dennis-nils-drogseth
Dennis Nils Drogseth was born in Brooklyn, NY, and grew up in Bergen County, New Jersey and Woodstock, New York. His family, divided between Norway, on his father’s side, and Alabama on his mother’s side, facilitated many interesting visits and discussions that triggered a balanced interest in Europe and the United States. Dennis also lived for a year in Concepcion, Chile as a high school exchange student. He graduated from Yale with a degree in Chinese Studies, and is conversant in Norwegian, French, Spanish, German, Chinese and Russian. / The author ran a poetry workshop at Green Haven prison in Beekman, New York, in the 1970s, which provided the foundation for his one non-fiction work, “From Another World.” The experience also became a source of inspiration for committing to a life of writing against sometimes challenging odds. Dennis currently works as a technology analyst in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and is widely published in technology-related media.
Like movement between glass –
Walls, doors, and panes –
Comes something new,
One step or two
Beyond the old and tried- and-true.
Once in a Blue Moon,
The dream may hit the wire,
And lift us – take us higher,
Into a new landscape –
The one before the one before –
Like a fire cleansing brush to see a view.
There we may dance upon faint music
And cross over the bridge of time,
Or tunnel through the mountain
To find the secret reason
Behind the secret rhyme.
Blue moon – you come
As quickly
As a smile –
And last as long.
But if you find me now,
Blue moon,
I promise
You won’t go wrong.
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 7:42 AM UTC
We knew T-Rex from its tiny claws
Its hungry mouth, its toothy jaws.
But how can we assess T-Rump
When all our data’s from a stump
And weekly polls that flinch and jump?
The answer’s lying deep below
Perhaps with Edgar Allen Poe
Whose poetry is dark and slow.
A creature walking o’er the earth
In privilege stretching back to birth
That claims ascendance overall
And loves to brag and boast and brawl
And sometimes recoils, sometimes howls
(One sometimes wonders at its bowels—
When watching active ****** scowls.)
T-Rump is marching to consume
What’s going on in the newsroom
And feeds on minor predators,
(Ignoring its own creditors).
It likes to crouch and dance and pose
While speaking in a broken prose
And often wrinkling up its nose
At anything that might oppose
Or even worse, that might expose,
Its streak of show-and-tell sideshows.
Alas when sizing up T-Rump
One hits a show-and-tell speed bump
That’s not about its topmost clump
Or its eternal ****** frump.
We know, somehow, we’re each a chump
In thinking that there was an ump
Who’d put things on the ump and ump
And so we lazed, and scrimped and scrumped
Instead of what we’d need to do—
To find what’s cleanly new and true,
And redirect our Waterloo
Away from its own cancerous lump
And toward a far less spurious zoo.
In other words, to dump T-Rump!
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC