This tab’s for a few poems I’ve scrawled along the way. I’ll add more from time to time. I know, it’s weird, my natural voice is stuck about two centuries back. If you like that sort of thing, here you go.
Here’s one that tries to see the upside of a life of enforced isolation.
Dove Down Country Flown
Be there busy, guarding, teaming
up to talk and think and do
while I hide myself from you
far off in the country, dreaming.
Echoes of debating, scheming
reach me in a day or two;
satellites your smiles beaming
sell your circus, bread and brew.
I could catch you live and streaming:
stay informed and get a clue,
but I had reasons when I flew.
All my quietude mere seeming,
bees are busy, gardens teeming.
This next one makes fun of poor old Oliver Cromwell. I know, a sick person ought to have more sympathy for another’s sufferings but dang, he was so much more of a downer even than me, I can’t sympathize. Some sufferers make whole nations suffer along with them.
Poor old Oliver Cromwell
dyspeptic, didn’t nom well
wore black with no enhancing
allowed no plays nor dancing
enforced in ways tyrannical
his notions puritanical
then despite the purge of pride
under doctors’ care he died
but with royals’ restitution
was dug up for execution
and long after he was dead
had a price upon his head
for so it has been told
once piked, t’was bought and sold
but when it had a thought in it
no man could have boughten it
not for money but for power
he spent his mortal hour
and therein lies our moral:
over morals never quarrel
for each person has his lust;
lust for reform is no more just
than a lust for song and dance
(which were soon brought back from France).
And while we’re on the topic of Pride, here’s one about modern malefactors: in this case, a fictional physicist versus a fictional physician.
Physicist vs. Physician, or, Faux Pas de Duel
A physicist and a physician
facing across the field
each took up a position.
Neither would yield.
Boldly the ballistician
(asked, “Will you sue?” said, “I might just,”)
challenged the neural physician
So provoked was our fierce surgeon
charges of bald plagiarism
flew with no further urgin’
over the schism.
“Your findings are wholly unfounded!”
“You should lose your license to operate!”
“Your test flights should all have been grounded!”
They could not cooperate.
Philosophical and Medical Doctor
each to the flames added more fuel.
Some said, “Wait! This test needs a proctor.”
“What test? It’s a duel!”
They agreed they would each fling a dart
aimed at the other one’s brain
but neither could see how to start.
Like gourmets in heaven’s refectory
pacing in paralyzed indecision
they pondered the dart’s best trajectory
and point of incision.
They challenged in scathing defiance
each calling the other a forgery:
“Come on, it’s not rocket science!”
“It isn’t brain surgery!”
I’m having trouble with formatting. I hope you’ll excuse the roughness here until I can dig in, some day, and figure out what’s going on with the HTML and stuff.