Oct 23, 2013
It was a formidable task, but agitators or Alinskyites have finally managed to pit the workers against the founders:
By such is my muse newly stirred:
We're studying workers,
And hoping to model their nest.
We've come from the foundry
To size up the boundary
And feel that old Al does it best.
We've taken great pains
To see no ant remains;
We've worked hard to effect their removal.
You'll be happy to learn, the
New method would earn the
Fourteenth Dalai Lama's approval.
Oct 21, 2013
While off to meander
The vale of Neander
I once took a gander at some lovely gal.
She was low in the hip
And smart as a whip,
But that brow ridge! It made me her pal.
I said, "Though I'm cro-magnon,
I'll be yer companion,
If you'll join me now down in the valley."
With a come-hither look,
My comparatively frail hand she took,
And we down toward the river did sally.
With no hint of neurosis,
We danced the meiosis,
And maybe a tango or two.
And that's why knuckle-dragger
Snips, like a stone dagger
Enhancing your swagger,
Now make you a bragger
'bout the chromosomes that she left to you.
Oct 16, 2013
So it turns out that disgraced former mayor of San Diego, Bob Filner, has owned up to some small portion of his odious malefaction.
What better time to revive The Ballad of Sweet Old Bob?
Oct 8, 2013
It may seem a mite unwholesome
To lust after a corpus callosum,
That hard body inviting fixation
On mammillary fornixation,
But I'm told there's temporally more sex
In proportion to a convoluted cortex,
And that with decreased neural density
Come connective intensity
And a naturally selective propensity.
So don't be hesitant to probe.
There's nothing like falling in lobe!
Aug 20, 2013
The kind of sonnet form that Shakespeare wrote
–a poem of Love, or Time, in fourteen lines
Rhymed the way these are, clear, easy to quote–
Channels strong feelings into deep designs.
Three quatrains neatly fitting limb to joint,
Their lines cut with the sharpness of a prism,
Flash out in colors as they make their point
In what logicians call a syllogism–
(If A, and B, then C)–and so it goes,
Unless the final quatrain starts out "But"
Or "Nevertheless," these groups of lines dispose
Themselves in reasoned sections, tightly shut.
The final couplet's tight and terse and tends
To sum up neatly how the sonnet ends.
~ John Hollander, 28 October 1929 – 17 August 2013
Rhyme's Reason, Yale UP, 0300088329, 1981, p. 19
In your playground I learned to care deeply about form. Thanks, John.
Jul 31, 2013
Today, embrace the sun and moon,
Pose questions to the rocks and clouds,
Consider ripples in the sea,
And delve into the dust of doubt.
Engaging them, take time to see
That each announces not itself
Alone, but one, strong, fair, and true,
Who them displays, whose word all wealth
Now allocates to large and small,
Including you within some scope,
Governing cosmic, quantum, all,
A ground of mystery and hope.
So when you ponder, ask, and reach,
Give time to see as well as show.
Discerning means and motives, learn
To shape and teach as well as know.
Jul 20, 2013
Here's a bit o' light verse, given that words are many but hours few.
A dandelion puff aloft went wayward without sinking,
Uprooted, blown into the sky by simple wishful thinking.
So bold, its dreams of meaning made of happenstance and hope.
So dry, the withering stem now plucked– an epistemic trope.
The keep with no foundation falls apart in nothing flat.
Our prison-house of language games will make quite sure of that!
Each proposition needs a promise– given, cherished, kept–
Else thinking, thus unsteadied, spawns a progeny inept.
So build your treehouse near the stream and, firmly rooted there,
It will provide the place where thought may thrive and grow and dare.
The blooming bud once plucked becomes a thing already dead.
Perennial, the cultivated carefully instead.