A pie passed me by...A pie passed me byAs the sky said to dieLike a fly in the rye.Bill Nye the Science Guy!There were none in the bunBut a nun on the runWith a ton of good fun.G.U.N. ExperimentationA bee by the treeLet it be said MaryThere's a flea in my tea.Mr. T is Mr. TThey must hug and yet FlugAnd a bug in a rugWith a pug once called Doug.Dig Dug and a Moonshine Jug.Though my poem is at homeAnd the Dome unlike RomeShiny chrome, fluffy foam.Lordgenome needs a chest comb.A third sheet shall repeatWith this treat of a beatAll the meat that is sweet.The Egg Fleet is obsolete.It acts coy like the boyWith a toy made of koiAnd annoy not the soy.Colonel Roy Mustang, oh joy!Taking bleach to the beachHelps you teach them to breachBut will leech fuzzy peach.Halo Reach is unlike Bleach.Ho hoe jo yo-yo yoTo the show we will goBut my toe must not grow!SEGAshiro, my hero!Time paradox it rocksThe locks of my new socksBut jocks cannot have flocks.Goron walks are oft' road blocks.
GRAB MY EGGPOD"SONIC GRAB MY EGGPOD" Robotnik shouted at his blue rodent enemy. All around them was nothing but a strange yellow light.Robotnik's face bore an expression of utmost seriousness. Curious, Sonic complied, reaching out with his left arm and taking hold of the Doctor's hovercraft.Immediately the two launched into the sky, high above the clouds; a majestic rainbow followed them as Robotnik exclaimed, "GET A LOAD OF THIS - - - !"
Limerick - There once was a time I was rude...There once was a time I was rudeYou might even say I was prudeA man gave me a cakeBut no thanks I did makeJust because he was dressed in the nude.
AnonymousWe are oneWe are no oneWe are everywhereAnd we are nothingThe powers of the worldgreed, corruptioncensorship, violencewill be routed outTheir secrets areour greatest treasureAnd we controlTheir public faceThey anger usWe take them downUplifting thoseWho better serve usRight Center LeftWe fight allWe fight for allThe /a/moral moralityWe are AnonymousWe are LegionWe may destroy ourselvesBut we will never die
Sad PandaI am a sad panda.I wake up in the morning'Oh hey, bambooHuzzah'The same thingall dayevery dayRoll out of bed(which is a rock on creeky twigs, by the way)Eat bambooWalk over to the tire swingSlap it around for a few hoursChat with WúliáoAt the watering holeAbout life In the zooYeah, they make itlook comfortableBut we're stillstuck hereKeeper comes byto see what we're doingI roll a rock over(pointless, really, but it keeps him happy)He says, "Keep up the good work!"and walks away.End of the dayeveryone leavesI go back to my bambooI sit on my rockPandas eat shoots and leavesI eatshootand leave
Causa Accita"Well, this is the section of world myths and legends. If there is anything about the demon attacking your nation, it will be in here." After Renki explained his people's plight to Nestor, the historian had led them into the depths of the library. Immediately they got to work scanning the shelves and removing books and scrolls."Myths and Legends: Spirits," Pachacamac read the title of the first book he pulled off of the shelf. "Definitely blunt enough, I say." He tossed it on the floor, causing Nestor to jump slightly as the paper flopped onto the stone tiling."Please be a bit more careful. Some of these tomes are quite old."Renki had crouched down to scan the lower shelves. He spotted a thin book with ornate writing on the spine and pulled it out. "What about this? It looks like it's written in your language. Subitō! Meratrīcēs Ubīque!""That is not supposed to be in this section!" Nestor yelled, leaping at Renki and snatching the book from his hand. Susp
Pax Nocturna"Pachacamac, how much do you know about that legend?" Renki asked the echidna walking beside him. The two had been travelling for two days (it was now morning of the third) and had nary a conversation apart from deciding where to camp when evening came. They had gotten off to a rocky start, Pachacamac being rather annoyed at having to escort the outsider, and this was only made worse when he found out that Renki had not known about the trade route despite the fact that, as he bluntly pointed it out, it practically ran straight from Renki's homeland to their current designation. Finally, however, Renki had worked up the courage to ask his companion the question that he had been holding since they left."What legend?" Pachacamac replied indignantly, his spear making a harsh click with each step as he struck the paved brick road."The one Chieftess Cihuacoatl spoke of, about the power my people sent me to find.""Oh, that legend," Pachacamac said, as if it had completely left his mind in
Primita ProcellaThe sun shone brightly as a weary traveler trudged through the thick jungle growth. Sweat soaked his fur, and he was panting for breath. "Why must the weather be so accursedly hot here," he said as he trudged along, using a thick branch he had picked up, broken off of some tree and now quite dead and dry, as a walking stick to prop himself up. "Honestly, it is not so much the heat as this jungle humidity." The traveler was a young fox, hardly looking to be of an adult age. His fur was a mixture of various light browns with a red tint, apart from a section that ran from his muzzle to a tuft of hair on his chest which was white. His hands and feet were significantly darker, practically black, and the tip of his long bushy tail was also tipped with black. He wore a light robe, dark brown in color, which fell to just above his ankles, and had rather open sleeves. It was held together with a thick black belt, upon which a sword was held. Over this was a jacket of similar fabric and design,
N.O.W.Only seven when two towers fellthe eleventh day of the ninth monthtwo-thousand-onewhen a pentagon went quadrilateraland a single field became the siteof carnage intended for a house of whiteBut "Ignorance is bliss"they often sayand rarely would a child understandwhy classroom TVs are turned onand the teachers' faces are all sad.Two thousand nine hundred seventy-sevenOn thousand four hundred thirteenNine thousand nine hundred seventy-oneFour thousand four hundred thirtyThirty-one thousand nine hundred sixty fiveSixty-six thousand eighty-oneFifteen thousand one hundred ninety-sixNumbers of WarPrisoners of HateMillions massacred, buta million is a statisticOne man deadmakes it all significant.Nine years, seven months, twenty days.Singing "We Are The Champions"the crowd forms(nothing more Americanthan British rock songs)and the commander-in-chief,delayed more than Nukem,makes it truly officialAn era has endeda new one beginsStill battles rage onwhile war
leftover human.she is the girl with the sand-swept faceand a seashell mouth thatonly echoes.
Haiku 12late spring stormthe wet robin rests,chest heaving
a little perspectivei sit up,face the sunlight,and yawn a littlesong-i comb the dreamsfrom my hair,letting the worldseep through my skin,i walkand slip intomy favorite,white, whiteblouse,with thebuttons to myhips,while children,with bobbing heads-thick as bonesand sorrow-fall into themselveslike little housesof cards,only there are noqueens or kings,only numbers,only days, onlytime, only-lovers split and loverssob and lovers stoploving and shatterlike mirrors andsingle mothersgo poor and somefathers aren'tfathers anymore,the streets stinkof death and liesand cheats and love,and memories, fleetingand fragile, slippingthrough the asphaltcracks and i ambrushing my teethand skipping down the stairs,but some girls are skippingmeals, some families areskipping meals and somepeople have forgottenwhat a meal even is,they only knowmugs and the chime of coins,and here i slumpbeneath the weight ofbooks and papersand red A's andB's smearing likelipstick,and the
distinctionThis is what I cannot understand.There is an understanding that nothing is ever black and white. Good can be achieved through bad means, what's wrong can sometimes be right, and if you turn right for long enough, you eventually go left. Boys can be girls who fall in love with girls who sometimes think they are boys and the lines between everything end up irreversibly blurred.Or so I've always thought.But this is a line that cannot be blurred. This is the only remaining clear-cut line that separates black from white as perfectly as a color wheel. And that is the fact that everything is until it isn't. We are until we aren't. We breathe until we don't. We live until we die. There is no gray area, no matter what the talk of doctors and comas and life support and brain death might say. Your heart beats until it doesn't.This goes beyond just life and death. Emotions are until they aren't. As are moments, definitions, seasons. Two people falling in love, well, some of them inevitably cra
AppassionataClaire does not find him at his funeral.Dean's body lies in an open casket, face-up with soft wrinkles and loose muscles. There is nothing of her husband in this corpse. He was rough and jagged. It seems wrong to see his edges smoothed down.She hovers over his body and feigns sorrow. She hears family and friends weep and whisper comfort into each others' ears behind her. They offer their words and shoulders to her and she nods politely and pretends to cry.All the while, she traces the ring on her finger and does not flinch when the diamond cuts into skin.Claire looks for her husband. It is exhausting, but she has time.In the rooms of their house, she does not find him. Instead she finds the ghost of him, his scent lingering in the cracks and crevices of the floorboards. Two weeks after the death of his body, her husband still has not returned.His disappearance cuts into her now, making her grief raw and causing a tightness in her chest. There is a pressure on her lungs, as if her
Chin UpAnd sometimes, coated and layeredwith tens of scores of others' eyeswe forget the word 'lonely' -so when it flings asheswe blink, and are blinded.
Running Away"What are you afraid of?" He had asked her as they lay there, under a bay window that showed a velvet black sky, sprinkled with sparkling diamonds. After a few minutes, a hand reached out and took his. He looked down at the soft hand, paper white with rivulets of sapphire under the skin. It had never occurred to him just how much he loved her hands until now."Would you like the truth? Or will a lie suffice?" A dulcet voice whispered. She had still not turned to look at him, but her hand in his remained strong."The truth." He always asked her for the truth. He didn't want rubies of falsehood, of lies, to ruin what they had taken so long to build. He understood them to be a diamond, and the truth to be their diamond cutter, pulling away pretenses that shouldn't exist. And so, her voice lifted slowly."I'm afraid of the door when it shuts out the light. I'm afraid of the jolt my heart makes every time you look at me. I'm afraid of the park bench where my mother and I used to sit and don
LoveIt's the song on the radio that reminds you of what you had and what you lost.It's the smile that a baby gives when she is genuinely happy.It's the sound of a laugh from someone who hasn't laughed in a long, long time.It's the friend who still remembers you even if you call after fifteen years.It's the last piece of chocolate saved for you in a box you thought was empty.It's the gift that is exactly what you needed, when you needed it.It's the two hour ride across town, just so she can see you before she leaves.It's the dog who waits for you to come home, just to give you all the affection in the world.It's the companionship one feels in silence when they have found their best friend.It's the feeling of a warm blanket someone put on you after you fell asleep.It's the boy who does the stupidest things in the world, just to see you laugh.It's the girl who kisses you the way she has never ever kissed anyone before.It's the woman who gives up her seat on the train to the old la
TearsShe was the girl with eyes of burnt amber. But her eyes weren't always that way. It came from hiding a truth so harsh that her beautiful eyes had turned dark. She swore she could never fall in love.He was the boy with a face shaped like a broken heart. But his face wasn't always that way either. It came from caring so much about someone that his heart was scratched in cruel, manicured fingers, mangled beyond belief. He swore he would never love again.They met in a spinal corridor. Then in a courtyard. Then in a room which had a broken window. And finally in a doorway that was too small. And she was crying.Diamond tears from burnt amber eyes. Diamond tears that fell, uncared for, onto the ground.He finally had to reach out and stop one diamond from hitting the floor. She looked up at him, surprised, almost angry. But before she could speak, his voice, wine rich, half broken like a damaged violin spoke. "Don't waste your tears where no one can see them.""They mean nothing.""Tears a
To Leave*I am a lousy soap opera,a dying monologue,wolf boots and cricket hair,full of questions and denial.I throw postage on love letterslike grenades.I duck under the kitchen tableall I'm hoping for is an explosion.Maybe the letters could create a new solar system.I would be the mini suns and moonsand you could be gravityor lice or a Barret that was never worn,really, I don't care, dress accordingly.Oh I have a question:Why do we always turn our backs away,why are we consistently empty and aching,when does the road end, and life begin?The silence is a wrench stuck in my throatI'll gladly choke on to avoid you.*
the seed greeted the asphalt -the seed greeted the asphalt with surprise, said it was set upon by early morning winds,that they came from under the bridge by the bay,rose up and turned like a freight train down the street;ignoring the stop sign completely, causing an early commuterto lean into it, squinting. discoloured leavesrushed to fill its absence, falling over each other,it said the heavy mass of pure air hit with such momentumas to shake it off deliberately, making it a helplessand unwilling hitchhiker for some 20 metres.
Destroy This PoemDestroy This PoemTo the person grading this poemTo the kind, patient woman hovering over this with a penWaiting to say kind, patient words in response, do me a favor:Stop it.Dont Patronize me.I did not slave over this with hammer and anvilShaping it into a masterpiece.I didnt paint it onto the ceiling of some church,Going blind from the pain and the stress.I didnt even turn this in on time.And while Im writing this in my fifth-period economy class,You can bet Im not concerned with iambs and troches and Italian terza rima.No, Im concerned with how much water is left in my water bottle.This isnt a masterpiece.Who are we kidding?Youre not going to hurt it, and you most certainly arent going to hurt me.Stop it.Dont patronize me.I want you to destroy my work.I want you to rip it to shreds with sadistic dominatrix glee.Tear it apart from margin to margin;Laugh openly at its crippled, struggling body.Stab throu
A lovely haikuHaikus are easyBut sometimes they don't make senseRefrigerator
Loki - CupidIf the diner knew it was playing host to two gods, it might have spent more care in preparing our lunch. Or perhaps not. Only the Oracle knew the future and he had gone half-mad from it, finally holing himself up at the summit of K2 and refusing any visitors. The popularity of climbing Mt. Everest had a sharp decline directly after, either from climbers wanting to visit the Oracle or because everyone realized that perhaps the Oracle knew something about Everest that we didn't. Either way, I didn't know if the diner staff would care they were serving gods and I didn't know why my fellow Watchdog looked like he'd been chewing on broken glass all morning. He glared at his sandwich like it had personally offended him. Perhaps it had. Tomatoes were hard to come by and it could very well be our fault."So," I ventured tentatively, "How did it go?""I threw him into a car."Tim started eating after that. I
the sons of flint and pitchthe sons of flint and pitchremember meas i want to be remembered--fallen down with the knee-tideover my forelock, drowned in little water,but mostly as a mannot afraid to die:remember me my childrenif you have ever rememberedwave ortenor, if your voices have sung for me though you did not knowyou sang for me:remember, we struck a spark!for such brittle foolish longing is notwhat wets our torches or deadens our woodbut show me a good man, raise him up high on a pedestal,and I will show yousomething worth burning out for.
BorderlineI dreamed once that I saw your face inmy mirror, rippling prolifically likewater on glass on my face,and then I was drowning, and Ifell, fell, fell too fast into your watery eyes. Without imagination, prosaically as you could, you told me you loved me and hoped we'd meet again soon. I smiled, propri
Winter.As he talks, I imaginethe words are tiny icicles,falling from the awning of a late afternoonto pluck holes in my eyes(leaving tattoosall over my retinas)."All the better to smell you with, my dear," I'll say to the girl he's rememberedwhen he leads me to drink fromher trough of tears;"All the better to hear how we harmonize."No black lace or lillies stargazing from the sidewalkof her bedside, no booksenscribed in braile or thebent knees of leaving;just smoke and stale breadcrumbs,guiding her frail understudythrough cold eveningsnow.
Miss Malaprop Takes Her BowLanguages, I believe, were invented for two purposes: communication and the amusement of native speakers. I make a very earnest attempt not to become one of the aforementioned sources of humor. I can proudly state that in my three years of study, I have never once mistakenly requested of a French-speaker, "Please pass the bath." I have also somehow managed never to confuse pregnancy and embarrassment in Spanish, a mistake so common among Anglophones that it is nearly a rite of passage. I have come to understand, however, that blunders are as much an essential to language as are grammar and syntax.I consider myself a proficient speaker of the English language. This is not to say that my lofty and mildly egotistical viewpoint has stopped me from making comments regarding Jesus's crucifixion at "cavalry" or the "erotic" flight pattern of the hummingbird. I couldn't understand my history teacher's snickering as I gave my or
Writing a HaikuWriting a haiku;Running out of syllablesis a pain in the