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Mosaic Musings...interactive poetry reviews > Poetry Forums > Poetry Education -> Karnak Crossing
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It’s no rant when the truth must be told
to penurious people too cold
to realize if fate had
treated them just as bad
they should follow that rule which is gold.
I've found money won't answer a need
when a meal or some plowing, to seed
fallow fields... would best teach
how to practice what's preached
by do-gooders, who poverty feed.

Do-gooders who would poverty feed
enforce continuance of such need
one fish is one meal
fish-hooks much more real
from hunger whole nations they can feed

I'm glad that you too see the issue;
to others I pass on a tissue
to dry up their tears.
And to you who have sneers...
I will still help the needy... and miss you.

There's a chasm of difference between
perception and what some think is seen.
One must try, recognize
pleas for help from mere lies.
Use your heart or the bile from your spleen.

No Pockets on Caskets

Many live all their lives on the dole.
Some would like to crawl out of that hole
but the prescient rich
kick them back in the ditch
pleading for a small crumb from filled bowl.

Self Portrait

Through no fault of my own when quite young
into orphanages I'd been slung;
but without their largesse
life would have been a mess.
Helping hands can grow flowers from dung!

Ask the 400 addicts who've lived
in our house, or the others we've div'd
out used clothing or food
if we've done them some good...
plus we've taught them to live... not survive.
Kudos go to yourself and Saint Jude
for that second chance, clothes and the food
you dispersed without pause
for a wonderful cause.
Limerick posts had intent misconstrued.
A poem has many strange sides
and its edges at times may collide
with a sore plot of skin
that stirs up chagrin
which in turn turns a voice to be snide.

That which may turn our voices to snide
is when faces do not match what's inside :
presenting illusion
with much self-delusion,
and entirely unjustified pride !

Alan McAlpine Douglas

An entirely unjustified pride
not shared by any other, world-wide :
Cogito ergo sum ?
No, Cogito, ego sum
is how his translation's applied !

Alan McAlpine Douglas

Cogito ergo sum - I think, therefore I am
Cogito ego sum - I think, therefore I am

Alan McAlpine Douglas
I think I've an ego sumtimes
and somehow it shows up in rhymes
that make little sense
and don't earn a pence
or even those piddlesome dimes.
Once the piddle some dime was supreme
It could buy candy bars or ice crème
at the matinée show
where the kids used to go
and get change back; but that’s an old dream.
I am older than you, 'cause a nickle
could buy candy bars, but life's fickle.
The once-penny-candy
made coppers quite handy
but now they can't get you a tickle.

If coppers could give one a tickle
instead of wading in with their sickle
the world would be better
no need for "chain letter"
for happiness would be far less fickle !

Your sickle police sound like hackers;
I don't think they'd have public backers!
It they walked the beat
I suspect folks may greet
them with chains, clubs and other blue-blackers!
If one tickles with sickles, it's chancy
they'll need something a little more fancy
for each man and his son
totes a knife or a gun.
Just the thought of it makes me feel antsy!
A man who has ants in his pants
is itchin' for trouble; there's chance
he'll be discomboobled
and friend will be troubled
that all his behavior's askance.

To know human behaviour, don't ask ants,
or bees busy in their productive dance
thus fails psychology
and many an 'ology
for nest and hive no human soul supplants !

Alan McAlpine Douglas
Human souls can’t endure the group mind
leaving self or their ego behind.
Ants and bees will survive
but the fate of their hive
leaves no choice in their life undefined.

A leaf has no choice - annual life
of growing, waving, and falling, short strife;
then turning to muck,
mulch for trees to suck :
eternal life/death cycles are rife ....

Alan McAlpine Douglas
Please leave us a loan, said the tree;
the forest is bigger than me.
We all use cool winters
to heal many splinters
then bud forth in spring, rested, free.

Then, Bud, fourth is spring, best season
for the earth, for now is the reason
for acts of procreation
and much other gyration,
so of pleasure there's a touch, or frisson

No pleasure from touch in a prison
when morning demands have arisen
and you need relief
but fear to debrief
lest someone be there on a mission.
In a prison there’s no shower stall
so make sure that you’re soap doesn’t fall
when the lather is thick.
If it drops, here a trick;
just rinse off with your back to the wall.
When your back's to the wall don't get flustered
lest it seem that you can't cut the mustard,
and don't fear the flack
if eggs you should crack;
just use them to cook up a custard.
Poor old Custer had no wall to save
all the men he had mustered. The brave
and his self met demise
quick as an arrow flies.
Shish-ka-bobbed in the front, back and nave.
Shush! 'cause Bob 'hind your back is a knave
who acts in your face that he's brave,
but he waggles his tongue
with rogues he's among
and doesn't know how to behave.
In societal bounds, “to behave”
is conformity’s child; ‘t would enslave
everyone, old and young.
Paraphrasing Carl Jung,
“Personality’s death would be grave.”

Personality will not die at the grave
it's the one bit of you that is saved
so you start off anew
with a new body too
just imagine, once again you can rave !

Alan McAlpine Douglas

For now, once again you can rave
at the iniquity of the grave
for your late body
did get rather shoddy
'tis only a soul you can save ....

Let this string with its too somber tone
meet demise. A quick death I condone.
For a Limerick should be
fun and slightly bawdy
ending with a chuckle or a groan.
Amen' d with a chuckle or groan
when the preacher has jokingly shown
you a path you might take
if you would but forsake
some selfishness... seeking your own.

It ain't easy, this seeking your own
when the gut is so gross, overgrown
so you fumble and stir
ask "Is it really there"
verdict, sadly, it's quite overblown

I must ask so I won't be remiss
in obtaining the source of this bliss
for I have never known
anyone overblown.
Does it end with a moan or a hiss?
I can't answer that question, friend Larry,
but friend Alan, I wish you would tarry
to see that forsaking
is the undertaking:
from selfishness one should be wary!
Is it selfish; considered obtuse
in me wishing for this train’s caboose?
Silly rhymes I would make,
“Serious” I’d forsake.
If the limerick’s not fun, what’s the use?

If the limerick’s not fun, what’s the use?
Well, no sense of humour's my excuse :
life is so serious,
damn deleterious,
that laughing's a form of abuse !


(PS Written as the devil's advocate)
It's a "now proven" scientific truth,
and it would be remiss and uncouth
if I did not report
matters of great import...
Laughter is now my fountain of youth.
QUOTE (Alan @ Dec 22 11, 04:18 ) *

If the limerick’s not fun, what’s the use?
Well, no sense of humour's my excuse :
life is so serious,
damn deleterious,
that laughing's a form of abuse !


(PS Written as the devil's advocate)

Some limericks are raunchy and crude,
and others tend to be lewd,
but the best of them all,
are the ones I recall,
being downright dirty and rude.

A limerick paints a brief scene,
its relevance, easily seen,
but if said and done,
it's merely a pun,
it’s never thought good when it’s clean.

My December thoughts. Lol!
I'll take off my clothes here to prove
that in Limericks it oft will behoove
us to lather with soap
if there's any hope
in bathing... our dirt to remove.
Keep your shirt on as well as your pants
lest the reader look at you askance.
Water will not avail
by the drop or the pail
to brainwash you before the last dance.
I don't shower for folks to look on,
and I hope you will take the baton
and join in our race
to clean up this space
for writing that clean minds may spawn.

very Lightly, of course, Daniel sun.gif

This, your "writing that clean minds may spawn"
is a bore, to be met with a yawn
please do not seek a cure
for limericks impure
to kow-tow to those minds too too high-born

A Tutu who's highborn's no Boer
South African dwellers abhor.
The Bishop is kind,
will challenge your mind
to positive, activist lore.

Original first line, with typos:

A Tuto who's highborn's no bore
Who’s this Tuto whom you give acclaim?
Is that Archbishop Desmond of fame?
Man of peace, he just might
want to put up a fight
if he read someone had changed his name.
A typo is easy to do;
one look, and you'll see I made two.
Corrections I've made
ere memories fade
and folks will forget I made do.

blushing sLightly, Daniel charliebrown.gif
I knew Tuto 'twas typo before
I'd replied, but the thing I adore
is the twist at the end
of line one; I just grinned.
Didn't see that one coming Señor!
I will blush with a hesitant bow
at the thought that I've shown someone how
to laugh at a thought
they hadn't first sought
in reading a poem with stiff brow.
No stiff brow I allow when I read
a limerick that is slick. To succeed,
read to self, never speak.
With your tongue tucked in cheek
a stern visage just might make you bleed.
May no one ever bleed when they read
[though I think I succeed if they've peed]
when I Lim'rick I've writ --
though I freely admit
to misleading my friends to misread.
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