Original poem: https://www.byronlopezellington.com/poetry/joj
So, upon further research,
We have determined that Joj,
The great hero,
Was, in fact,
A fraud and master manipulator.
This isn't a poem.
I designed a list of songs
I will hit the gongs
To signal my glee
As I listen to what makes me...
One hundred poems
Across one hundred and seven days
Not bad considering
How many days I missed
Now let's see where it goes from here
Quite effective means
To show weakness when strength claimed;
O sweet cousin of mine
Little and cute and taking your time
Mountains of curls atop your small head
Of thee people will have read
In the future when you lead them, when you outsmart them
But for now just focus on conquering kindergarten
Disclaimer: The following song is a parody of "The Jolly Woodsman" from the incredible Cartoon Network miniseries Over the Garden Wall. I do not claim ownership over the lyrics taken from "The Jolly Woodsman."
Chop the wood to light the fire!
'Tisn't much that I require!
Axe comes down and chops the trees!
I persuade and chop down thee!
To sit and wait
And think so late
Into the night
Of black and white
Books in a pile
Waiting a while
For you to come and read them
For you to come and need them
Stories waiting to escape
Stories which our minds make
To sit and wait
To love, not hate
For your book-smiles
Come and read
And do not flee
Come and read and wait and see.
Soft wind on shoulders
Relief in a hot summer
Breath of the night moon
Eyes in the tree trunks
Watching our every movement
Standing and waiting
Tick, tock, goes the clock!
Hand waving in waiting air, whereabouts the winery is whining
Of ocular opining
About asking an anchovie
If it inspires the idea to idiomatically and interestingly
Decapitate it in its destitute, delirious
State of simple salutations
To the terrible, traumatizing, tricksy world of life,
And tick, tock, goes the clock,
Since it's time to bring down the knife.
Let's eat, kids!
A healthy exclamation at the dinner table.
Let's eat kids!
A witch's declaration in an anacient fable.
When I have just recently written a lot
I find it easiest then to write about
The fact that my creative well is empty.
I suppose when my creative well is yet to be refilled,
My thoughts can only concentrate and build
Upon the immediate things which are easily visible to me,
And here and now that means my temorary burnout, you see?
Shying sheepishly from Sean and Sharon alike, I quickly quell my quaking breath with a quarter of a quest.
Rhyming couplets are a facet of the poetic line
Something I hold dearly, a favorable fancy of mine
So simply stunning and curiously cute can they be
And they sweet symphonies, short or long, are so delightedly pleasing to me
A blur in skies which are unknown to man,
An animal which flies at speeds above
The natural restraints of life below;
Allowing gravity to do the work,
To fall and catch oneself without one's death;
Begone to life comparable to those
Restricted to this earthly plane.
Snowflakes falling down
T0uch softly on sleepy ground
Waiting for summer
A scream pierces the air, flying so high
Into the minds of the wandering souls
Who find themselves running around the yard
Attempting to see what has occurred there
They find a victim bled out on the ground
But by then it certainly is to late.
Droplet in the air
Falls slowly, drips from the sky
A miniscule splash
Is there a right way to write a rite?
Can you compare to the might of a mite?
How about you copyright the term "copywrite"?
Would you bat a bat with a wooden bat if it bat you with its claws?
And did you eat the number eight? Yes, you ate the number eight.
All these homonyms are confusing my eyes,
But at least I still remember to dot my "i"s!
Wow, these rhymes are bad.
Such a brilliantly written character -
Cool, decisive, controlling, and charismatic -
A murderer, a general, a president, a mayor -
So convincing in his antics
That I couldn't help but be convinced myself
Until the moment he lost his mind.
(Relevant side note: Please read Patrick Ness' "Chaos Walking" trilogy!)
Make over the site of my name bearing
Is something I did which involved tearing
The fabric of spacetime and the essence of caring
Whether or not one can see an archive
Of the poetry with which they may jive
So that I mustn't worry about fixing the links
So long as I may fly on the back of a sphinx!
I hear a whisper on the wind
Winking subtley 'til time's end
Whisking rapidly with its heart's desires
Padding through leaves and listening to lyres
Oh how irregular
My poetry has become
Instead of writing lyrics
I'm twiddling my thumbs
Into the earth
Through the dirt
And crystal flash
Sink into the core
All poetry posted here is protected under U.S. copyright law.