Not Technically Poetry

I couldn't resist. This probably belongs on the main blog, but I have a serious post up today, and I don't want to overshadow it with humor.

Here are a select few of the Washington Post's Style Invitational winners. The point is to alter any word by one letter and write a new definition. These are typed exactly as they appear, so I take no credit for punctuation or anything else.

Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.

Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

Karmageddon (n): It's like, when everybody is send off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.

Glibido (n): All talk and no action.

Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

Caterpallor (n): The color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you're eating.

Ignoranus (n): A person who's both stupid and an *******.

Anaphora

I never knew what an anaphora was until today, but I've written them before. I've decided to do this week's assignment from the Phantom Professor because it's a poem and I like the idea and, well, I want to.

Something I love or hate . . . Love is so hackneyed, and I've been feeling so negative this week, so it will have to be hate, won't it. What do I hate? I try so hard not to hate.

Why is it always about me?
Why can't it be about something else?
Why can't I just write and fly?
Why isn't life just free and clear?

Why isn't a fair question.
Why is just an excuse.
Why can't you take responsibility?
Why doesn't it work?

Why can't I make up my mind?
Why can't I just write?
Why do the questions have to be so hard?
Why can't they read what's inside me?

Why am I feeling so confused?
Why do I come back to me?
Why is a two-year-old blamed
For constantly asking why?

But that wasn't the assignment, so I'll have to do another one. I'm not even sure what I was writing, but it's way too personal to post in comments on someone else's blog. That one will stay here, and I'll write a nice, predictable, happy anaphora.

When I look at you, you're there for me.
When I cry, you hold me tight.
When I think about being alone, I'm not.
When you're there, everything will be fine.

When you hold my hand, I look into your eyes.
When you look into mine, I am safe.
When I feel that nobody cares, there is you.
When you go, I am lonely, but never alone.

When you need me, I hope that I'll always be there.
When you cry, I will hear - that I know.
When you're there for me, I will be there for you.
When we're together, we're one.

When I grow, you will take on different names.
When I was young, you were mom.
When I grow older, though, you'll be him -
And you'll stay him for the rest of my life.

A Thought on Fifty Words

Is it unfair, I wonder, to
Promise fifty words
And preface them - those promised few -
With countless extra terms?

Does anyone think deep inside
"Oh, great - a quick, short post!"
And then get mad at seeing the
Introductory remarks?

Italics should, please, serve to warn
Of words not in the count
But all in all, I'm careful to
Not exceed the set amount.

Italics, though, (from Emily)
It's proper not to use too much.
I use them not for emphasis,
Not to give a special touch -

But just to warn my readers fair
That something extra resides here
Heroic couplets not to fear
This last line will not rhyme.

New Fifty Word Fiction

It's been too long since I did any writing exercises, and I noticed as I was writing a school project last night that I am slipping in my writing style. I used to be able to crank out a textbook-perfect essay on anything - with grammar, style, content - on my first try. I'm having more trouble with that, and I've started settling for content-only, rationalizing that my English is better than the professor's and everyone else will be handing in something else. But that's rationalization, and I don't write for my professors; I write for me. So I must get back in the habit of proper writing.

She sat alone on her bed, thinking of the friend she hadn't seen in months. Would he come to visit? Should she let him in? Would he try to explain?

He stood outside her door, hestitating to knock. He thought, She doesn't remember. She blocked it out. He knocked once.

One Word

A word is a thing
That is nothing at all
But sometimes it can be
Everything.

Anyone can say a word
Anyone can smile
Anyone can do or be
Everything.

So much need, tragic loss
Here and far away
And others sit because they have
Everything.

It's just a word
A single thought,
But sometimes it means
Everything.

If You Cared to Know

I am the sonnet, never quickly thrilled; Not prone to overstated gushing praise Nor yet to seething rants and anger, filled With overstretched opinions to rephrase; But on the other hand, not fond of fools, And thus, not fond of people, on the whole; And holding to the sound and useful rules, Not those that seek unjustified control. I'm balanced, measured, sensible (at least, I think I am, and usually I'm right); And when more ostentatious types have ceased, I'm still around, and doing, still, alright. In short, I'm calm and rational and stable - Or, well, I am, as much as I am able. What Poetry Form Are You?

But I do like people! I do! I do!
So not everything they say is true.

I am also Heroic Couplets, apparently.