Write letters filled with meaning, Something truly worth the reading, Words that wriggle with repeating On the cold and dying page. Paint a picture worth the seeing, A creation worth the being, Hold the moment back from fleeing On into the endless age. Something truly … Continue reading Letters
I once tried iambic pentameter,
But could not uphold the parameter.
Hard as I tried,
It never complied,
So I wrote it in Limerick-ameter.
Meters by Yards
Meters by Yards,
Meters by Yards,
And the black line on the floor.
Floating, fairly flying
Flinging droplets to the door.
The black line is a mirror.
My image sets the pace,
Sometimes it is behind,
Or, it wins the race.
Clouds of bubbles rain at me
As I flip right at the T.
Meters by Yards
Meters by Yards,
To swim across this sea.
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.”
(painting by Richard C. Moore, The Clipper Ship)
The Pirate stood on the Black Fear’s deck,
A spyglass to his eye,
High above, Her sails billowed
Boisterous to the sky.
His boots clacked as he paced the deck,
His sword upon his hip,
He ordered the skull and crossbones flown,
But he never loosed his grip,
Upon the map he held so dear,
A treasure to his heart,
Oh how the captain dearly loved
That weathered wrinkled chart!
Soon enough the anchor dove
To seek a sandy hold,
This island was the place alright,
It smelled of richest gold.
Through the jungle, on they trekked,
Hacking through the lush,
Until the jungle swallowed them whole,
With hungry vines and brush.
Soon enough they reached the cave,
And with their torches bright,
Ventured on into the dark,
Their fiery pitch cast light.
And then ahead- It couldn’t be!
There sat an ancient chest,
Locked with chains all rusted o’er,
The cave’s own lonely guest.
The captain kneeled reverently
And then his hand stretched out
The secrets that reside within
He could only dream about.
He broke the chains quite easily
With a creaky, cracking crunch,
And. . .
Jimmy, please stop playing now,
Come down and eat your lunch.
As I have mentioned before, I am a huge fan of children’s literature. Last year I had an idea for a short story-poem about Spaghetti Pizza. I finally took the time to write it down. I hope you like it.
The Tale of Spaghetti Pizza
The day that Mr. Noodle died,
The whole of Weville mourned and cried,
And citizens began to fear,
Because the future wasn’t clear.
For Mr. Noodle’s factory,
-The Pizza Pasta Saucery-
Was the heart and life of town,
And all the people therein found.
The papers spread the news abroad,
Dead Noodle’s will was rather odd,
And would be read at half-past three,
In the square by Mayor Shmee.
The town assembled in the square.
The folks all hoped to win their share.
The Mayor Shmee, a rotund man,
First cleared his throat and then began:
“The will of Mr. William V.
Arthur Noodle:” (read by me)
States, “To the folks of Weville West,
I bequeath my very best,
Dough producing factory.
Please accept this gift from me.
The West folks gave a mighty cheer,
And all the East folks strained to hear.
“And to the folks of Weville East, a gift from me,
To you I give my Saucery.”
The cheer erupted, shoutings rose,
The Town Square meeting reached its close.
Each half of Weville went to work,
Except for little Maisy Merk,
She went to the park across from the square,
With all of the children to meet and play there,
While all of the grown-ups slaved away,
Hour by hour and then day by day.
And soon the East was sick of their sauce.
(Would eating some noodles be such a loss?)
And folks of the West each meal thought “Gee,
I do miss tomato sauce, Yes-sir-ee.”
But each was too proud to bow down to trade,
The East even put on a Sauce-themed parade.
The West, in response, threw a Dough Festival,
With crust and bland noodles for West-siders all.
Yet still the kids met to play in the park,
From Breakfast to lunchtime until it got dark,
Most kids, like their parents, refused to trade,
Except for Miss Merk and Timothy Tade.
And there in the mist that cool summer’s day,
Maisy and Timothy shared anyway.
Together they ate their brand-new lunch food.
Each took a bite. They smiled as they chewed.
Spaghetti Pizza was born in the sun.
And soon other children had joined in the fun.
The parents found out, and boy, were they mad!
They hoped this new food-stuff was only a fad.
It wasn’t a fad and it started to grow.
People thought, “I guess I’ll give it a go.”
So Spaghetti Pizza wore down the prides,
Of the people of Weville- East and West sides.
And round Mayor Shmee decided to host,
A carnival fair for what he loved most-
For sharing and caring and shouting “Hurrah!”
For the uniting power of Spaghetti Pizza.
For friendship for family and humility,
And Mr. Noodle’s old food factory.