This may seem a bit strange but this weeks poem sees me moan on about how recently playing DDO has been doing my head in. Strange words you may think for a poet who does DDO related poetry on a DDO podcast but let me explain. Too much of something you love can easily make the love turn to hate, it’s not rocket science. I wouldn’t say I hate DDO but sometimes you need to cut your playing time down to once a week just to purge your system then when you realise you are missing it start the overkill again ! Now if only I could take the same approach to beer and cake ?
Click on the link below to listen to my segment or follow the link for DDO cast in my sidebar to listen to the whole show.
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Yesterday morning to save my sanity from children’s tv I got my smart phone out and experimented with writing some DDo type poems but constraining myself by using twitter. Here are the results.
The Itchy bug bear
Bug bear bed bugs bug bug bear. But bug bear bear bed bugs as bug bear lazy.
The angry half orc
Half orc,half mad,half pint,half full,but charged full price. Half orc,half heartedly,half shrug then chug anyway.
The bold Kobold.
Kobold,no bold,but yark gold. Now kobold bold, yark ,gold kobold’s !
Sometimes I like to waffle instead of write poetry and today is one of those days, as I just have to write about the unexpected violence in a child’s book that I found when reading a story to my daughter last night !
A bit of background, my daughter is two and a bit and loves stories, me being a nostalgic old fool bought her a load of the Mr_Men_and_Little_Miss books I used to enjoy having read to me when I was a little dot. Now I remember these stories as being harmless fun tales often with a funny ending that were a delight to have on my bookshelf. So imagine my surprise when last night I read my daughter the story of Little Miss Trouble and found myself reading a story of telling tales, mischief and worse of all violence.
Yes that is right in this supposedly harmless children’s book Little Miss Trouble get another Mr Man, poor Mr Small ( who is hardly big enough to defend himself ) assaulted.
Don’t believe me take a look at this where Mr Small gets a black eye.
Things go from bad to worse for Mr Small
Just look at that psychotic look on Mr Clever’s face, no wonder Mr Small looks scared !
I would like to say the story has a happy ending but Mr Small by also telling tales gets two other Mr Men to beat up Little Miss Trouble, so who said violence doesn’t breed violence?
This weeks excellent show sees me in my segment waffle on about spouse aggro , if you click the link below you can hear what I have to say on the subject. Interestingly the poem went through a major change before I was happy with it, it was originally called “Doghouse,” and went something like this.
I should be mowing the lawn,
Instead I’m mowing down Kobolds.
I should be looking for a cheap holiday,
Instead I’m looking for a cheap vorpal.
I should Be trying to understand my daughter’s homework,
Instead I’m trying to understand crafting.
I should be running a bath,
Instead I’m running waterworks.
I should be trying to find my keys,
Instead I’m trying to find a bloodstone.
I should By organising my poem ideas,
Instead I’m organising my inventory.
I should be spending time in DDO,
Instead I’m spending time in the doghouse.
Another idea for this poem was to have Mrs Skaggy read alternate lines, but as I did a mental read through something didn’t quite work so it mutated into the spouse aggro poem I read out.
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School kids farting.
Bus travelers all.
There have been so many sights on my commute to work recently that I find myself spoilt for choice as to who or what to try to turn into a poem. With that in mind here is a poem about all the ” groups ” of people who I have encountered while on my way backwards and forwards to work. Oh and if your interested I put myself in the “tired,” or ” Ipod ” group.
The critic said, ” poems should be like icebergs.”
” So they can sink ships? ” the poet flippantly said.
” No poet, their meanings should be hidden.
So only reading will reveal their hidden depths. “
“But, ” the poet said, ” what if after I’ve read it,
This poetical iceberg just leaves me all confused.”
” Then dear poet you’re obviously stupid.”
” Then dear critic I’m now all bemused.
You see I thought words were written to be seen,
Put down on paper to wait to be read.”
The critic interrupted, ” if reading poetry sinks you,
Then read some trashy fiction instead. “
” If it’s all the same, ” the poet countered,
“You can stick your iceberg up your arse.
Words aren’t like hidden frozen water,
Nor for studying like works of art.”
” You see poet, this is why to some people poetry,
Is becoming as boring as history.
When people read a poem they shouldn’t,
Feel like they are solving a mystery.”
Arguments raged backwards and forwards,
As critic and poet argued into the night.
But there is still one little problem,
I don’t know which one was right ?
Over the few years I have spent writing poetry and prose I have entered a few competitions ( best place , second,) and though I don’t expect to come first losing is still a disappointment. Once though my “rejection ” letter came with a paragraph or two of feedback which contained the phrase , ” poems should be like icebergs, ” then something else which I forget. I wrote yesterday how ” nonsense,” can stick in your head well, that phrase remained with me for some time bouncing around my skull until I exorcised it with this poem.
I’m tweeting on the bus
Throwing off my Luddite chains.
I’m tweeting at the bus stop,
That I’m standing in the rain.
I’m tweeting as to wwalk to work,
Heedless of any danger.
I’m tweeting just after,
I bumped into a stranger.
I’m tweeting funny pictures,
Well they’re funny to me.
I’m tweeting pure nonsense,
I’m the king of comedy.
I’m tweeting at my desk,
Ignoring my fellow workers.
I’m tweeting that my boss,
Has collared me as a shirker.
At last my new smart phone works ( no thanks to my service providers but that’s a long and boring story ) and like a child with a new toy I’m fascinated by the new wealth of fun at my fingertips.
An old ripped sheet
In the hands of my daughter
A baby, ” shhhh daddy.”
A sausage, ” eat daddy.”
A scarf, ” tuck daddy. “
An apron, ” tie daddy.”
It is swung when singing,
Flung when cross.
Hugged when tired,
Demanded when lost.
More often than not
It is thrown over
Who after enjoying
It’s milky smell
Delights with a simple,
As I watched my two and half-year old daughter playing the other day I found myself becoming fascinated by how she used her imagination when playing with an old sheet ( which she affectionately calls ” sheetie. ) So as we played her various ” sheetie” games this poem came together.
There’s a damp freshness in the air
The street looks like it’s all new
Lawns sparkle and gutters trickle
Trees glisten with the dew.
I survey the sites that looks changed
Pause and take a breath of fresh air
Then stride briskly off to work
Feeling slightly devil-may-care.
Jaunty feet step carefully
Over the slugs and snails
As they slowly seek dry ground
But sadly all to no avail.
Jump the puddle in the road
Avoid the gutter’s growing stream
Something infectious is in the air
Even the litter looks clean.
I’ve dug this poem out of the archives as I have been spending too much time trying to get my new smart phone to work to be able to put pen to paper. With the current varied spring weather it also seems an apt choice !
Inspired by a series of adventures set in an area called the red fens and the fact that during these larks you end up fighting underwater I decided to do an underwater poem. ( As I am fond of saying, it’s not rocket science.) Click the link below to download and listen to it or follow the link in my sidebar to DDOcast’s site to download the entire podcast.
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