"bathetic" poems
I understand they find dinosaur bones there in your backyard. Big ones. I've never been to your house or even close to that neighborhood, but ever since you've written me, I am completely intrigued. What you said about me, I think about you in an execrable Hemingway way, maybe as in his "Death In The Afternoon." All the goring. Faintheartedness is nothing to be carried by bullfighters or by bone hunters, I suppose. If there were a way of going back to days of nobler more romanticized slaughtering in bullrings, without the controversy, I'd have to say it is more evident in our modern day Jurassic Park flicks where nerdish paleontologists are transformed into fiendishly handsome toreadors.
I know I'm not making much sense. Bullfights and dinosaur rustling, what's to compare? One being non-civilized though colorful and bathetic, the other fantastical but forgivable because the beasts bite back. Oh, if only I could explain these machismo machinations. What a ruse. How song and dance does intrigue. Please write me again from South Dakota. I'd like to book one of those dusty dinosaur tours before I go extinct. Bone hunts, bullfights, same difference.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC
I did not know that poetry has rules.
‘Tis not a craft for ordinary fools.
Those, that form and meter never master,
Are ever doomed; they are the poetasters.
As opera singers, out of tune, do make
Discerning listeners do a double-take,
And chefs, who sprinkle salt instead of sweet,
Serve meals that connoisseurs would never eat;
A writer with a wretched poet’s curse
Will never craft a great Heroic Verse.
So as I count my syllables and feet,
And wonder if my metaphors will meet,
I pray that hypermetrics are okay,
(For I have used a few of them today,)
I’ll leave the verdict, reader, up to you,
Affirm that to my mission, I’ve been true,
Or if the ending to my verse bathetic
Christen me a poet most pathetic.
Heroic Lines in Couplets, I intended;
Judge me, reader, now this verse has ended.
Phil Lindsey 12/24/15
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
She cries in her bathetic voice, "Bless you,
Bless you". Her cut up hands attached to a body
Floating through a crashed solar system,
The spirit choked from her throat.
I am paralyzed; drinking life from
A jewel-encrusted chalice, but I
Continue to sit here without a sound.
I can not, not do--nothing.
Silver years, frightening years,
Months without light or noise.
I sit and wait for solitude. It is
Nothing nothing nothing.
I am a compound for future generations,
Let them know how to be free. To know
It began with his mocking, squawking
sand paper heart. He made me whisper--nothing.
Clam, calm, cool lass now,
A woman walks into the room,
finding my hollow tomb. Break
Me out of my misery, dressed in my best suit.
I am a poor girl.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 10:31 PM UTC
Under the tarnished light
With boisterous cacophony that wrestled and clashed
She sat.
That morning her heart hadn't just thumped, but it wanted to
Since the annihilated moment
She sat.
But now she sat with an emptiness
Not the bathetic kind by mediocre poets
The kind where you feel the vacancy beneath the skin of your chest.
She sat.
Until she could garner the courage to stand , she sat.
Watching while the aliens roared and laughed, she sat.
But she knew that by just sitting, she'd never move forward.
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 12:23 PM UTC
We have all needed
in our lives
a rubber duck
of bathetic deliverance.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 11:55 PM UTC