Posts Tagged ‘satire’

Poets Anonymous

                                                                                     after Thinkers Anonymous by Anonymous

It began serenely enough,
I started writing poetry in the park. You know
a quatrain or a metaphor – just to relax.
Eventually, one poem
after another emerged
and rapidly, I was more
than just an occasional
writer. I commenced to
seek solace frequently
through verse -to unwind,
I expressed to myself.
But I saw the lie
for what it was.
Poetry became increasingly imperative
to my sanity. Soon, I was writing poetry
That’s when disharmony began at my abode,
my delicate wife and I finished
a decidedly bland television program,
I shut the foul device off,
and decided to regale her with written entreaties
of my love poetry.
She sallied to her
mother’s domicile.

At my place of servitude, I started writing
epics and pantoums on errant
scraps of paper.
Eluded fellow workers
for poetry writing marathons.
My employment overlord requested
my presence and uttered these
dire warnings:
“Hey buddy, you’re a nice guy,
but your damn poetry writing
is getting out of hand.
If you don’t stop writing on the job,
you’re fired!”

This caused great
consternation and much
therapeutic writing from me.
I imparted my concerns to
my matrimonial dove,
“Dear flower, I’ve been writing about-”
“I know you’ve been writing,” she exclaimed,
with much pouting and tears,
“You write as much as those Beat Generation poets
or those slam poets, and they’re poor as shit…
so if you don’t stop writing,
we won’t have any damned money!”

I replied, “That is as incoherent a metaphor
as seagulls swimming in deserts-”
and she exploded in hysterics and expletives.
But I was in no villanelle of mind
for the violent vitriol,
“I’m traversing to the poetry reading!”
I bellowed.

I squealed the vehicular chariot
up to the coffee shop,
in a ranting, raging free verse mood
for poems like Howl by Allen Ginsberg
or What Teachers Make by Taylor Mali,
but the coffee shop was closed.

Even now, I count how
the stars aligned that evening.
Lying prone before the coffee shop doors,
whimpering for a little Bukowski,
some Walt Whitman,
a billboard drew my
crying eyes:

“Loser, is poetry corrupting your brain?”

You may discern the quote
from a popular advertisement
for Poets Anonymous.
It was fortuitous, as now I am
evolved into a new,
more brain-dead version
of myself:
a recovering poet.

We Poets Anon intersect nigh
each week and extol
upon efforts to deny
any verse constructs or
fey sentence structures
through boisterous football
or mindless drinking games.

The connubial den is improving,
and I remain a slave to the overlord,

existence appeared less convoluted
as soon as I denied
the muse and her trappings.

Today, my journey seems complete
for my peace of mind,

I jumped into the black maw
and merged with the
vacuous Republican Party.

Rod Carlos Rodriguez


Piano and Buses


They drop from the sky
at the worst time,
pummel the unsuspecting passersby,
not even a brief discord
or half sonata
to warn the victim
of pancake ala grand piano
or step
off the curb
on the cell phone,
try to
seal that important
business deal,
a once-in-a-lifetime
no horn,
no screech of tires,
just a few tons
of bus
that makes
of mister cell phone,
or stay home,
close the shades,
lock the doors,
really pray,
those bad ‘ol
pianos and buses
don’t crash through
the roof,
down on all our heads

Rod C. Stryker

Image of Buddha photograph in this collage is by Andrejs Pidjass

Image of Buddha photograph in this collage is by Andrejs Pidjass

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Rod C. Stryker

It’s been a while since my last post. Hope you like it.