When writing metered rhyming poetry,
a syllable should not be thrown away.
A wasted phrase amounts to felony
(as lines are few, each word should have its say).
If I may risk reverse humility,
then here’s how I might edit Ms Millay:
I burn the candle at both ends.
It makes a lovely light.
But though the glow so far extends,
it cannot last the night.
The original:
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends –
It gives a lovely light!
One of the reasons I seldom read verse
is cause I can’t help seeing lazy mistakes.
And modern pop lyrics amount to much worse –
they’re staler than yesterday morning’s pancakes.
Our mothers are identical in ways
that no one sane would ever brag about.
They’re narcissistic fixers who don’t praise;
they’re shoppers who would gladly drag us out
to malls or outlets anxious to exchange
the bulk of stuff they brought home recently.
They think they’re functional and we are strange.
They seldom treat a waiter decently.
They don’t know one another, and they’re years
apart in age, from backgrounds quite diverse.
But each is miserly with laughs and tears,
and both are toxic to us like a curse.
I suffer less than you, because I lack
an older sibling polishing the track.
My magic feather was the exercise.
I thought I had to move to find a theme
to write about and wax a little wise,
but even in this sedentary stream,
I tend to cogitate, complain, and dream.
I can’t retard the process if I tried,
and though my topics may not soar or seem
significant, I’m not yet ossified.
(Huitain)
I’m nearly well but here to tell fatigue,
less caused by age or illness than by work.
I solo-cared for two, and I’m beleag-
uered by exhaustion now I plan to lurk
alone in silence and refrain from task
or errand, staying home and keeping still.
The only deeds from me today I ask:
to bathe, compose two meals, and try to chill.
I have a book to read and can get more
without a journey. Here are games to play.
I won’t remove the dust or sweep a floor.
I’m strong and will resist impulse today
to get (while I am here) a project done.
My only aim is having quiet fun.
Persimmon leaves turn
downward and to shades of blaze,
fall-ready to fall.
600 days before I caught a cold,
which took me down a peg for near a week,
but I’m recovered now it’s time to hold
myself accountable, and exercise.
I’m coming back improved, determined, bold
enough to see a future healthily.
Apparently the signs can be controlled
or modified, to vigorous from bleak,
by turning mind to turning lead to gold.
(Magic 9)
Now coffee’s back in hand and appetite.
For days it put me off – though hot and black,
my morning nectar wasn’t tasting right.
Now coffee’s back.
I’m old and hypertension could attack
my health. I thought I’d cut caffeine to fight
the creeping weakness and the healing slack.
But really, it was just post-nasal blight.
A cold beset me, old, and made me hack,
but I recovered. I regained delight,
now coffee’s back.
(Roundel)
My internet went down the other night.
My lightbulbs flickered and they gave a blink.
The grid that gives us grist for heat and light
is failing more and limping more and old.
The infrastructure’s folding from a height
we used to brag about and never doubt.
I sometimes wonder when the streak I write
will interrupt. Now lately what I think
is failure of the grid will block my byte.
(Magic 9)
I aim to be polite and even nice.
I mostly try avoiding talking crass.
I’m into using language that’s precise,
so I think you’re behaving like an ass.
That’s not applied to women (unlike witch),
but much more accurate for you than bitch.
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