"ogdiddy" poems
(Inspired by and dedicated to John Edward Smallshaw, and his "Spice")
I am a summer-man,
Because I'm blessed to sit by the sea.
Let it and the other two Musketeers,
boon companions to me,
Sun and Wind,
erase my discomposure as I
reside in the Poet's Nookery.
Let them have almost
all that troubles,
but not all.
I am a summer-man.
On the bay, on the beach,
I see birth, I see death,
osprey nests, carcasses of
mussels and horseshoe *****
This, somehow reassuring,
the cycles,
this circularity,
the tides and inevitability.
I am a summer-man.
Student of languages seasonal,
Peaches, plums, cherries, poetry
and loving Woman.^
This, the summer alphabet-soup
of my multiple tongues.
I am a summer-man.
Sancerre and Pinot Gris, super cold,
Paul Simon, Nina Simone,
with proper aging,
getting hotter,
Salsa and Afrikaner hints,
super louder,
Even "Still Crazy After All These Years,"
that-who-wud-be-me,
chills outer.^^
I am a summer-man.
When ever this lad's writes appear,
it proves once again,
there is no truth that his
name was once Dr. Seuss
In a prior life, even if
each is signed by
Ogdiddy Nash**
I am a summer-man.
**Disrespectful of the calendar,
if I can, try to make
summer season stretch-marks from
May to October.
I would add April,
but the IRS is already
****** at me.^^^
Though the cherry blossoms of May
now gone away,
the lilies of June
arrive, but but for a week or two,
soon, like my mom, withered away.
Acorns in August^^^^ have arrived too swiftly.**
This summer, beloved,
and love of summer,
deep-rooted.
Season of my Peter Pan Poetry Galore Festival.
A love, incapable, impossible, of ever
growing old, ever growing cold,
it cannot wither.
It is summer heat reminders exposed,
how it misses its man,
that hide in the flames of
the teasing, popping, reminding
Winter fireplace's crackling popping***
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
~
Gumby, Wood Woodpecker and Me
~
somewhere in the mother lode
of a thousand poems scripted,
lies a pen-pained tribulation, an old ode,
to the taming of the shrew,
the shock and awe of my new born,
slept-on hair mode
Ogdiddy,
she says,
rise up quick!
thy self to the mirror dispatch,
see what god hath wrought
upon thy head this brand new morn
blessed am I,
at this late stage,
in posses of a
goodly and shocking amount
of hair au naturel
each of my body's parts has a mind of its own,
my hairs, each one a different opinion and resultantly
an amazing new creation born come dawn
sometimes straight up like Gumby
she quips,
sometimes a shocking tail to one side
in the style of one Woody Woodpecker,
she mockingly cries!
and on and on each daily
a new cartoon characterization proposition,
until one day in feigned wrath I do reply
*just you wait Mrs. Higgins, just you wait,
you will rue the day my do
will be best described and descried by you
as akin to that of one known as
SpongeBob SquarePants*
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 9:01 AM UTC
Chatter
she. what are u listening to?
me. melancholy song writers broken love tunes
she. ugh. why?
me. wanted to see how deep into the bed
I could sink,
till you came a looking to
play with me, my spirits to raise,
a game of capture the flag
indoors
--—————
Aural vs. Oral
her night dress rides up,
I awake to an undressed
waist and thigh,
take advantage of the pomp
& circumstance,
cause i believe
whole heartedly in
waiste not, want more
as tongue performs its
repertoire of magic tricks,
i.e. reciting poems,
to the standard whelps
and yelps of “oh its just you,”
keep hearing little tiny whispers
but not those accustomed
sweet nothings?
turns out she is
listening to her book,
quite the mesmerizer,
on her new cordless earbuds
which are tablecloth covered
by her blondini tresses
upset?
nah. applauded her
multimedia tasking,
but took it as a challenge,
my efforts redoubled
she didn't seem to mind
now she wakes me up to show me,
Surprise!
her cordless earbuds, in place
sigh.
--——————-
Ordering Coffee
weekends, get coffee in bed
in my 19 oz. porcelain
cup from Toronto,
standing order is:
fill it to the rim,
extra cream
she says.
isn't ironic!
that is exactly
what I
charge for my coffee
payable in advance
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 11:08 AM UTC
oh drat,
you are reading this,
my little kitty ditty,
jinxing my super duper secret plan,
my walter mitty,
if no one reads this pretty
then the algo-rhythm
sure to pick me out of sympathy
to be the
poem-of-the-day!
so thanks for nothing, Jinxy McJinxFace!
do not give me away
with a finger or a heart,
lest the algo smells a rat
realizing that I am artificially intelligent too!
Ogdiddy Nash
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 2:44 PM UTC
the sign on the railway station says "Common Destination,"
the ties of our tracks are uniform, creosote covered, splintered,
spaced uniformly as is the wont of the arm-in-arm soldiers,
different regiments in the same army, though as they march,
some on the high, some the low road, in defense of the values,
right, right, right.
no believing in forever land, dreamt of poems forever burning,
real life farenheit bonfires lit by brown uniforms and such, thus,
now, when a poem completed and shared,
it is instantly disfigured,
by flames harnessed to lick
the slate page clean, immediately,
presenting yet another opportunity,
to protest, persistently,
endless be my own turnkey hands renewing,
my write to right.
my write to right,
my pupose; my only intent, even in love poems,
ogdiddy witty ditties, long dialogues with the creator, all purposed,
all written while standing one on left foot, are we not all
poets of the ways to increase the sum total of
righteous and kindness in the world.
'tis right to write,
but go further and farther,
write to right.
to ease, comfort, shoulder and hand extensions, be the lean-to,
the shelter when there is no shelter, for there is no
owning words, and no limitation on clear vision and
the right to write.
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 2:18 PM UTC
Oh You Grinchy Woman
We wake and two poems are,
Birthed, hourly.
See back to back contributions to our nation:
Offshore Oil Exploration,
Fantasy.
Some formerly sweet,
Now a Grinchy Seuss complete,
Woman,
Has accused me of being an
Ex-poseur (expose-err? Exposé-her?)
Of our private life.
On some **** poetry site.
She would be
100% correct, **** right!
It is not my fault
If she dresses me in
Love and inspiration.
Don't you agree?
This ditty makes three.
It is safe to let it out,
Because she went off to yoga,
Wearing a little pout.
For which I say,
Thankee!
Ogdiddy Natsh
July 5th
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 8:11 AM UTC
7/30
11:20 am
no luddite me.
no longing for the good old days.
from one oft abused little phone,
I, while bathing royally
in my cowardly four
legged lioness tub
got my music,
my reading list,
sports pages,
and if so inclined,
shoot off a quickie,
a poem for your
grateful nation
appreciation.
all of which
causes me to
issue a heartfelt
happy cry apology
dame as the
of the prehistoric
techie avanti,
Flinstoni
yabadabadoo!
which does not deserve
the opprobrium returned of
"Shut Up, Please"
coming from the the galley
kitchen where the women are
doing their whatever
gossipy kitchen thing.
not to be accused of non-responsiveness,
I, reply as the techno Fourth Tenor,
"can't hear you, why don't you text me!"
happily issuing another,
but in a more
thoughtful basso,
yabadabadoo!
quietly whispering
a self satisfying
follow up
vincerò!
ogdiddy nash
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC
~
There is no truth
That my name was Dr. Seuss
In a prior life
Signed
Ogdiddy Natsh
~
No matter that plain words
are my ordinary tools,
with them I shall
scribe the small,
cherish the little,
grab the middle,
simplicity my golden rule.
Write they say,
about what you know best
surely in the diurnal motions
the arc of daily commotion
do we not all excel?
~
me, just a poet poseur extraordinaire,
street urchin, word merchant,
all my verbally,
worldly goods expropriated
from the wind,
where your scattered thoughts
lie about, carelessly, unattended
~
Scout the competition.
Then,
Weep,
for you and I will never surpass
the poet giants who preceeded us,
and yet,
Laugh,
cause they thought the same as well
--
So I spend my cold, hard time
laying down cold hard verse,
can't stop, cause
it's my daddy's dying curse
~
Addict and dealer,
a ****** poet ******
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 10:16 PM 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