ALL RESPONSES |
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In order to learn to read or write a poem, you will need to be able to read and write in a language. In this case, we will use English.
Poems are composed of words, which are composed of letters. You will need to know the letters of the English language, and learn how to make words out of them.
These are the letters used in English:
Big ones:
A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
And little ones:
abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz
Letters usually represent sounds used in speaking.
The first letter, A, is very important. It is also a word by itself. Please memorize this letter and its location on the keyboard. You can also write it with a pen, pencil or crayon on a sheet of paper. Try it.
You are now on your way to writing your first poem.
Next week: Mastering the Sonnet |
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You don't believe that writing
is an art by itself?
Think again.
Start with the requirement
of a vocabulary.
BTW, how is yours.
A MENSA person recently reported
educators agree
there are four
distinct levels of
vocabulary.
Our reading vocabulary is said
to be, by far, the best, because
even strange words
seem familiar through context, as
we have time to
mull over their import.
Less simple
is our ability
to comprehend what others say,
but we are helped by
that their speech vocabulary
is hardly better than ours.
Now we come to the weakest,
and that is
the vocabulary in our writing.
There should be no excuse for that
except we may be afraid
to demonstrate in print
how deficient we truly are.
Thus, beware the sonnet,
and it isn't the rhyme but
the striving to be somehow
more elaborate, more high-falutin'
than the tale we tell can stand.
Next be our grasp of wordsgetting |
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Ah, George, you moon-man,
having all the moon’s
delightful cynicism:
lighting the dark
by reflecting the sun. |
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Often times I find myself
petting sweaty things
and when I become aware
of what I'm doing little beads
of persperation form on my temples
causing my face to slide down inside
my turtle neck giving me bazooka brain. |
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Henry Broderick was buried...
his collection of more than 100 harmonicas
lip silent, even as his dirt turned
and seventy-five pallbearers stood still;
George Carlin was rubber
stamped as the comedian
of seven words that could be spoken
in public (eventually,
this Saturday concluded
as all Saturdays do
as we all do eventually,
some just on Saturdays
and both Henry and George
ended up in the same place
one playing the harmonica
one swearing at the angels |
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there once
was George Carlin
and only
once
who said, “shit; fuck…” and
meant it
his arms were large
enough to cradle
the truth in
shit
fuck
add him up
he was a problem
a beautiful
fractal equation
with bones for teeth now
but back then
yesterday
he was the granddaddy of
all the saints
the ones who dared
to speak truth
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George:
My father brought me
To see you perform live
When I was twelve
Or some such appropriate age.
The other audience
Members squirmed and
Cast dirty looks in our direction,
Made uncomfortable by
My pre-pubescent presence.
Now I think back
On it, had you known
I was in the audience,
In essence, alone, like you,
You would have invited
Me up on stage and
Dedicated the show to me
And all that I have left to see
Or to be fucked up by--
But since you didn’t know
Of me in the smoke filled
Audience, I fell asleep in my
Seat, chin to chest,
Missing all your punchlines. |
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Favorite quote:
“Religion has actually convinced the world that there is an invisible man…..
living in the sky…..
who watches everything you do, every minute of every day.
And the invisible man has a list of ten special things that he does not want you to do.
And if you do any of these ten things, he has a special place full of fire and smoke and burning and torture and anguish where he will send you
to live and suffer and burn and choke and scream and cry forever and ever until the end of time……
but he loves you.”
Thanks for your poem, George.
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For whatever reason,
I never witnessed a
Goerge Carlin performance.
A few years ago
some magazine,
probably AARP,wrote all I ever
learned of him.
Was he an atheist? Did he
say he did
not believe in God?
Did he ever
use the word
God. If so,
there is good argument those
who use it
cannot and still say God
does not exist, or why else
use the word.
God gave us words to use.
George did.
Even those seven.
I have used and will
one of them if
it seems to be the exact
word needed.
I did and would
regardless
of where I would be
and who with.
It could be I
will yet manage to do it
in church,
God be willing.
i |
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The older I get,
The more I look like Buddha.
Serene. Smiling. Bald. |
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for the sake of words
for cracking open the darkness and the call
of the holy wild
flute
for the call of the world, the way awe and doubt
are entangled, grief as a mustard
seed, faith to withstand the storm, the illimitable
question that guides the Fool’s
journey
for the way gold limns
fields of memory, garden of
beginnings, fragrant
past
for the way we illumine each other
heart to heart, stories and
sighs
for remembrance of the orphans and the widows and
the enslaved and the grieved, for the peace
makers
for the left-over rocks I couldn't keep
plundered from sacred sites
where I prayed and
wept
for the adventure as our ships pass
in the night, for the pilgrim
in his broken shoes and the
dancer with her fallen
fan
for the way the moon touched
me mad
and the way the alphabet
taught me
to laugh
I hope to see you on Friday the 11th! It's my birthday. Since I turned 50, I don't have parties any more. Poetry is the happiest way I can think of to celebrate! |
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I felt, at twelve, a truth in you,
swapped babysitting money for
your records and cigarettes, propped
the few albums against the wall behind
my pink bedroom door, a shrine, my
own private cool, my secret stash.
I memorized your routines, the volume tiny
on my record player, as me proper mum
was already on to me, having learned
the word fuck from my five-and-a-half-year-old
mouth only months after landing on U.S. soil.
(I’d made American friends.) She’d asked my
father for the definition, and then – the punishment,
perhaps more for her embarrassment at asking as
for his answer. I still can conjure the tangy
sting of cayenne pepper placed directly on my
tongue. (Joke’s on her, we sisters say. We grew
up loving spicy food and we cuss like pirates.)
The albums accrued as I grew, you were my
bridge across American adolescence, helped
me keep up with the foulest-mouthed among
my circle. But even more: at the core, in my
spine, I kept the keenest awareness that all
words are just words, that it is silly to pretend
they hold danger, or that they do not exist. You
said it clear, you said you couldn’t be fooled,
you said that “shoot is just ‘shit’ with two ‘O’s.”
Decades later, your ideas still burn
vivid, remain close to my skin, I see
through fool words everywhere as America
tiptoes around more and more language, as
the leaders of this nation speak through
mouths full of pabulum, their cleaned-up
words replacing truths like soldiers killed,
or like homeless and uninsured, and the
beautiful-sounding no child left behind,
which is a crime, which is “just ‘shit’
with two ‘O’s.” I know, because I listened,
because you caught me young and opened
my mind, because I swear – no pun
intended – I can always, and I mean
always, detect the presence of two O’s. |
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i once read the heart grows larger
after death for just a few minutes
i feel mine now and wonder if it grows
even as you sit across from me
this morning
i remember watching a blue heron
once at the edge of the lake
in north Wisconsin
swelling above the water
and horsetail reeds
it was as beautiful as you
the day we began to make
something ours
i hold your hand like a small child
holds a balloon thinking
if i let you go you will fly away
i watched the heron for a long time
thinking please let it remain blue
no matter how far it flies
and please let my heart grow and allow
me to keep saying Hello,
it’s good to see you again
for as long as it takes for you
to believe this |
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in-between the child’s crying, the diaper change, the kisses
on the hurt finger
while the coffee begins to percolate its caffeine
in my veins, while my hair is rumpled
and the faint shushing of summer calls
through the foliaged trees
before the day sets on me its realization of the
growingpile of rejection letters and the 1600 pieces
of paper I have burned through in six months
and the hope that rises over and over, little
dove wings over the floodplain searching
for a bit of dry land, home, comfort food,
Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, for example
after the insomnia has wracked my bones on the twin fires
of wising up to be a proud fool and humbling down
to how little I Really Know
in the nether time, the hallowed tune of soul-breath,
the way the muse toys with me like cat with mouse,
like the flippant acrobat of fate
under the sign of Neptune and the transit of Venus
in my house of day-dreams, where the girl never
gave up wistful thinking despite the slap of
reality, the capricious God who
adores the wild unruliness of her heart.
By the back door of the wind, within
the magical cave of treasure, beyond
my own folly and my own strength
is where I meet poems unfurling
in the rain, in lightening, in flame:
bright and urgent, fierce and bold |
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Good evening, good evening, heh heh heh. Wow, what a great audience! And, hey, you look really good on the front row. Yeah, you! It looks like everyone down there shaved tonight. Cool! Heh heh heh. Hey, is everyone here in the casino tonight from Minnesota? No? Oh, we've got a few Canadians here tonight, eh? Hey, it looks like a whole bus load! EH? Heh heh heh. Hey, no jokes, though – you're great neighbors, and gave us Mike Meyers. Er...Eh?, heh. Anyway, have any of you been on any of the tours on the Iron Range? Yeah, a few? Sure, it's nearby. They've got some enormous holes in the ground where they mined out the iron. It's amazing – it's almost x-rated it's so good! I mean, where else would you have multiple ore chasms? Oh, you're from the Iron Range? So – you KNOW what I'm talking about!
(Fred Muller, a dairy farmer from Winthrop, Minnesota, laughs uncontrollably. He's having the time of his life, surrounded by old friends. Everyone laughs. They all rode up together on the bus that afternoon. Fred loved eating at the buffet before the show. It had plenty of scalloped corn, and he could tell the mashed potatoes were the real thing. He ate large helpings of sliced roast beef, fried chicken, and lasagna. All that food should help soak up the Canadian 7s he was drinking. Good food, cheap drinks, lot of laughs. He laughs so hard, his sides begin to hurt. Unfortunately, although he doesn't realize it, he is having a mild heart attack. The pain grows, but he figures it was from all the times he had been kicked in the chest by ornery cows. He drinks more, the pain subsides, all is well. Fred will live another 18 years, providing milk to a world hungry for Colby jack and low-fat yogurt.)
Ok, ok, hee hee. Hey, anybody here from Wisconsin? Come on, show yourselves! No, really, I love Wisconsin. Especially that sign at the border: “Come and smell our dairy air.” Whoa, and did I! Whew, it was strong, too. Like someone cut a cheese. Huh. Yeah! They make lots of cheese in Wisconsin, good stuff, too. Hey, does anyone know what you call a man, a woman, and a piece of cheese? No? A fromage a trois! Ha ha heh. Whoooooaaa! Are we having a good time? Yeah!
(Beverly Larsen, a retired RN from Maple Grove, MN, counts out her slot machine winnings. $650 – her best yet! Her husband, Rodney, wants to use it for blackjack and more slots. They buy a round of drinks for their friends at the table. She wants to use the money to replace the dingy curtains in the living room. Rodney is drunk and won't hear of it. She gives him $50 and stashes the rest in her bra. He'll never find it in there, not tonight.)
Hey, now seriously, does anyone here like to go to the zoo? I do. I try to visit zoos in every town I go to. When I got off the plane yesterday, I headed straight for the nearest one. I saw the lions, the elephants, the monkeys and the birds, but my favorites were the snakes and lizards. I was in luck, because when I arrived it was feeding time....and afterwards, the lizards began to mate! Have you ever seen lizards mate? Huh! Oh, you'd rather not? Heh heh. Well, these giant lizards started to mate, but something went wrong with the male and he couldn't finish. I asked the resident lizard handler what was going on, and she told me he had a reptile dysfunction. Really! Yeah! Hee heh.
(Vince Jessel, pastor of St. John's Evangelical Lutheran Church in Walnut Springs, Minnesota, sits quietly in the shadows at a corner table with his wife, Janie. She is nearly rolling on the floor with laughter. Vince is trying to decide if he should laugh or not. He has heard worse, but the joke seems off-color, making fun of what was for some a serious problem. Thankfully, he had sired and raised three children before he himself was diagnosed with the ailment. His doctor told them to be patient, as it would take time for the drugs to work. So, he manages a grin, and begrudges his wife a few laughs. They didn't get out much, and so far, they hadn't been recognized by anyone.)
OK, folks, I've got to take a short break now. Don't go away! |
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Think of why you said:
pulverize. Rocks, like reasons,
become smaller rocks. |
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Within 7 words:
Enough to change earth, laughing.
In 1? Mysteries. |
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...could not resist the recent rash of h----
beauty is found in
the eye of the beholder...
looking in mirror |
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. . . can't pass this up . . .
Seven naughty words
make a risqu'e middle line
Comic's haiku |
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Did he die because
7 dirty words were too much
for the world to fear? |
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(Can't resist an opening for Haiku...)
Seven spoken words
He set our mute world on fire
He is ashes now
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The news of your death came as a shock.
Wow, George Carlin is dead? I didn't know.
I had no idea that you were dead.
Then it all came rushing to me.
So that's why they were having a marathon of your comedy shows.
I never really did get acquainted with your humor. I am not from 'round here. The first time I heard you on tv, I thought you were a raving lunatic. But I mean that in the nicest way.
At first I thought you were crass, rude and obstinate.
But the more I heard, the more I listened.
Be well, George Carlin, and God bless. ;)
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I think of your body-
ashes spread over the Gulf.
I cannot wrap my mind around this.
I've seen it
in the movies, the closure-letting go
but you are the lion. The strong beast
that rules the jungle. Never one to
settle for something less
like oxygen tanks or handicapped ramps.
I want to know if it hurts you. I do not
want to know if it hurts you.
I think of your body-
reduced to ashes, I cannot wrap
my mind around this. Do not want
to look at the couch when there's no one there
but an old ashtray and television remotes.
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On a mid-summer’s
eve I held
discourse with night clouds
asking these impressive
mountains of vapor:
How do you gather
such whiteness, such boldness
in the deepening dusk?
Answering not
but with magnitude majestic
these grand illusions of substance
swept toward the horizon
and, in due course,
sank silently beneath it.
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There is an isle of pleasure, where chihuahuas roam freely without fear of corporate buyout or government cutback due to low tax revenues in a poor economy.
Many of them are telepathic and can fly instantaneously to random destinations.
Poof.
One just appeared in the passenger seat of a Mercedes-Benz travelling northbound on Snelling,
near the intersection with Selby. There have been spontaneous sightings in area coffee shops and bars.
Citizens are getting nervous, but forensic experts have not been able to explain the UFC phenomenom.
Yet, the pleasure isle is no secret to those who can see past the protective energy field developed by canine masterminds.
Love them, and you are allowed to see and enter.
This is not faith, but empirical knowledge.
To know is to love; to love, know.
Cross the river, and fly to the island of small dogs,
but watch your step.
The only rule is this: Love yourself as your dog.
At the end of the day, when your visit is over, they will fly you home in a lawn chair, suspended by hundreds of large helium balloons.
This is not a dream. It is the isle of pleasure, west of the river.
*(Happy Birthday, Suzanne)* |
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Seven risque words
have made him remarkable.
Which ones did he mean. |
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Every day is another piece,
a few new voices, fragments:
hot water in the sink, a small
jar in the cupboard now washed
night air will dry the dishtowel
so she folds it neatly over its bar
and waits
She paces and smokes
cigarette after cigarette
thinking the medicine
cabinet is down the hall
and the paring knives
are in the drawer
within easy reach |
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So says George Carlin:
Cocksucker, Motherfucker,
Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt, Tits. |
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I used to toke
Till I was gassed out of my tree-house
But since I found God,
I’m on Jesus,
huffing the Holy Ghost,
smoking the spirit,
Tweaking from Jesus,
Out of my gourd stoned
On the Lord.
No drugs no more:
No coke
No dope
No crack,
No crank,
No pills,
Ecstacy,
Dexis
Mad merry juana
Crazy horse
No shit at all,
No shit.
It’s like inhaling weed,
(but I don’t anymore)
and you pull it into your pipe
feeling the amber smoke
expand
then,
whoosh,
be boppa Bible a humming
hummina hummina
thumpa thumpa,
(hold it in, hold it in)
Kee reist it smacks you
A long slow exhale, babies,
Easy as that breathe after sex. Yeah, yeah.
Exhaling is realizing Jesus,
Realizing beyond yellow clouds
Is high heaven.
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when throwing fucks
the great unassuming elbow
is
cut like God's jaw
but
released unlike the portly
dove.
weightless,
the empty hand
tosses
and we
retrieve.
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I ain’t no big stuff
been missing a week and nobody
gives a huff
blind in this whirlpool
but enough’s enough bitch--
and yes, we men can be--
stitches of richness can’t
heave me out the ground
out the grave, nobody can save me
past the twisted tree of memory
when I appeared on TV
television
palsy and pacification for the masses
too crass
to be placed in the annals of corporation
(but still preserved there--oh
the irony)it was way
past the instant of my first showing
as a progeny of where we be
simple terrible coked up
fluid of dysentery
comin out my mouth
I admit it--proud that I did offend
so many in an instant
yes, when I appeared, year after year, when
I was famous as Amos, when
I was a fury on sitcoms and
special occasions
were hailed by my provocations
I almost just wanted to move
from reality to realavision, one more
distant product causing electrocution
but I did not. I did not disappear. And
even though you forget, or even never knew me, like
a definition
I am still
here. |
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poetry doesn't
mean punch line.
I’ll tell you why.
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Those who dance are considered insane by those who can't hear the music. --George Carlin
Hank blew coal dust from his nose til blood sprayed down his overalls.
“Last time,” he swore to the crickets singing their August hymn.
No black sweat Elma’d have to scrubb to clean off his once-white button-down shirts. No more chicken-n-dumplins tasting like a spent match. Maybe, just maybe, she’ll trace tiny tongue circles on his chest again like she did when they first laid in the hay together, before he climbed into his first coal cart.
He’ll work this plot now, forty by forty, with a lean-to covering Elma and baby Dot.
The Big Sandy River’d stolen Hank’s first shack. But he knew the thieving girl wouldn’t take anything else from him up in Wolf Pen holler.
“You’re crazy, Son,” his Papaw’d said, the coal blackened skin making his jaundiced eyes glow gold. “How ya gonna feed yer family?”
“With my own salty sweat,” Hank said to the hazy sky as he tilled the black earth smelling like a hard-driving rain.
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