#ogdiddynash
deaf eyes, blind ears, pens down!
two of my English Teachers,
from high school and college
from way way back when,
i requested, critiqued my poems,
cause they could, ex-teachers...et al
They said:
Your emails are too short,
your poems are too long,
we recommend that your
quit this, do what we say:
pens down!
Your poems are travelogues
to places in your mind, we’ve
got no interest in visiting, Egypt
and Exile, cemeteries in a privy,
time to get a new travel agency!!!
Your imagery, ars obscura to us,
everyone but you, despite too many
copious notes, which proves our point,
you need to
smile more and write less.
Just because you’ve got creases,
lines all across your face, doesn’t
mean any wisdom came with them,
nor did you listen in our classes,
we suggest, resolutely, give it a rest.
all the best, & do not ask again
Dec 26, 2024
Dec 26, 2024 at 9:07 AM UTC
THERE WIL BE BAGELS!
<>
New York style, very large,
with burnished, glazed-ed crust,
almost meaty, a meal nearly self~
sufficient, with grapes of creamed
cheese, Scottish salmon, a repast that
states, that the week begins well, that
thus nourished, we are stronger, fortified
to face the onslaughts of life moderne,
our enslavement to the endless news
recycled cycle that flourishes and face
whips us with shades of disaster in mirrors
that will never cease to query us if this is truly:
our appearance
our best selves
our self~doubts,
refuse scars of
prior battles
my cafe porcelain mug of 19 oz. washes
away my unshaven grimaced grime of
mine mind, and I sally forth renewed,
meaty, slightly burnished, with a glazed
protective patina of a hardy New Yorker
who chews, spits out the chaff of noises
that serve only to efface my native rights to
optimism
May 12, 2024
May 12, 2024 at 9:29 AM UTC
no, not a political divide crossed.
no, not switching fandom to the
hated other crosstown team,
with the clownish bobble head
thing.
once a meat eater, a meat eater
for life.
stolidly, boringly straight, waaay
too late
to switch that side.
the switch referred to herein is more
profound, straining boundaries of a
decades long term relationship.
I desire to switch sides of the bed we
sleep on, after decades of habit, that
transferred with us when we traveled,
moved etc. To each Our Side was the
Natural Order of Things, a higher law,
immutable, constitutional and ranked
higher than the Ten Commandments.
over time, my side sank beneath the
excess weight of growing old with
bad lifestyle habits…a bad back, an
aging frame, core muscles that seem
to have been decored, made a new
firmer bed a necessity,
when we called 1-800-Mattress, we two
social security retirees, were shocked,
shocked! at the hole in our budgets
such an expenditure required. We would
be forced to survive on bread (brioche)
and water (Pelligrino) for weeks, our only
condimentable affordable would be margarine,
a pseudo butter made in chemical factories.
so, she refused.
I sank into deep despair, for who could deny
her finger pointing “J’accuse” where responsibility
for this truly lay (lie?).
marriage counselors demanded exorbitant premium
prepayments, Medicare said ha ha, and United Health
Care was united in their ***** opposable middle finger
but eloquent “Mais Non!”
As I write this, Climate Comservationists have confirmed
my sinking side is now receding at a rate of 4 cm/year.
The implicit implication was at the Great Melt Flood of 2050
that was coming to sink us, I would not be quietly floating down
the Hudson River out to a South Pacific isle, but would join Jason Bourne in the green crystal clear waters of the nearby East River, but unlike Jason, I can’t hold my breath for twenty minutes, ergo and ipso facto, I am doom-ed.
So I have started a GoFundMe to obtain a new airy mattress capable of variable soft/hard differential setting on each side, with an inflatable air pumping gizmo just for the end of days.
Thanking you in advance and be assured lol your contributions will remain not anonymous.
Yours, Extra, Sincerely,
Ogdiddynash (Ogdiddynatsch)
Feb 17, 2024
Feb 17, 2024 at 9:19 AM UTC
exactly how white do I want to be?
came to terms with my whiteness some(many)times ago,
yet, the dentist mixes in, an offer to refresh my yellowed
pearlys who’ve served admirably long, so sure footed,
long in the tooth…so to speak
surprisingly, this puts me off guard, uncharacteristically
unprepared,
exactly how white do I want them to be?
mmm…
the scale is as follows (intermediary levels are complicated)
1. Taylor Swift Bright
10. Cowardly Lion Old Yeller
and shades in between, I’ve grown accustomed to to my smile, which is closest to the Lion’s accreted usage and
wear and tear, and decide to stay as is, to keep my body
in a state of synchronicity
Doctor puzzled, “why do I smile?”
Why Doktor!
you’ve commissioned a poem,
and now know why your License Plate
declare you as Dentist so boldly,
You have the power to end racial strife,
uniform the populace with bright headlights,
and clearly should be allowed to proceed
posthaste to any and all life threatening
emergencies
but my preference is to display many decades
of failure, irregular brushes, periodic flosses,
my natural color, my god-given grace, and who
am I
OR ANYONE ELSE
be empowered
to disturb the natural order of human
perfectionism schematics, for
to every season, every human being,
is a color unique!
Feb 7, 2024
Feb 7, 2024 at 10:35 AM UTC
con-none-drum-roll please
why do “people” wear
really short ,
really tight, skirts,
then spend the rest of the day
tugging,
tugging repeatedly,
on an invisible schedule,
to con us into lowering
the temperature
in them
overheated classrooms?
ogdiddy
Jul 26, 2023
Jul 26, 2023 at 12:34 PM UTC
i am a slow dawner,
sometimes it takes a moment
or a day or even a daze,
till I realize that an insult
flung my way though it
didn’t latch on immediately
as her ears are in perpetuity
plugged with apple earbuds,
it is always a surprise when
she acknowledges me in
real-time and when it is a subtle
insect sized insult, it oft goes
steathily around me like a lion in jungle,
stalking its less than observant prey,
wing aweem away, right past me!
so when in a momentary open ear status,
I inform how nice it is to hear our actual
conversation, she adroitly respondez-moi
(en anglais)
with the title of this poem…
Jul 21, 2023
Jul 21, 2023 at 10:44 AM UTC
“Reads at a Presidential Level”
Jul 29, 2020
Jul 29, 2020 at 10:13 AM UTC
deaf eyes, blind ears, pens down!
two of my English Teachers,
from high school and college
from way way back when,
i requested, critiqued my poems,
cause they could, ex-teachers...
They said:
Your emails are too short,
your poems are too long,
we recommend that your
quit this, do what we say:
pens down!
Your poems are travelogues
to places in your mind, we’ve
got no interest in visiting, Egypt
and Exile, cemeteries in a privy,
time to get a new travel agency.
Your imagery, ars obscura to us,
everyone but you, despite too many
copious notes, which proves our point,
you need smile more and write less.
Just because you’ve got creases,
lines all across your face, doesn’t
mean any wisdom came with them,
nor did you listen in our classes,
we suggest, resolutely, give it a rest.
Jul 29, 2020
Jul 29, 2020 at 10:08 AM UTC
she inquires why I write so many poems,
easy comes reply:
It gives me a fantastic living,
it makes and gives, each poem,
a calculation, a reconciliation
of who I am...a miner of the
mineral wealth in my veins
Jul 26, 2020
Jul 26, 2020 at 3:59 PM UTC
woman asks a why-oh-why
while-I’m-driving-interrogatory,
seeing that tears are rolling down
old poet’s face as we transverse
these United States,
on I-80, Heading to San Francisco,
over the George Washington Bridge,
commencing in Teaneck, New Jersey,
2,906 miles, not including getting lost.
Are you sad for any reason particular?
Are we lost already?
weeping for my country, for with every mile,
see amity and wisdom disappearing,
out the open window,
both by wind taken,
both forsaken,
our route is clear,
but I see what
I most fear, we are not lost,
but my country,
our poor country
is,
everywhere good people,
desperately seeking mercy now!
Jun 25, 2020
Jun 25, 2020 at 4:27 PM UTC
ahem!
phasers on full,
having violated
someone’s human rights,
prepared to be eliminated.
on trial for a continuance
to keep on breathing,
gave a summation speech:
*an untitled poem
is a diamond with
a single imperfection,
casting shadow doubt
on the flawlessness of
a huge finger rock*
*it’s an angel without a halo,
it’s a cat without any claws,
it’s a ice cream sundae sans cherry,
it’s a rudderless ship, no captain,
it’s rock ‘n roll without **** Jagger,
country with no Bonnie or Jolene,
female songwriters with no Adele*
*it’s a woman you’ve met on a train,
falling in love, instantly, whimsically,
she says I love you too! but there’s
no profit in it, no chance of success,
leaves without leaving her name*
*it’s a poem without a directive, a legendary,
imperfect perfection without a signpost pointer,
it’s the only loving worth having, that when lost,
unforgiving, the thousandth cut, so when she asks,
“forgive me?” your silence chokes, you cannot reply*
*incapable of completion,
you’re un-entitled,
you’re untitled,
a blank,
whited-out,
nameless as well*
forevermore
Jun 10, 2020
Jun 10, 2020 at 6:35 PM UTC
you write of dismembered leaves,
pains too sweet,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
quiet rain, droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
tastes that burn eyelids colored in
blood stained mustard yellow,
the gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,
really?
dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and others, more weirder too,
wonderfully inexplicable,
other jimmy olsonian beauties,
non-lexical non-commonsensical
ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries,
and then you wonder why,
PEOPLE ******* HATE POETRY?
Jun 13, 2020
Jun 13, 2020 at 9:46 AM UTC
The P Propensity
this benighted dishwasher,
is familiar with the
P Propensity Theorem,
seeing as he
(think grizzled, unshaven guy in the back of the restaurant cleaning plates)
invented it
the need to solve
for the need to P,
while undertaking prep
for the great dishwashing,
is mathematically soluble:
N, the number of ***** dishes
D%, the variable percentage of how *****
(necessitating pre-scrubbing, or not,)
M, the meal, breakfast lunch or supper,
(a modifier of N)
Ba2, bladder age squared)
formula:
if P = N(D%) {M_}
b [where M1 is breakfast, M2 is lunch etc.]
is >1,
then
better get
an adult diaper
Jan 1, 2024
Jan 1, 2024 at 8:51 AM UTC
ah pasta!
the quality of good writing
is always strained,
unlike mercy,
always salted and drained,
the experience
combinatory of all
your five senses,
together in concert,
lusting for
each rivulet of
spaghetti strands
stands,
indivisible, under god.
calorically sinning individually,
defying forking unification,
each recalling the where,
the what, or the when,
but not
ah,
the how!
matters this know-now,
the how,
this how came calling,
fork+ spoon,
the resurrection
of inspiration,
the genetic sequence of
past mis-steppes
the how of life oft
grows spoiled, fuzzy first,
because a human assembled
it a long ago, the how,
but time took it upon itself,
to deconstruct
so
the tomato sauce bolognese
inspirational stains
exist to remind us
how
to remain perfect forever
poetica est enim propter cibum
poetry is what you eat
Jul 30, 2023
Jul 30, 2023 at 8:56 PM UTC
we re-plant hydrangeas annually,
which our ravenous tick carrying,
**** deer,
munch contentedly,
under our window,
when we are sleeping.
In the last ten years,
today, I saw my first
solitary flowering accidental.
as I’m in poem mode,
it occurs to me that
the first line is incorrect;
for the sake of brevity,
it should read:
we retentives,
we re-plant hydrangeas
analy
Aug 4, 2024
Aug 4, 2024 at 3:04 AM UTC
I am the dishwasher man.
a responsible handyman needs good tools,
given pots and pans to scrub with burnt black stains,
not of mine making, even more infuriating,
of twenty ++ years of prior Duration.
(definitely deserving of a capital D)
went to the supermarket seeking vision,
guidance and a variety of choices,
for a product specific,
not Made in China,
lest we purposely allow
ourselves to be poisoned,
so purchased a Scotch-Brite
*** scrubbing brush
of hecho mexicano origin
Now I stare at the Amazon screen,
undecided how many replacement
brush heads I should acquire,
the cheapest unit price is for a box of 1000,
which no smart store of
intelligent repute would ever carry,
(cause you would never come back)
and which if I actually use up,
an even steven 1000,
it means I’ll be
scrubbing pots
from on high.
but my awe for genius wisdom
is further esteemed,
as they say of it,
Amazon,
makes you buy
mostly what you don’t need,
very cheaply
or
“each according to his own stupidity.”
Jan 1, 2024
Jan 1, 2024 at 8:52 AM UTC
every painting in the house is
modestly crooked due to the
twinning effects of
vibrations and moon-full
spoonfuls of gravity.
causing the tensile strength of the wires to
pensile (1) slowly surrender to point downwards.
It occurs, perhaps
it’s me that’s crooked,
but that’s just plainly
in depth insanity,
like writing a thousand poems
in one 14 day
long sitting.,
now that’s
croissant curvey crazy
nah, not me,
not totally nuts yet,
after all these years,
though not for crooked trying.
Jul 23, 2023
Jul 23, 2023 at 10:45 AM UTC
if my true name you uncovered,
and called me out by same,
without spasm-ing,
first middle and the lost at-last
you, like me would wonder
what the heck my parentals
were imbibing
at such a joyous occasion, my
cursed naming ceremony
but thanks to them,
I’ll be buried with a full head
of fair thicker hair;
that’s why parents say:
**** good thing you kids don’t get to pick your parents names!”
Jun 24, 2020
Jun 24, 2020 at 12:21 PM UTC
man cave versus she-sheds.
A man I know, finished his basement,
a skilled builder, he built it himself and
installed the masculine items prerequisite,
recliner and pool table, refridgerated mugs etcetera.
When asked how
he was enjoying
his privy isle
he replied, it’s ok,
but haven’t been down
there much lately,
seeing as the pool table
is used primarily
for folding laundry,
and the recliner
reserved for her
unmentionables.
he has
shed his man-cave secondarily to
she that rules,
Cardi-be-Cleopatra,
she rules, the empire,
now it’s her she-shed,
he openly cried
real manly tears
to me, fellow member
of hu-man-unkind.
one more,
just another
finished man,
a home & cave-less
bro…
Jul 24, 2023
Jul 24, 2023 at 7:27 AM UTC
many women do yoga.
many men do ***
women prefer,
ah, never mind,
you know how that ends!
No?
If we draw a
Venn diagram,
one circle, yoga,
the other, ***
in the middle,
overlapping sector,
is the
Venn Zen Intersextion
Jun 24, 2020
Jun 24, 2020 at 12:39 PM UTC
asked what I desire for breakfast,
replied, scones and crumpets from the
good ole U. of K. with a cups of celebratory
Jamaican coffee (tee-hee)
she did not even bother
to snort in an elegant
derisory manner,
just walked away,
just turned on her
high heeled sneakers,
(a very worthy sight),
“prithee, grilled cheese sandwiches,
it is then,”
quoting the Bard
alright.
No need to ask me which cheese,
she experientially knowledgeable
in my hard milk acculturation,
one will be home grown ameddican,
real cheese, not Kraft “cheese food”
the other swiss, unless
smoked mozzarella is in the larder,
(who has a larder anymore?)
as I am in matters of cheese,
I’m a transgender, formerly bisexual,
but still a questionable, open minded,
but globalist willing to
entreat any country that values
cheese above war
Aug 13, 2023
Aug 13, 2023 at 9:43 AM UTC
when the kids were young,
invested in fancy luggage,
cause we needed vacations
to get away from them.
These luggages,
had them roll to the number combination numbers locks
which was where technology
was back in
the nineteen eighties,
when I was a
young husband and father,
using the year of their birth
as a four digit code
of course, I programmed
them both incorrectly,
and they, those kids,
now adults maybe,
who can’t remember anything good
I’ve ever done for them,
but remind every time
they come to see me,
which is pretty much never,
about ******** up the year
of their naissance,
which is a
fancy french word,
for
“kids are a pain in the ***
Aug 4, 2024
Aug 4, 2024 at 3:06 AM UTC
my father was a
pretty perfect guy,
beloved by most
and especially children.
He was a ‘gallant’ (gaaa~laant)
of european extraction,
who tipped his homburg
and greeted everyone by name,
forgetting none and
who was related to whom,
or their distant cousins
in Kansas City,
with whom he stayed
when he was a
traveling salesman,
in 1933.
My only complaint,
was and remains,
he never went with me
to Yankee Stadium,
saw the emerald green
diamond miracle
in the Bronx hidden,
as he, small businessman,
worked six days a week,
and had no time
for juvenile sports pastimes,
otherwise, he was my
All-American…
Otherwise, he was perfect
Jul 25, 2023
Jul 25, 2023 at 11:11 AM UTC
****** Blondie,
the weather idiot predicted
rain and thunderstorms.
planned extensively a day
of inside activities,
that are time sensitive.
Yes, of course,
the sun is shining
causing my ladies to question
my witticisms,
cautionary tales,
my type “A” personnalité,
worse!
mocking my
key bulge (see nose above)
as a signal sign of my
increasing decreasing,
procreative masculinity,
due to lead metallica poisoning.
**** those blondes,
gorgeous weather persons,
never forget,
look out the window!
or in other words,
trust Clairol but verify
it’s “natural” sheening
ain’t just a monkeyshining!
June 2020
Sep 21, 2023
Sep 21, 2023 at 12:27 PM UTC
there are so many
types of pockets,
especially for jeans.
my favorite is the “ticket pocket,”
that little pocket stitched
inside a bigger front pocket,
maybe also called a
“watch” pocket,
supposedly
a cowboy designation
for safeguarding
their chained pocket watch receptacle.
who ya kidding?
anyway, a second naming
more to my liking:
seems cowboys put their train ticket where they could easily
retrieve them as the conductor conducted himself properly,
asking each passenger after every stop to show his ticket.
so it came to be,
Levi gave us pockets of variety,
durable, baggy ones to
carry our jewels comfortably,
one for tightly ticket embracing,
and further inspired that
sewn on the hat of
every railroad conductor,
a russian motto,
Trust but Verify.
I myself use the ticket pocket for
my keys,
which in any other jeans pocket, movement
causes cruel and unusual pain,
but not if that huge bunch of jangling
instruments of torture are tightly tucked
in their own prison interior,
incapable of doing hot yoga or
any other stupid exercise requiring
Bo jingling jangling movement
Just don’t you dare ask me
what the purpose of each key be,
it is just a tortured secret for men
in the private parts of their soul,
to confess that keys carried
for three houses ago,
are a metallic proofs that men
are indeed as dumb
as women think they are...
show me a rusted lock somewhere,
I got an hour to try ‘em all
Jun 26, 2020
Jun 26, 2020 at 2:37 PM UTC