“The Storm” [An Abecedarian]

I just realized that I had accidentally omitted some lines the first time I posted this poem. This piece, which I wrote in 2006, is not one of my favorites, but–since I have posted it–I might as well share the correct version.

Miscellaneous Inanities

“The Storm”
An Abecedarian
A malevolent wind
Blows leaves into a swirl.
Car engines cease to purr.
Deadly silence replaces traffic sounds.
Eagle drop from the sky and leave winged craters in the sand.
Fish float upside down, lifeless eyes gazing sunward.
Giraffes hang their heads and sob
Hyenas find no cause to chuckle as they solemnly scavenge.
Inmates bloody their fists on bars.
Jailhouse guards have long gone home.
Kraken clouds swim the smoky sky
Locking ethereal tentacles around suffocating tree tops.
Mountains crumble like crackers under heavy feet.
Now their peaks rest scarcely higher than their bases.
Off key are the songs of what few birds remain.
Perfect pitch is a thing of the past.
Quavering a moment, an island slowly
Retreats into the ocean from which it once rose.
S

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“Cheer Up, You Gloomy Bastards!”

A poem in ottava rima by Paul Burgess

Expecting pleasure always, never strife,
You curse existence saying it’s insane
And claim Despair’s your mother, Gloom’s your wife.
Your home you’ve often called the “House of Pain.”
Unmet conditions you’ve imposed on life
Don’t justify the way that you complain.
Refrain from putting poison in your cup—
That’s how to cheer a gloomy bastard up.

 

“Anagram” (an epigram on the topic–by Paul Burgess; also posted here: https://paulwhitberg.wordpress.com/2014/05/23/poem-an-epigram-on-an-anagram-by-paul-burgess/

A “poem” might become a mixed up “mope,”

Composed by some absurdly gloomy dope.

2 Limericks on the Topic– by Paul Burgess

If to write’s to complain and complain…
And complain, as if life were all pain,
Perhaps I’m no good,
And maybe I should
…complain and complain, and complain.

Some poets will write as if gloom
Were pervading all life to the tomb.
Of one who would write
With a heart that is light,
They’d declare, “For his kind, there’s no room.”

“Killer”

Malignant grins exposing pointed teeth
Provide a glimpse of what’s concealed beneath
The frail façade of human voice and skin
That masks the killer’s lack of human kin.

by Paul Burgess