Dawn Reader

Dawn Reader
from Open Door Coffee Co.; Hudson, OH; Oct. 26, 2016

Friday, May 25, 2012

Daily Doggerel

About three weeks ago I starting writing doggerel and posting it to Facebook every day.  Do not be fooled: It looks like poetry; it's not; it's doggerel.  "DOGGEREL: a low, or trivial, form of verse, loosely constructed and often irregular, but effective because of its simple mnemonic rhyme and loping metre. It appears in most literatures and societies as a useful form for comedy and satire. It is characteristic of children's game rhymes from ancient times to the present and of most nursery rhymes. "  See?

Oh, and here's the word history: [C14 dogerel worthless, perhaps from dogge dog ]

Dog verse.  Worthy of a dog?  I'm not so sure.  Our dog, Sooner, would not have put his name (paw mark) to some (any?) of these. (He might well have marked the page another way, however.)  But Sooner's gone; I'm here, doggone doggerel and all.

Anyway, I thought I'd start posting it on this blog as well, every day, and, to catch up, here are all the ones I've done so far.  Not all will make sense to all.  So it goes in the blogosphere.

May 4:
I’m gonna make a speech today
(I’ll give you a report).
The audience is hoping that
For once it will be short! 
PS in prose: It’s not!

May 5:
In Hiram yesterday we paused
To celebrate a life,
A teacher’s wonderful career—
That teacher?  Joyce, my wife. 

Her students spoke, her colleagues, too.
The laughter mixed with tears,
And all attending marveled at
The magic of her years.  

May 6:
We had a bunch of fun last night
(Oh, where should I begin?)
With Ravitzes and memories
Inside the Welshfield Inn. 

May 7:
If you think you are a poet,
And would like to write an ode,
I just saw something perfect—
A frozen Coke explode.

It happened in our friendly fridge,
Where nothing much occurs;
Yes, cooler heads prevail inside,
And nothing ever stirs. 

But I just opened up the door—
Was startled, I confess,
To see the Cokey residue—
‘Twas such a f*****g mess

That I said several awful words,
And had some naughty thoughts.
And if I were a drinking man,
I would be doing shots!  

May 8:
A dream of chicken pieces—raw—
That reassembled; then
They chased me all around the room
While making quite a din 

Of squawking, pecking, flapping wings—
And scaring me to death.
And when I woke—relieved! relieved!
I could not catch my breath. 

Should I resolve, beginning now,
To stop what I’ve begun?
To eschew chewing beastly flesh,
Be vegetarian? 

May 9:
I stayed up kinda late last night:
The Netflix stream was clear,
And so I fished for mysteries—
And caught one most severe. 

It was a sanguinary tale
Of murder and abuse.
And that’s why I slept late today …
How’s that for an excuse!?!?
(an episode of the BBC mystery Trial & Retribution) 

May 10:
Okay, I slept a little late—
Have I joined with the slackers?
Instead of buzzing clocks I need
Some swarming tracker jackers! 

May 11:
We went to dinner yesternight—
Dontino’s Restaurant—
And there we ordered pasta piles,
And talked of Keats and Kant.
(no we didn’t—but it rhymes) 

And other stuff we’d want. 

And here’s a different font. 

Then drove off to Vermont.  and on and on … 

May 12:
We went to Pendleton last night
(In Lodi, not out West)
To buy my mom a little treat,
As you may will have guessed. 

Cuz Mother’s Day is very near,
And Mom loves Pendleton,
So I plunked down the plastic there—
Cuz I’m her favorite son!

May 13 (Mother’s Day):
Oh, Mom, have you forgotten now
That precious lamp I broke?
The time I gave my brother’s jaw
A harmless little poke?

The times when I kind of forgot
Your birthday was … today!
The days I realized that I
Forgot a Mother’s Day? 

The times I said some awful things
(And meant them at the time),
The times I slammed a bedroom door—
My adolescent crimes. 

The times when I just plain forgot
My family history,
Behaved as if I had alone
Created perfect me? 

Have you forgotten slights and slams?
Complaints and cruelty?
Have you forgiven all those things?
Have you forgiven me? 

I hope you have—for I have not.
It’s hard to realize
That I was such a thoughtless kid—
An imp in boy disguise.

I’m glad you’ve lived to 92:
It’s given me a chance
To thank you all these many years
For showing me the dance. 

May 14:
Our printer’s jamming—what the hell!
The thing won’t print or fax.
I’m going to go online now
And buy a battle axe 

And smash that unit into shards
Of splintered fractured plastic,
And, afterwards, I’m really sure
That I will feel fantastic!

May 15:
My wife was out of town last night,
And so I partied hard:
I read in bed for HOURS--
And that is no canard.

May 16:
When Joyce came home from traveling,
What did she think of me?
She found me not with book in hand
But watching trash TV! 

May 17:
The other day I tripped upstairs,
Outside, while coming in.
How odd I landed, hands and head,
In the recycle bin!

Does this have dark significance?
(I wonder what it meant?)
Was this just plain old clumsiness?
Or some celestial hint? 

May 18:
I went to Twinsburg yesterday,
A pleasure it was not:
I went to Cleveland Clinic
Where I got a freaking shot! 

May 19:
Last night a syndrome surfaced—
I’m not sure what to call it?—
My wife, out shopping, said to me,
“Oh my, forgot my wallet!” 

Oh, what to do!  Disaster strikes!
But I’m wise to her ways:
When she forgets her wallet, then
It’s Danny Dyer who pays!

May 20:
This morning, very early, I
Heard sounds out in the street
Of women’s voices talking and
Of quickly moving feet. 

The Sunday morning walkers were
Enjoying their routine—
A happy and loquacious group
Whom I have never seen.

I hear their voices nearing, then
Grow louder near our place,
Then gradually diminish
As they quicken their swift pace. 

How much like “life” this seems to me
As I lie there in bed:
We’re soft; we’re loud; we’re soft again—
And then—uh oh!—we’re dead! 

May 21:
Atop the varied, lengthy list
Of all the things I’m not—
The failures and deficiencies—
It’s patent I’m not hot. 

No hordes of screaming sex-starved fans
Have chased me here and there—
No hordes of screaming sex-starved fans
Have chased me anywhere. 

But last night: 85 indoors!
(So warm our house had got!)
And I was sure at 2 a.m.
That I—at last!—was hot! 

May 22a:
As summer nears, as temperatures
Begin to moderate,
I find my shorts, my sandals, too,
To solstice celebrate. 

But I should learn: Be careful, man,
About your summer clothes.
Today I got to Caribou
In shorts—but nearly froze 

Because it was much colder out
Than I had hoped it was,
And I had biked down there in shorts,
And here is the because: 

I wanted it to be as warm
As it was yesterday.
But it was not.  And I’m a dolt.
And weather won’t obey! 

May 22b:I usually work out at 3
(A most devoted chap);
Today, instead, I fell in bed
For a two-hour nap. 

And now awake, I’m filled with guilt,
Self-loathing, and remorse.
What can I do to compensate?
Some chocolate, of course! 

May 23:
A sparrow’s busy with a nest
Up in our eaves this week;
And dropping whitewash everywhere—
And nest-stuff from his beak. 

I do not own a shotgun or
A howitzer right now,
And so we simply blocked his way,
That sloppy feathered sow. 

I love the birdies in the sky;
I love them in the tree.
I love them less, I now confess,
When they drop stuff on ME!

May 24:
I love these human bodies--
I love them more and more:
Last night my foot was perfect;
Today it’s somehow sore?! 

What causes alterations
To bodies in the night?
A bedtime face so lovely;
Next morning—such a fright. 

Are teams of little impish folk,
Some tiny cruel creeps,
Observing me, then crying out:
“Let’s change him while he sleeps!” 

They’ve done this since my teenage years
(Those years that gave me fits):
I’d go to sleep with face so clear,
Wake up with fields of zits. 

And as the fog’s dispersed by sun
With solar-sweet finesse,
At dawn I hear the laughter of
The imps just . . . evanesce.

May 25:

We bought a life-size plastic owl
To scare some pests away.
It cost some thirty dollars, peeps—
A lot of bills to pay

For plastic ersatz owlish things
That we thought would be fun
But don’t look any way at all
Remotely avian.

He worked a while—went “Who! Who! Who!”—
And sounded sort of gruff,
But then at once grew silent, as
If he had had enough,

And then he toppled from his perch,
As if no more alive,
And lay in plastic impotence
In pieces on our drive.

And thirty bucks went winging off
To Never-Never Land,
And I stood there on my own drive,
Cracked plastic in my hand.

No comments:

Post a Comment