By Jim Cavill
These Ain’t Yo Grade 1 Acrostics
Sonnet # 1
The poetry within my head is blank
Verse cut and incised with sharp, angry rhyme.
I struggle to write rhythms staging time
That drag your eyes along the page and yank
The words your ever thirsty conscious drank
Across a frantic, mentally paced climb.
But folks today don’t read to feel and I’m,
By today’s standards, just another crank.
And even though I’ll likely perish broke,
The company I keep won’t be at fault.
The words my pen’s tip have birthed by a stroke
Shall, as companions, finely suit this bloke.
For when my heart beats happily to halt,
Words, too, shall die, no more will I invoke.
Some Limerickery Trickery
There are people I’ve seen in my classes
Who walk around wearing fake glasses.
They’re just glass in a frame,
But they’ve got a brand name.
My, don’t these folks look like asses!
We once got quite drunk in a residence
And declared ourselves all naked presidents.
When morning came round,
Our eyes all were turned down:
Shame dwarfing any in precedent!
There was once a show called Jersey Shore,
Starring shiny, tan, cancerous whores.
The ratings were beaming
But the critics kept screaming:
“Executions in season four!”
Let’s be real,
Running on a treadmill
Lightening their head,
But only just barely(?)
Rarely making any progress.
A pace away
From being flung,
Gritted teeth hung
Headlong heaving dash
To that rumored place
Of cash and rest
And perfect breasts;
His favourite colour was grey.
He wore socks of that colour
So that he wouldn’t get sick of grey.
Every other day,
He wore black socks.
He was always sick
Of his black socks.
Ode to the Tim Horton’s Employee
For all the cups of coffee you dole out,
The lifeblood of the folks who take deep sips,
I’d like to take the time to point you out,
And promise to afford some bigger tips.
Does the exact opposite
Of what it suggests.
Rather than discern who
It tells you who
Chat Roulette: A Poem
Boy in Reese’s Pieces shirt
on a blue couch. Looks despondent…
I think he’s looking for tits.
Guy with Bieber swoosh nexts me pretty quickly.
Shares Bieber’s aversion to poetry, I guess.
Girl in green hoodie looks intrigued,
I write down my info
So she can read about herself.
Bald man in black catwoman mask:
Even though you clicked away in seconds,
You’re almost worthy of your own poem.
Two baseball-capped bros in a row
But to be fair, it’s a hefty majority here.
First guy wasn’t impressed,
Second guy grinned. Poetry enthusiast?
Black-haired, leopard print tank top girl:
The reflection of your glasses is blinding.
Or do you have halogen eyes?
Asian man gets the idea pretty quickly
But at first he’s a little alarmed.
I’m starting to feel creepy.
Once an hour,
The minute hand
And the hour hand
Fold into each other
For their unitive ritual
While the second hand
Makes his rounds.
This isn’t a poem
But having received
A university education
I can confidently argue
That it is.
Winter. Spring. Winter.
is on overdrive.
Haiku are tricky,
you need the right syllables
or you run out of
April Fools Day is
just another great reason
to fake my own death.
Can I just leave already?
Just mail me the test.
Postcards are pictures
on which people brag about
being far away.
“Kill Nazi Zombies.
That’s really the whole game, man.
They just keep coming.”
I ate a frog once.
Not cooked or anything. Just
popped it in my mouth.
Roses are red and
violets are blue. Rhyming’s not
easy … in haiku.
Sitting in an empty room.
Hemlock Manor, Waterloo, Ontario.
Cracked plaster ceiling painted sunshine yellow
Faded to jaundiced skin.
A dog barks in the distance,
Igniting the cries of its nearby brethren
Until the street is a chorus
Of forlorn pleas for attention.
I almost forgot what the dark looked like
Until I stepped outside and bathed in its anonymity.
The stars peered down brightly in their assorted shapes
And I missed their faded carbon copies,
Stapled to a pastel sky.
This is a land of ditches and culverts.
Water bubbles from the ground itself
Asserting its presence in a song
Of sloshing gurgles.
Driving through the dead night
Reminds me of life thus far.
1 becomes 4 cruising at 125.
Thread the needle and,
Stay inside the lines.
My two greatest fears,
And being forgotten.
The latter is realized.
The former approaches.
Traces of my presence will linger
Until they peel and flake off.
I’ll be swept, scrubbed, and sucked into oblivion
Until those bits of me
Won’t remember me either.
Under the sour smell
Of smoldering tobacco
On my jacket sleeve,
I catch your perfumed scent
From where my hand
Brushed the side of your face;
Swept your hair back to expose your lips.
It was a temporal romance,
As are they all,
We watched the wick burn down
Until it spluttered
Into sour smoke.