This meter’s snappy! What say you?
Its parallels are far and few!
At midnight, dawn, and twilight too,
an odist’s comrade through and through!
In truth its cadence is a bore!
It’s more or less an age-old snore.
Please put away this “two and four”
and just write!
Such whims you must expunge with every crumb
of heart at hand, for nothing but unrest
would prey upon the pride of those who slump
forth, called to be old outcasts, two abreast!
Remember days of mustard dust and nests
of grievous vultures, pecking ‘round your door?
To yell to hell with palms outstretched, compressed
by dappled fabulists whom you abhor,
is Thebes’ thistle—nothing less and nothing more.
Three beeswax candles burn to brighten Hallow’s Eve.
Pocked faces sneer ‘neath greasepaint; they are dying to deceive!
The wind is whimpering, now wailing, down long lanes
and leaves of caramel and carmine flit at window panes.
May souls who have departed from this spinning sphere,
come hover near the hearths of humans, whom they once held dear.
I went to South End late last night
to eat some oyster stew
and saw a wicked awesome fight
while sipping on my brew!
Sweet punches flew like fighter planes
from two gigantic men,
until some cops came bearing chains
and passage to the pen!
There once was a cowherd from Daegu,
who liked reams of red meat in his stew.
Said his wife one warm eve
as she darned his ripped sleeve,
“tonight’s feast ran off, mooing ‘screw you!’”
This is an older poem of mine that I came across today. My husband and I lived in Daegu, South Korea from 2012 to 2015. Daegu is pronounced “tay-goo”. The original didn’t include the anapest that is desired for the limerick form, so I am slowly working on putting it in there. This version still needs some work.
Dark night can’t hold you, not just yet,
despite this spring tide shine.
Run back inside and don’t forget
to warm that wretched wine!
A Christmas tree without the cheer
of kin close by to hold you near,
is just a mass of dying spruce
that lost its life in winter’s noose.
jostles my jowls
in a wild woodland glossed
with glass, as a whining wind prowls
Wilting where willows weep,
minute malachite mendicants measure
summer’s sultry season softly.
Mad summer’s face shall quickly fall,
when autumn shows its cheek.
For now, I wear a sylvan shawl
and wait for leaves to speak.