Category: Doggerel

Pantoum (My Greatest Fear)

A pantoum can be of any length and any meter. Its defining feature is that its stanzas are each four lines, and each line repeats once in the poem, in a fixed order.

My greatest fear is fear of death.
Cruel death, please spare me in my bed.
A thought that makes me short of breath:
New tales await me—yet unread.

Cruel death? Please. Spare me. In my bed,
I’m sure of sleep and pleasures new.
New tales await me yet—unread.
Oh, may I love and be loved, too.

I’m sure of sleep and pleasures new.
I’m not afraid of going flat.
Oh, may I love and be loved, too.
How blessed am I if I may that!

I’m not afraid of going flat.
A thought that makes me short of breath:
How blessed am I, if I may, that
My greatest fear is fear of death.

First Things First, a Review of Descartes’s Discourse on Method in 14 Lines

If I invent a character in prose,
His presence does not prove that I exist.
If anything, that’s not the way it goes:
Existence is an attribute of his.

I thought what mattered was to make my mark
But then I found that marks all wash away.
“I think therefore I am” has lost its spark
“I am therefore I think” holds firmer sway.

When mystery outside your window clatters,
Look not for unseen goblins but for knocking.
And let the conversation be what matters:
Discussion, not the minds behind the talking.

So do not put the cart before the horse,
And do not put Descartes before discourse.

Marriage Reflection

If I had married her then I’d be him.
How else can you explain his reticence?
Her rage, her manic conduct on a whim
Would drive to silence anyone with sense.
Her unpredictability assaults
Him like a Caribbean hurricane.
His levees, walls, and sandbags aren’t faults.
Who wouldn’t seek protection from her rain?

The more he hides the more she must attack
To penetrate his stony barricades.
And when she fights he never does fight back,
And so her lonely fury never fades.
She storms for a response but he’ll defer.
If I had married him then I’d be her.

Unicorns

What mystery required unicorns
(Explanatory myths allaying fears)?
Old profile pictures of an eland’s horns?
Or questioning what lies “too deep for tears”?

Were minds that once believed in things unseen
Concrete or primitive or merely dull?
And why on earth a horn so long and keen?
To signal risky, not just magical?

I’m glad to say that I’m a scientist–
Not spooked by shadows, using lucid schemes.
When I’m alert it seems there’s nothing missed,
But I’m harassed by worry and bad dreams.

Whatever I reject or spurn or scorn
As pointless pierces me: a unicorn.

Academic Conceit

Academic Conceit
[A quadruple entendre you probably missed]

Sometimes I just can’t help but notice how
Superior I am to other folks.
Dull academics gaze at me like cows,
Apparently too dumb to get my jokes.

My genius seems to seep from every pore,
The honor and the virtue of a knight!
I must intimidate them to the core,
For no one reads a single thing I write.

How complicated is the life I’ve led,
How skilled my navigation of its shoals.
Why just today at breakfast—there’s no bread!
With genius did I toast some dinner rolls.

If bovine colleagues don’t revere my mind
It’s proof that my own brilliance made them blind.

Even Children Get the Blues

My flowers they’re all wilted.
My toys just don’t amuse.
My pinball games are tilted.
Even children get the blues.

Santa Claus is tired.
My parents watch the news.
Homework is required.
Even children get the blues.

I get so bored in school I snooze,
An error the principal won’t excuse.
Yes children, even children, get the blues.

My doctor cultures my throat.
My song got bad reviews.
I’m not old enough to vote.
Even children get the blues.

My sister’s always on the phone.
My brother talks while he chews.
My parents want to be alone.
Even children get the blues.

I go to bed before I choose,
And wake up too early: I’m so confused.
Yes children, even children, get the blues.

My momma, my momma she tries her best, but she can’t read my mind.
I think I’m entitled to get depressed if I am so inclined.
The baby, the baby gets into my stuff, my grandma wipes my nose.
My granddad he likes to play too rough, and for Christmas I get clothes.

My daddy forgot my birthday.
I still had to write thank-you’s.
My mom makes spinach soufflé.
Even children get the blues.

My coach makes me play in the outfield.
My eyes sting from shampoos.
My yard is a Brussels sprout field.
Even children get the blues.

I may be young but I paid my dues
When I grew out of my blue suede shoes.
Yes children, even children, get the blues.

A Prayer

Thank you Lord for giving me the sense
Not to count much on your existence.
And blessed am I to have the kind of friends
Who do not judge a rhyme by how it ends.

Protect me Lord from snapping when annoyed
My wrath please check with just my wit deployed.
Keep me too from gluttony and greed
Pigging out on only what I need.

Lead me Lord from lustful leers where women’ll
View me as some sort of dreaded criminal.
But do not take me all the way to harmless:
Sexless, fangless, hugging as if armless.

When rougher crowds subject me to their trials
Let me focus on the scattered smiles
Let my cup be never filled but half
Knowing that my heart’s its own carafe

I do not pray for health or wealth or time
But merely to enjoy them while they’re mine
And when dear Lord to nothingness they sink
Let me look at those I love, and wink.