So, I was here watching Schrödinger’s cat,
Now it’s both dead and alive:
How it has managed this, I do not know.
Somehow, though, it did contrive
So both to be and to not-be at once
Putting poor Hamlet to shame:
So the old Law of Non-Contradiction’s
Broken, and I am to blame.
So in the middle of Animal Rights
Physics, and Theater too —
I’ve violated immutable laws
What’s a poor blogger to do?
Pumpkins: we place them with Halloween
By season and tradition,
But I could not help but wondering,
And had a faint suspicion
That something more sinister may be there,
Though their patches might look sleepy —
In autumn, do pumpkins use human spice?
‘Cause that would just
I can’t afford a castle,
And I’ve not nails or boards
To build some sort of fort where we’d
Be safe from angry hordes —
But if you’d like to live within
A crystal sphere with me,
I’ll color it with star shine,
And place it by the sea.
I cannot build a palace,
And post an honor guard;
I’ve never been a lucky man
By birth or skill or card —
But if you’d like to wake to gulls
And leave forever fear,
Then live with me, and be my love
Within my crystal sphere.
But it will not be anything I do —
The magic will be all because
fiddle-faddle, that’s my name:
spouting nonsense is my shame.
drove me from my lands and nation,
here to live as a crustacean,
without followers who follow
in a shack in sao paulo,
til the man says, “you skedaddle!”
i’ll indulge in fiddle-faddle.
stuff and nonsense, that’s my life:
if you doubt, just ask my wife.
with brazilian clams i’m dwelling,
both miswriting and misspelling,
hating air and breathing water,
envious of eel and otter —
til the man says, “that’s enough!”
i’ll have nonsense with my stuff.
linguacide’s my undertaking:
bending words until they’re breaking.
try this next one on for size —
seven tulips are the prize —
it’s my right and heritage
to mismangle verbiage.
bye for now. enjoy the ride.
you just witnessed
[An exercise in cribbing another poem’s metrical patterns. – Owen]
Tell a tale of tall trees,
A thicket full of woe;
Shadows in the black land,
Miles yet to go.
When the shadows moved, then,
The earth began to see —
Wasn’t that the oddest place
For you and me to be?
For you were in your waiting-phase
Waiting in a fashion,
And I was in a torpor
Longing after passion,
So we were in the orchard
Looking for a sign,
When in came the locusts
Who drank all our wine.
Within the milky circle free,
You heard the spheres in harmony;
I wish I’d been there, too, to see —
I guess you should have
Yellow, orange, green, and gold,
In a world devoid of drama,
Unless you can find some in
An Oxford comma