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 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!
(Not.)
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:
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;
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.
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.
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