You can’t have this poem. I called it first. Shotgun. No do-overs. Can’t be reversed. It’s mine—finders keepers. It’s mine—pinky swear. It’s mine—losers weepers. Sorry. Life isn’t fair. I thought it first. I went and picked it. You sure you still want it? That’s why … Continue reading I Call this Poem!
“The Writer” is a piano waltz I composed. Originally, it was titled the “Elipses Waltz” because of the reoccuring “dot dot dot” motif. (. . .) Below you can find links to the pdf sheet music as well as a rough audio recording of the piece.
Thanks for music-ing with me!
Here is the sheet music for a piano piece I composed called “Snow Sprites”. It is moderately difficult, but not too hard. Click the link for the sheet music pdf link.
“Evinrude” is a hymntune I wrote a while ago. The name itself means “Riverboat”. I can’t seem to write words for it, so if you come up with some, feel free to share!
Sidenote: It has no real title, so it is called “Irish Hymn” in the sheet music in the meantime.
The sheet music link is below:
*Note: Each R or L in this poem is replaced with a W for specific effect. I will let you decide which effect I was going for.
Widdow Wabbit Walfie
Widdow wabbit Walfie,
Went Whooping down da woad,
Where da weeping wiwwows cwy,
So soft dat no one knowed.
He was soon confwonted,
By a gweat big gwizzly beaw,
Who towd da widdow wabbit
“Stop!” Walfie didn’t cawe.
And so he went on whooping,
And skipping thwough da wood,
Being happy fow da wowld,
Just because he could.
I do not usually write nonsense, but when I do, I don’t. -M.M.
The Empathy Amphitheater
Welcome to the Empathy Amphitheatre.
Really, we know how you feel.
You feel like the door greeter-meeter,
Who’s waiting for cherries to peel.
Just Joking. No Nonsense.
I hear from the heart,
And speak from the ear,
And see all and part.
If you are cold, I’ll give you a coat.
If you are hot, that’s too bad.
If you’re unsure I’ll share a bad coat,
Of the fuzziest leather I had.
Sharing is caring, but staring works too,
But glaring, we deem with disgust,
Is a gesture best left for the taxes collector,
Best to be banished to rust.
Hear the heat from the fire that scorches the sky,
The stars that stick to the black,
Up overhead in their upside-down bed.
Do you feel them staring back?
If you don’t, well, I quite understand.
If you do, I knew that you would.
My empathy true, and sympathy too,
Feel just the way that you should.
Sit down. Have a seat.
Or stay where you stand.
To stand is to understand me.
Emphatically I implore you to explore,
Expressions which you share with me.
For I am not you, and you are not me,
And neither of us can agree,
Or then pretend to full comprehend,
Each other to any degree.
So Empathy really, cannot exist,
For imperfect people as we,
So let’s sit downs with smiles or frowns,
‘Cross a cup of some sweet sympathy.
Mathematics and Language. Like mustard and custard, they should never be mixed.
Or should they?
Yesterday I came across a form of poetry which draws from both worlds: Mathematics and Language. Written by the beloved children’s author and mathematician Lewis Carroll, “A square poem” (found here) can be read either vertically or horizotally.
Fascinated, I decided to write my own. It was tricky, but remarkably fun and satisfying. I present to you now:
Carver’s short performance,
Brought a strong applause,
Then the leader raised his hand,
Time briefly seemed to pause.
“I don’t believe I introduced,
Myself to ye as yet.
I lead this band of miscreants;
My name is Everett.”
“We seek ter thwart the Thanator,
The same ye seek to beat,
We’re now en route ter find the King,
His knowledge most complete.”
“The King will know how and why,
The Thanator has come,
What it wants, and how to drive,
It back ter where it’s from.”
“Perhaps, we then should join thine quest.
We seek a common end,
And united, our power grows,
A strength in newfound friend.”
In the morn the camp packed up,
And Everett led the way,
Hacking ‘cross the forest floor,
Till they broke from dark to day.
Before them lay a river vast,
The wild River Quirth,
Though placid at its surface,
The depths a swirling dearth.
Solemnon’s shield faintly then,
Glowed a pale blue.
The words of the ancient one,
Returned then to his view:
“Have compassion in thy walk.
Leave good deeds in thy wake.
Traverse thou always on dry ground.
Ne’er the earth forsake.”
Then Everett spake to all,
“Beyond this river wide,
The king is hidden in the dark.
I shall be yer guide.”
Solemnon voiced his qualms aloud,
“I do not wish to go,
Across the River Quirth today.
My spirit warns me no.”
“A prophet man upon the road,
Forbid me leave dry ground,
My shield too, a warning gives,
That danger lurks around.”
“Oh, ‘tis nothing,” said Carver then,
“You shall not touch the wet,
Safe and dry within a boat.
Come, you’ll not regret.”
“Your shield senses water near,
And merely glows to save,
From the threat of darkest death,
In a wat’ry grave.”
“But no! You shall not come to harm,
And I know you’ll agree,
These canoes are sturdy-strong.
Cross with bravery.”
And from the undergrowth they pulled,
Several dread canoes,
And set sail across the Quirth,
O’er its swirling blues.
They safely, gently reached the shore,
And quickly disembarked,
And traveled on into the wood.
Soon Everett remarked:
“Here upon the left I see,
The entrance ter the cave.
Please men, keep yer wits.
Stay sharp, stay strong, stay brave.”
Most of my favorite foods have something to do with Breakfast. I don’t know why, but they do. Thus we have…
The Breakfastician of Buckingham Square,
Stood proudly at the stove,
Knife at the ready,
Gaze holding steady,
Then, into his cooking he dove.
The opulent omelets he flipped in a flash,
The crepes were beautifully browned,
The oranges were juiced,
A vitamin boost,
For all the folks around.
The syrupy smell swelled high in the air,
Waffles were whisked off the griddles,
Pancakes flew high,
In the blueberry sky,
And donuts and bagels lost middles.
Quite soon a crowd was reeled right in,
To the humble stall in the square.
The breeze of bacon,
Left all thoughts forsaken,
And everyone craved for their share.
The Breakfastician of Buckingham Square,
Grinned as he cinnamon rolled,
Because any day,
That begins the right way,
Is bound to be brighter than gold.
One of these is a true story. The true one isn’t the first one.
Have a Seat
A limerick’s usually witty,
And happy and playful and pretty.
Hear me out once,
And call me a dunce,
But please do not sit on my kitty.
My luck took a downward dive,
My car just would not come alive.
I popped up the hood,
And saw all was good,
Then I saw that I had it in drive.