Satire

[MoJoRiSin]

comedian

[Marcus Bales]

Waiting For Hungry Again
For David Weinstock

Thanksgiving Day my spirit’s grim,
A not quite thankless glow,
My prospects, never bright, are dim,
Since David Weinstock, full of vim,
Went out on his poetic limb
Eleven days ago.

He says not writing in his blog
Means writing poems – so
He must be in a writing fog
That started when a rusty cog
Engaged within his brain, oh, augh!
Eleven days ago!

The muses view with vast alarm
His vigor and his flow:
At first they liked him for his charm
But now they fear he’ll do some harm
Since he began to chance his arm
Eleven days ago.

And I, along with other friends,
Who’re stuck on our plateaux,
Are shocked at how much time he spends
At poetry. Our fear ascends
As absence from his blog extends –
Eleven days ago!

If this goes on he’ll leave us all
Distinctly semi-pro;
We envy his poetic haul
And can’t believe he had the gall
To answer his poetic call
Eleven days ago.

My jealousy can see him now,
Suffused in poesy’s glow,
His family wipes his fevered brow,
And murmurs an impressed “Oh, wow!”,
Since they began to bring him chow
Eleven days ago.

He’s sucking all the oxygen out
That we might breathe, you know:
There really isn’t any doubt
That he’s the reason for our drought
Since he began his writing bout
Eleven days ago.

We have to think. What, think? Yes, think
What monkey-wrench to throw
To wake him with its banging clink;
To dry his all-too-flowing ink;
To bring him back to rinky dink
With us among the sweaty stink
Of struggle where he used to drink
Before his muse tipped him a wink
Eleven days ago.

[Marcus Bales]

Waiting for Hungry: Taking A Job

“... Soul-crushing day job ended … I will be back to my real life, including blogging and poetry.” – David Weinstock

A poet took a job, dismayed,
His face all flushed,
By bills that he could not evade.
He pitched right in, but soon he swayed
Beneath the work load he was paid
To do, and in the end it weighed
Too much – he felt his feelings fade,
And then, as consciousness decayed,
His fellow workers all arrayed
Around the ground on which he laid,
The doctor murmured “I’m afraid
His soul is crushed.”

The gurney carried him away,
The workplace hushed
For just a moment more til they
Remembered they must still obey
The clock and boss or else their pay
Was docked at any small display
Of slacking off. They quickly pray
That no one’s marked their dossier,
And leave in fear, their faces grey
That one day it is they who’ll lay
And hear the doctor sadly say
“His soul is crushed.”

He’s in intensive care for days,
Where he’s been rushed;
Subjected to The Female Gaze
As staffers candidly appraise
And talk about how much he weighs,
And speculate about which phase
Of hurt or healing his malaise
Is going through as first they raise
Then lower body parts. The haze
Of pain diminishes in ways
That lets him bear med-tech clichés,
His soul less crushed.

At last he comes to be aware
Of something hushed
And worried as they stand and stare
At charts, and less is written there.
When folks in suits and well-coiffed hair
Consult their calendars and glare
He starts to sense a lessened care.
But that’s okay – he doesn’t scare
As easily as that. Despair
Is gone, and he can feel his flair
Return. Though weak, he’d almost swear
His soul’s not crushed.

At home once more he’s wan and pale;
His teeth are brushed.
And even though he’s feeling frail
He doesn’t think that he will fail
To write again – he will prevail!
He feels he’s finally out of jail
For good and not just out on bail.
Recovered from his long travail,
He’s sending poems out by mail,
Curating them in some detail
And, who knows, he may make a sale:
His soul uncrushed.

[Marcus Bales]

Penguin Blues

I’ve read the new collection
There’s lots of folks I’ve missed
But I think my chief objection
Is that I’m not on the list!

I hope you’ll find that you’ll forgive me
If I don’t enthuse
Because I’ve got the Penguin blues.

The gamers out there gaming
I give them all a pass
But the flamers out there flaming
Can kiss my pobiz ass.

I send my check and manuscript to
Contests that I lose –
I guess I’ve got the Penguin blues.

Then when Penguin phones you,
That Harper/Collins owns you,
And Penguin will not pay their jacked-up fees
The most profuse apology
You're not in their anthology
Will sound as if it’s dirty low-down sleaze.

May editors select you,
Your reprint fees stay low
And may your peers elect you
For prizes that give dough

Oh Penguin may anthologize the
Product of your muse
But me, I’ve got the Penguin blues.
Those forty-dollar brightly-covered hard-bound
Penguin blues;
Oh Penguin may anthologize the
Poems you peruse
But Penguin only brought me the blues –
These brightly-covered forty-dollar hard-bound
Penguin blues.

[MoJoRiSin]

^

[Coffee]

^^^Awesome

[Marcus Bales]

Villanelle: Occupy

“There, if only I’d the nerve, go I”,
Is what we wages-slaving classes think
Whenever it’s our thoughts they occupy.

It’s Christmas season, though – I have to buy
A lot of gifts, and fix that leaky sink –
But there, if only I’d the nerve, go I.

The kids would think I’m crazy if I’d try
At this late date to bring the world in sync.
Whatever -- it’s my thoughts they occupy.

My friends would probably laugh, or think I’m high,
And with my luck I’d end up in the clink –
But there, if only I’d the nerve, go I.

“I sent them money!” is my battle-cry
I want to go – I’m always on the brink --
Whenever it’s my thoughts they occupy.

But jobs are scarce, and money’s tight. I sigh
That I’m too old to make another stink.
But there, if only I’d the nerve, go I
Whenever it’s my heart they occupy.

[MoJoRiSin]

Originally Posted by Marcus Bales

Villanelle: Occupy

“There, if only I’d the nerve, go I”,
Is what we wages-slaving classes think
Whenever it’s our thoughts they occupy.

It’s Christmas season, though – I have to buy
A lot of gifts, and fix that leaky sink –
But there, if only I’d the nerve, go I.

The kids would think I’m crazy if I’d try
At this late date to bring the world in sync.
Whatever -- it’s my thoughts they occupy.

My friends would probably laugh, or think I’m high,
And with my luck I’d end up in the clink –
But there, if only I’d the nerve, go I.

“I sent them money!” is my battle-cry
I want to go – I’m always on the brink --
Whenever it’s my thoughts they occupy.

But jobs are scarce, and money’s tight. I sigh
That I’m too old to make another stink.

Originally Posted by Marcus Bales

But there, if only I’d the nerve, go I
Whenever it’s my heart they occupy.

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please
kind sir

[Marcus Bales]

Rocky Dilemma

We all have prejudiced associations
That, hard as we may try, we can’t control –
A vocal cue will prompt improper relations
We’d like to bury in a psychic hole;
We bite our tongues, avoiding confrontations,
And bit by bit we learn the proper role:
That out of all our inner storm and stress
We chose what to express – and not express.

Natasha Trethewey has now become
The poet laureate – and no Celt more than I
Is with her now within the seething scrum
Of Yankee English, or more approves her high
Award, aware of that remaining hum
That subjugated languages supply
In assonance, inflection, or in rhythm --
Depending on the tones surviving with them.

But those are not the accents that I hear
When someone says the poet laureate’s name –
And those are not the accents that will sear
My writhing inner self with childish shame;
The accent that comes clearly to my ear,
With foreign vowels I desperately disclaim
In prejudice that I cannot deny:
Natasha saying “Moose and squirrel must die!”