

Vat Phou in Laos. A slaughterhouse.

The Capitol Dome. The Hippodrome.
Le Moulin Rouge. The Skyline Luge.

The Replica Ark. Comiskey Park.

The Taj Mahal. A mini-mall.

The Guggenheim. The five-and-dime.
L'Ile Grande Jatte. The laundromat. 
High-speed rail. The city jail.
The Kamo Shrine. A diamond mine.

Les Champs Elysees. The Dublin Quay.

Lee’s Boyhood Home. Saint Peter’s in Rome.

The Colosseum. The British Museum.
Angkor Wat. A vacant lot.

The Empire State. The Brandenburg Gate.
The Merchandise Mart. The Cathedral at Chartres.
The House of Lords. The Bolshoi boards.
Saint Vitus's nave. An unmark'd grave.

The Tweedles on Suits

“Plays ball, the Ass o' Di'monds do, "

droned Dum, as home his homey flew. 

"Plays golf as well, at local links.
We call 'im Ass o' Clubs. (He stinks!)
Plays soccer, too -- some Melbourne side" * 
"Be Ass of Hearts his name…?" Dee cried.
"Nope. Him we dubb'd," Dum answer'd back,
"the Ass o' Spades: his butt be black."

     * Perhaps Dee has in mind Melbourne 
City FC, known until recently as Melbourne 
Heart.

Runcible'd Spoonerisms and Nearspoons

The Gaza Strip: once holy lands.
The Stasi Grip hunts cold, mean hands.    
     Moral:
Loose lips closed don't get hosed!
When "Get a job!" you're task'd to do,
just jet a gob.* Then ask, "Says who...?"
     * To spurt, spout, gush or otherwise spit out 
a lump or blob of slimy or viscous substance -- 
in this case, a squirt of tobacco juice.
     Moral:
The unemploy'd seem so-o-o-o annoy'd.
The Borden Cow's now still'd her "Moo!"
The Corden Bow's when James gets through.
     Moral: (to come) 
  William, in the Norman Conquest,

crack'd the Saxon battlefront.

Harvey, in a Korman non-quest,

opted not to scavenge hunt.

     Moral:

Who'd vanquish England first must deem

to Plymouth rock and Bristol cream.
Cole Porter cribb'd Shakespeare 

to pen "Kiss Me Kate." 
Pole Courter wild women 
from Warsaw would date.
     Moral:
Taming shrews bests Venetian Jews.*
     * "Kiss Me Kate," based on the Bard's 
"The Taming of the Shrew," was Porter's 
longest-running show. "Shylock," a 1940 
Tamil-language musical adaptation of 
"The Merchant of Venice," failed com-
mercially. (Attention, film buffs: here's 
a film you'll never see on TCM.**)
     ** No prints of "Shylock" survive. 
Stephen Colbert hosts “The 
Late Show” on CBS. (He’s achieved 
household-word status already.)

Kyiv-in-Seoul Bear…? The Ukrainian Zoo
of Korea is home to the cutest darn teddy.

     Moral:
It's an Ursa made yer day.*
     * Suggested by GFH.
Pecos Bill, ol’ cowpokes say,

broke buckin’ broncs -- tye-yippee-yay! --

while Blake O’Spill gets thrown off bulls

at Lone Star cow-town tractor pulls.

     Moral:

No matter if your doggerel be solar or sublunar,

Do not let Herr Udishion run away with Rev’d Spooner!

Bunyan was the giant lumberjack

who ‘Paul’ was christen’d.

Pun-Yan, nicknamed “Bawl”…? 
The Chinese punster. (No one listen’d).

     Moral:

Pilgrim’s Progress…Giant’s Onions...

(Wait! Beware conflated Bunyans!)
Native princess Pocahontas:

John Rolfe loved her. (So did Disney.)

Drumpf derides and mocks this woman.

(Lay’n’ a “Hoax Upon Us,” isn’ he…?)

     Moral:
Ms. Warren ain't foreign!
Casey Jones…? A locomotive driver.

Crush’d! (Too graphic…?)

So: who sets out those orange thingies…?

J. C. Cones, from Traffic.

     Moral:
Stay in your lane 
or 'twill happen again.
Mister Clean – tough is the operative word --

kiss’d her mean. (Rough'd up his girlfriend, I heard.)

     Moral:

Baseboard, sink, tub and tile:

consummated. (With a smile.)
Vale of Tears…? A metaphor

for life’s distress. (Most dread it.) 

“Tale of Virs”…? A roman

‘bout the Roman men who tread it.*

     Moral:

Life before (and after!) death…?

‘Tis thought ’tis naught but shibboleth.

     * ‘It’ is intended to refer to the valley.

If that pronoun is heard as referring to

the metaphor, then the final line must be

amended to read “…men who spread it.”
Charles Dickens crafts a “Carol”

mending Scrooge, once landlord feral.

Darl’s* chickens…? Fancied birds

acknowledged not in Faulkner’s words.    

     Moral:

Charles’s cranks and spooks are curious.

Bundren’s boys…? Un”sound. And furi”ous!

     * Darl Bundren eventually goes mad

in William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying.

Cookin' with Consones

An A, an I -- 'n' (sometimes) Y – plus E 'n' O... 
'n' U
apace saute, with 'je ne sais, 'one's vocali-
zing stew.
B, C, D, F, G, H 'n' J, K, L, M, N, 
P, Q,
R, S 'n' T, V, X 'n' Z' – as well as doub-
l'-U –
provide that part one needs to start rhetorical 
ragout.

Mons/Tors & Mann's Terse...? Mung Stirs & M'ron's Tours: Numbers in a Series

Ominous '-Osity's Disguising Off-season Woolgathering or What Else Did In the Dinosaurs...?: #5 in a Series 

Curiosity kill’d the cat, 
her filaments shov'd in stuff whiskers ought shun.

How oft she'd been caution’d, “Don’t walk, Whiskers! Run!” 

(Inquisitive kittens are not where it’s at.)

Reciprocity drown’d the rat.
Abandoning ship as marines bilge-pump'd water
repaid one murine far less aid than it oughter.
(Should vermin, unnerv'd, skip the ol' "tit-for-tat"...?)

Luminosity nail’d the gnat.
Drawn toward the flame as was third cousin Moth,
these ticks' Icarus schtick leaves 'em lifeless. (And wroth!)
Their neognats may need a new rheostat.

Animosity off’d the plat.'
Dim Aussies duck-pecker'd uniques used to hunt,
nearly killing the lot of 'em -- may I be blunt...? --
claiming, "Platypode pelts make an all-the-rage hat."

Hypervelocity snuff’d the ‘skrat.
Elevation of pulse culminated in stroke:
muskrat love tapp'd while tangoing's never a joke.
'Skrats be better off caged. Or engaged in a chat.

Numerosity whack'd the bat.
They've roosted in numbers to stagger the mind
or they've "vampired till ready." We've not dug their kind
and, in no hazy terms, said goodbye to all that.

Grandiosity slew the sprat.
Plas-excessive ambition -- precocity plus --
leads to fisherfolk flingin' 'em under the bus.
Can't you still hear that Gatling gun's "rat-a-tat-tat"...?

So: will virtuosity zap the Nat...?
MVP candidate Rendon's the guy. 
Unrestricted free agency's part of the pie.
To which dugout might Anthony throw in his hat...?* 

     * My source, long a Nats follower, informs me that 
Rendon "threw his hat into the California Angels dugout 
Dec. 11, 2019, to the tune of $245 million for seven years -- 
and finished third in the MVP voting." 

Buyer’s Remorse (December 2020 Episode): #4 in a Series

Here he comes to save the day:

“Those responsible shall pay!”

He claims, with circumstance and pomp,

he'll drain that greasy D.C. swamp.

“I will eliminate,” states he,

“all income inequality….

…and introduce health care for all,”

he adds. (This guy's a SuperPol!)

"Where's climate change on my agenda...?

Right up top! But wait! Addenda:

racial issues, free tuitions,

gay rights, greenhouse gas emissions,

judges, gerrymandering...

Why, I'll be fixin' everything!"

(He got my vote November 3^rd.
Since then, I haven’t heard a word.)

Bai Ze: #1 in a Series 

Are this thing’s eyes chartreuse…

...or blue…?

Do those eyes number nine…

...or two…?

Be it ensconced in scales…

...or hair…?

Be that hair sprouting here…

...or there…?

Its shoulders: have they arms…

...or wings…?

D'you wonder if it speaks…

...or sings…?

Does it discourse in sense…

...or rot…?

Observe you a Bai Ze…

...or not…?



SuperSomethin': #2 in a Series

It isn’t a bird. 
It isn’t a plane.

It isn’t a Kurd 

in a sokutai train.

It doesn't come masked. 

It doesn't come caped.

It doesn't come torus- 

or cylinder-shaped.

It doesn't go shoeless. 

It doesn't go shod.

(It hasn't a foot, 

so that isn't so odd.)

It isn't a plainsong. 

It's not Larry Bird.

(Is it something for which 

there's yet no human word...?) 


He No Longer Rings At All (Oscar Night Edition): #3 in a Series

Postmen.
Postwomen.
Postal employees.
Whatever your gender,
the aid you all render
propels me to my knees.
     My wish to purchase postage stamps
and eyeball all on offer
your acrimony upwards ramps
to out your inner scoffer.
     Postmen.
Postwomen.
Postal employees.
I give you a toast: all
I ask…? Don’t go postal!
Just give me...the envelope, please!

(More "Monsters" to come: a work in progress)

Accidentals & Homonyms: a Clinically Unsound Sound Poem

     A♭/G♯

Arrived: 
French Phnom 
Penh pal, 
short friend
long lost 
in thyme --
if, in 
the en,'
jihad 
knot (ben')
a non-
four-scene
la Lille 
Est-il...? 
Quelle Heureist.


     A♯/B♭

Arrived: 
my freak
wend fli-
er miles.

So: I've 
two Sikh, 
"Whence Scil-
ly Isles...?"

Go pack 
me pack!
Lo: I'm 
the Ac-...
the Ac-
cident-
al Tourist.
     

     C♯/D♭

Arrived: 
my Jew'l

redo
tea no-
tice. I've 
to her-

he t'un-
seat PO-
TUS...? Give 
me facts,

tho' I'm 
the Acc-...
the Acc-
ident-
al Jurist.


     D♭/C♯ 

Arrived: 
my sunn'd --
Hey! -- Gnu 
Yoke Thyme.
Where be 
the adze
to wring 
me chyme...?
Finance...? 
One glance.
Indeed! 
I'm Lance,
the Chance 
Roto-
gravureist.

    F♯/G♭

Arrived: 
stretch'd Cannes
vas, or-
der'd by
your stoo-
lie...and --
fab! -- fab-
ric dye.
So: Tin-
tin black...?
Sho'! He's 
an Ac-...
an Ac-
cident-
al Purist. 

     
     E♯/F

Arrived: 
Nouveau 
Bistro 
Francais.

Me...? Go 
with Starr-
Tours of 
the day...?

Off course 
I went! 

I'm Ac-
cident,

bent len-
til Soup 
de Jourist.


(a work in progress)

Men of the Cloth (& One Material Girl)

This textile museum’s now open for biz.
It's hung its first show, call’d it “Men of the Cloth.”

Admission is free. Is it “must-see”…? It is.

You're never unwelcome – unless you’re a moth.

     Abraham Linen: he’ll tell you no lie--

tho' George Washantung might: he’s a whole ‘nother guy.

One left-leaning lib’ral with libertine habits...?
Angora Vidal: he's snow white, so like rabbits.
     Irk Mr. Teabag…? I’d not, were I you,
lest you hear said bloke quizzing you, “One lump or two…?”
Sexual predator…? That’s Pillow Reilly,
whose lewdness winds up insufficiently wily.
     Linguist Foam Chomsky's an activist, goad --
a philosopher, too. (Foam treks many a road.)
“Free, free at last…free from (bleck!) bathtub ring,”
sings a diff’rent Doc Martin, one call’d Loofah King.
     Shucks! Sarah Huckabee Sandpaper’s here.
Hark as verisimilitudes (truths) disappear.
Corduroy Orbison’s rind’s a wide wale --
wide – like his register. (Dark’s his white wail.)
     Israeli PM Netting-Yahoo has need
of the West Bank and Gaza like you need a Thneed.
John Linen remarks, “I’m more famous than Jesus,”
which comment one half of the planet displeases.
     Tell Denim Elliott (Brit through ‘n’ through),
“Do audition for black roles. You’re already blue.”
No cager’s more dauntless than Kevin Garr-Nett.
Is his NBA Hall of Fame stature…? You bet!
     The songs Burlap Ives sings (none coarse as his name)
tout, e.g., “…bitty tears”…,  “…jolly Xmas…” (They’re lame.)
They mock’d Tiny Tinfoil — falsetto and all.
But then Tiny play’d – live! – at the Roy’l Albert Hall.
     Was Crochet Guevara a chum of Fidel…?
He was…but that friendship did not serve him well. 
Fred Hoylecloth – that's he who'd be Sir Fred to you –
holds the Steady State, not the Big Bang Theory, true.
     Baron Von Trappestry’s draped in a tapestry
showing Maria bleed sap from a lapis tree.
Achtung!, America! Bernie Macrylic
shows colors the KKK deems “not idyllic.”

(A work in progress)

Adjectival Order or The Most Elegant Through-composed Six-stanza’d English Nonsense Verse Ever Penn’d

First, a determiner – ‘a,’ ‘an’ or ‘the.’

Then a number or quantity – e.g., ‘three’ (duh!).  

An opinion or quality’s next, (perhaps ‘beautiful’).   

Size and age follow – assuming one’s dutiful.

Shape and/or color succeed size and age.

The adjective proper takes up the next stage –

for example, ‘Italian’ or ‘Chinese’ or ‘Greek’ –

off’ring origins – that is, the tongues people speak.

A purpose or facet ensues (one of sport…?)

whereupon there’s presented a noun of some sort.

Of course, there are ‘and’s and ‘or’s enter’d piecemeal.  

The result…? Adjectivally order’d ideal.