2

nonsense and stuff

(Original Publication Date on
Trilllogic Innoventions: June 6, 2009)

'Tis another month and I must keep the promise to myself of writing a new poem. Why did I get myself into this? I have absolutely no idea what to express. But that's the thing about poems. They don't have to be meticulously plotted. They generally do not have to be scrupulously honed. This is why children are some of the best poets. They write what flows out. And that, in my estimation, is the true art of poetry.

What pours from my brain, unfortunately, can be rather complex. Inordinately unnatural. Exuberantly abstract. Inutterally obsessantly compulstorily verbosedly illegiant. (Okay, that last "word" — and I use the term loosely — hovers somewhere between illegible, illegal, and allegiance. You figure it out. Or don't. I can't recommend it.)

Yes, it probably is a blessing I primarily funnel such inkling-ations into prose. That's easier to ignore, whereas poetry tends to leap off the page and demand attention. I really can't understand why it isn't more popular. It certainly used to be. Have we lost a degree of refinement? Has civilization de-volved?

Be that as it may or may not be, I am writing this off the top of my head so don't expect a detailed analysis of modern society. I have my life story for that. This is supposed to be fun, because poetry is a blast! No, I'm not joking. It's bursting with little surprises and wows and "Ah-ha!" moments, those bombs of insight that can startle you into amazement. Well, that's how I perceive it.

Everyone's entitled to their opinion. It is my belief that if everyone wrote — or at least read — a poem each month, the world might be a better place. They would be forced to contemplate Life, decipher beauty — whether beautiful or not — in what is around them. Poetry can cleanse and heal the spirit.

Now, I consider myself a poet, yet I haven't written a multitude of "poems" per se. My poetic passion has poured out through songs and the wordplay-slash-stylings of my prose. Quite frankly, I love language. English in particular, but all languages. Except foul language, which is so unnecessary and subvertive, yet is spreading like a fungus or blight to obscure the majesty of words.

Some of my inspirations are Robert Frost, Lewis Carroll and Doctor Seuss; the lyrics from the classic film THE WIZARD OF OZ; and songwriters Bob Dylan, Paul Simon, John Denver, Carole King, Lee Hazelwood, David Foster, Dolly Parton . . . The list could go on. And on. And on. We are, after all, the sum of our existence.

Guess I'll do what comes natural and compose a piece of Lyric Nonsense. I still have no idea what I'm about to say.

nonsense and stuff

My head is full of nonsense

That swishes ear to ear

If only I could sneeze it out

Just think what I would hear

If only I could blow my nose

And everything be clear

Why must I think of nonsense

With so much else more dear?

I wish my thoughts were brilliant

Solving riddles with their verse

If I could conjure magic spells

I'd break this awful curse

Why can't I just be normal

And keep my dreaming terse?

But I'd lack imagination —

I don't know which is worse.

When writing it's especially sad

How I reinvent the noun

I can't use words the way they are

I have to fool around

It's quite a pickle being me

And thinking like a clown

What would you do in my shoes?

You'd probably fall down.

I'd rather not be silly

It really can be tough

I don't know why I'm so awry

I think I've had enough

It seems no matter how I try

It slips out off the cuff

I wish I could make sense

Of this nonsense and stuff!

Quoth the maven, "Nuthermore!"

Which reminds me, I forgot to mention Edgar Allan Poe. And another Man In Black, Johnny Cash.

I'd have to say that a notably massive influence of mine has been The Bard (that's Renaissance for "The Man"). Mister Emote himself, the playfullest-wright . . .

William Shakespeare!

He is The Man, isn't he? The guy was like a gift to the world. Larger Than Life. Almost too amazing.

Now that I think of it, a little too amazing indeed! Where am I going with this? Alien Conspiracy, that's where. They thought we wouldn't figure it out, but I just did. No one could be that amazing.

No human, at least.

Dissecting the evidence, it's a wonder we didn't see it sooner.

"All the world's a stage." Of course, because they're the audience, watching us through giant binoculars! With superduper hyperspatial operatic spyglasses!

"Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears." Psychological persuasion! They collect body parts, especially ears.

"Eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog." It's a virtual shopping list for specimens.

"The world's mine oyster." See what I mean?

"A dish fit for the gods . . ." That's us! We're the dish!

"Pound of flesh . . ." Hah! I'm sure they want more than a pound.

And what about "a king of infinite space"?

Or, the most telling clue of all:
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio . . ."

Need I say more?

Unspoken shouts

Honest lies

In arid pools

Collect a void

Of clever fools

As liquid fire

Ignites to ice

The distracting silence

Of lions and mice

The broken vow

Of aimless dreams

The fragile blast

Of unplanned schemes

Echoes a quiet

That never stops

Fills empty puddles

With rainless drops

Quells placid-disruptive volcanic black holes

Tells unspun tales of spiritless souls

The rampant flood

Of droughts

Unspoken shouts.