Friday, October 3, 2008

The Worst Poem About the Awe of Nature

It isn't enough for me
to simply gaze in awe.
I must ask, "how is it done?"
I wonder, "how is it made?"
I think, "why is it built that way,
    and not some other way?"

I glimpse a shooting star
streak, fleetingly across a black sky
and wonder, "how far did it travel
    before being turned to dust?"
and think, "what was its impact velocity,
    and what was its temperature,
    and how much ash was produced
    in that burning ball of fire?"

I see a towering oak tree
with countless leaves and peeling bark and random fingers of branches
and imagine the tons of earth that have been displaced
    by the vast heirarchical network of roots
    that spread unseen below me.
    and ponder the volume of minerals and water it takes
    to turn an acorn into a such a thing.

I watch a tiny black ant
crawl across the surface of my hand
and wonder, "where is it trying to go?
    Does it know it's been lifted
    out of its course? Is it conscious of itself
    and does it fear for its life?
    Or does it run on biomechanical instinct,
    like a miniature robot, with no thoughts of its own,
    except for it's living code, programmed by nature?

And then... I gaze in awe.

The Worst Poem About the Worst Poetry

As I read the words of long dead poets
and try to suffuse their meanings
I conclude:
    poetry is the anti-communication!

It is a jumble of words
that when initially read,
means nothing,
then when read again,
means one thing,
and then, upon rereading again,
means something else entirely!

Poetry is undisciplined thought!
Wandering and aimless,
incomplete sentences, with
sort of
Poetry is nothing special.
It's just bad prose.

Poetry is the verbal vomit of the mind.
A stream of words that spatter upon impact.
Is it a wash of warmth over me?
Or a foul physically embodied belch
from the innards of a pretentious writer's mind?
If I examine the resulting mess, I can tell what It might have been
and I certainly don't want to consume it.

The Worst Poem About the Best Poetry

True poetry...
Weilds the force and power
and lightning of words,
crafted to strike the soul.
My heart leaps, my eyes well up
A tone has been struck within me
and my whole being

The Worst Poem About Love

Love isn't everything.
Love doesn't wash dishes, or do the laundry.
Love doesn't commute forty-five minutes to a thankless, underpaid job.
Love doesn't wake up at two-thirty in the morning to comfort a toothache.
Love doesn't stop the leak in the bank account.
Love doesn't fill the bank account back up again.
The work must be done.

I'll pay the bills
I'll prepare the meals
I'll go to work, day after day
I'll raise the children
I'll be by your side as I watch you fade
  My heart breaking inside as I watch your slack expression
  And as we converse, I ignore your slurring speech
  But I try to be strong, and smile, and make corny jokes
  And hold your hand as you lie in your hospital bed
  And I try not to wonder if you'll ever come home.
Because I love you, I'll do whatever needs to be done.

Love isn't everything.
But without Love, there's nothing.