Like Byron, of whose work I’m quite a fan,
I often yield to whimsy of the mind
And stumble ‘round without a guiding plan,
While rarely knowing what I hope to find
Asleep in corners that I probe and scan.
[I don’t decide the way the threads unwind].
I’ve written things I’ve barely understood
And seen results that mix the bad and good.
A clerihew
Oh, witty Alexander Pope–
As if you hunted with a scope,
You pierced your targets to the heart
With ev’ry pointed verbal dart.
3 dark and tasteless parodies of Hallmark, Blue Mountain, and other sentimental greeting card publishers. [Disclaimer: I am well aware that these are among the vilest poems ever written…]
Happy Birthday! (For a Toddler)
Congratulations on surviving life!
Your parents must be feeling very proud
To know you’ve had no mishap with a knife
Or shocking jolt of lightning from a cloud.
Your early years suggest you’ve got the smarts
Enough to not attempt to leap from cribs,
Ingest inedible and toxic parts,
Or make a noose composed of baby bibs.
Nor have you turned the toilet to a pool,*
Divided wires by giving them a bite,
Disjointed your torso with a power tool,
Or eaten whole a deadly parasite.
Again, your parents must be filled with pride
To know their child has not of dumbness died.
Alternate line: Nor have you choked to death on your own drool. [Even I thought the line went too far…]
[Related to my “Suicidal Baby Theory”: https://paulwhitberg.wordpress.com/2014/05/16/profound-insights-from-dr-burgesss-treasury-of-wisdom-installment-1/ ]
Happy Father’s Day (For a Father of a Teenage Girl)
Your precious daughter’s not a little girl
(That is, she’s not a virgin anymore).
She’s nightly causing teenaged toes to curl
And teaching beds to dance across the floor.
You, Dad, deserve a round of hearty praise
For making sure your daughter didn’t die
Before she’d reached that adolescent phase
When people give the art of love a try.
How swiftly pass the fleeting days and times!
One moment she’s a child at Mother’s breasts,
Then, suddenly, she’s searching for some dimes
To buy a box of “Are You Pregnant?” Tests.
The girl you used to rock upon your knee
Is making boys as happy as can be.
With Deepest Regrets? [For Divorcees]
“I know it seems your life’s been badly marred.
[It’s rumored by a close and friendly source
That soon you’ll file the papers for divorce.]
If leaving now appears too sad and hard,
Just know you’ll later heal if now you’re scarred.
For Time’s the Planet’s greatest healing force
And cures the folks who let it take its course.”
[In case I’m wrong, I’ve sent a second card…]
“If leaving now appears a happy choice,
And joy’s the only cause of falling tears,
Then, let’s invite some friends, and we’ll rejoice
(With party songs and rivers made of beers)
While fin’lly giving free, exalted voice
To sore resentment built up over years.”
A sonnet by Paul “Whitberg” Burgess [I admit that this sonnet is odd by even my own bizarre standards]…
The sections orchestrated sound divine
…until the puzzle’s pieces are combined.
The ore came freely from the Muses’ mine
But now opposes being well-refined
To match its twin enough in tonal hue
For ears to think they make a handsome pair
(Instead of thinking, “Someone missed his cue
And played a measure not belonging there”).
Perhaps a demon doesn’t like me very well
And has decided it’s his evil mission
(Before returning to the fiery pits of Hell)
To see I never find a good transition.
In music, poetry, and also life,
It’s hard to make what’s sep’rate man and wife.
A life that’s filled with sorrowful regret
For when Intention and What Happens clash
Becomes a bitter, shrinking cigarette
Reduced, in time, to little more than ash.
A harmful word a person quickly spoke
May burn the hearer’s skin or speaker’s eyes,
But what appears a fire is only smoke—
A tiny, rainless cloud that soon will rise
And bring about no cough or choking fit,
No emphysema, cancer, early death
To present people letting go of it
And taking in a new and fresher breath.
Who wouldn’t wear a fretting, frowning face
While grasping vanished smoke no hand could trace?
An Elizabethan Sonnet by Paul Burgess
a mock (intentionally trite) greeting card by Paul “Whitberg” Burgess
Dual-Purpose Hallmark Card:
[Italian Sonnet]
“I know it seems your life’s been badly marred.
[It’s rumored by a close and friendly source
That soon you’ll file the papers for divorce.]
If leaving now appears too sad and hard,
Just know you’ll later heal if now you’re scarred–
For Time’s the Planet’s greatest healing force
And cures the folks who let it take its course.”
[In case I’m wrong, I’ve sent a second card…]
“If leaving now appears a happy choice,
And joy’s the only cause of falling tears,
Then, let’s invite some friends, and we’ll rejoice
(With party songs and rivers made of beers)
While fin’lly giving free, exalted voice
To sore resentment built up over years.”
*This poem was an excuse to attempt an Italian sonnet…
Oh, Muse, is it now time to pull the cord,
Since, by my work, my wife’s entirely bored?
–an epigram by Paul “Whitberg” Burgess
(or “Dennis, Lana, and Anna”) by Paul Burgess
“Before he turned his life around,
DenniS always cursed and SinneD,
And, until LanA’s turnaround,
She was an AnaL bag of wind.”
…But, AnnA found the story foul
And said its moral was deranged.
It seemed a message quite unfair,
Implying she had never changed.
In response to the following prompt: http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_assignment/writing-101-day-four/ [Since I rarely write anything so personal or serious, I would genuinely appreciate constructive feedback.]
A 3-part letter in blank verse [unrhymed iambic pentameter]
Pt. I
Although I’ve spent a lot of time with you,
And you would often hold me, stand by me,
Remain with me in best and worst of times—
To starve equanimity while feeding fear
With nourishment required by peace’s roots—
Your frequent recent absences bring no tears
To eyes no longer clouded by your breath’s
Impenetrable, nauseating fog.
Pt. II
I never could escape when trying to flee.
To struggle only tightened boa-like
Embraces slowly piercing heart with bones.
Exhausted and resigned to dying in your grip,
I ceased to claw, to scratch, to push away—
No more diversion, dreaming, fear, or hope.
Observing, only watching, touching you,
I saw your face more clearly than before.
Pt. III
The wave of panic darkening your eyes
Expressed your fear; you knew what I had grasped.
Though coiled around your nearly vanquished prey,
Without my help, your strength began to wane.
You’d only grown so strong because I’d fed you;
I was entangled because I’d pulled the knots.
You let me go because I let you go.
On future visits, bring your food or starve.
In response to the following prompt: http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_assignment/writing-101-day-four/ [Since I rarely write anything so personal or serious, I would genuinely appreciate constructive feedback.]
You will find the first part here: https://paulwhitberg.wordpress.com/2014/06/05/anxiety-pt-i/
and the second part herehttps://paulwhitberg.wordpress.com/2014/06/06/anxiety-pt-ii/
“[To} Anxiety” Pt. III
The wave of panic darkening your eyes
Expressed your fear; you knew what I had grasped.
Though coiled around your nearly vanquished prey,
Without my help, your strength began to wane.
You’d only grown so strong because I’d fed you;
I was entangled because I’d pulled the knots.
You let me go because I let you go.
On future visits, bring your food or starve.
Miscellaneous Inanities 