tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90602676698120749122024-03-05T22:12:32.797-08:00Parody Poetry Journalpoetry for the world as it really isn'tThe Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comBlogger198125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-27400079460776236572020-01-01T00:00:00.001-08:002020-10-20T09:08:22.241-07:002020<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Dear readers, writers, and random internet stumblers,<br />
<br />
Unfortunately I plan to stop posting new content to the Parody website. The good news is that you can continue to enjoy the historical records for as long as the internet shall live (and I promise to finish transferring the full archives to the updated URL!).<br />
<br />
You can also purchase print copies to squirrel away in the event that The Simplification comes around destroying such lovely artwork and knowledge as contained herein.<br />
<br />
Thanks for 8 years of fun,<br />
<br />
<i><b>The Haikooligan</b></i><br />
th@parodypoetry.com</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Sharing the physical archives!</b></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">By the way, do you happen to know of a middle or high school teacher who would appreciate the complete set of Parody (volumes 1.1 through 6.2)? I'm happy to offer them for free! Doubly so if you're willing to help cover some of the cost of mailing with a donation of $5 - $10.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Send me the name and address (preferably the school's address) so I can prepare the poetry care package. Don't give your teacher apples, give them poetry!</div>
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The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-42388546162199090292019-12-31T00:00:00.000-08:002019-12-31T00:00:00.477-08:0019-52.2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">To His Coy Wordsmith</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44688/to-his-coy-mistress">with a nod to Andrew Marvell</a></u></i></div>
<br />
Had we but world enough and time<br />
this coyness, poet, were no crime;<br />
I would sit down and trawl each phrase<br />
for hidden nuances and ways<br />
in which it might relate<br />
to concepts that you'll never state.<br />
I'd listen for the quarter rhyme<br />
that's buried somewhere in the line,<br />
engrossed as you'd recite me all<br />
your poetry in a tedious drawl.<br />
Hellenic imagery would lead<br />
through dusty alleys where I'd read<br />
cryptic allusions into each<br />
veiled reference hung just out of reach.<br />
But at my back I ever hear<br />
life's siren sound bites scurrying near<br />
and yonder all before us lie<br />
deserts of vast obscurity.<br />
Now therefore, lest sales of your verse<br />
decline from some to something worse,<br />
sprinkle your page with dancing fires<br />
and satisfy my base desires<br />
with music that stays with me long<br />
after I've put away your song.<br />
Tell me of heron-priested shores;<br />
of boughs more silent than before.<br />
Once coyness free, it's not a crime<br />
for poetry to scan or rhyme<br />
and, if you do recite it, try<br />
to give it wings and let it cry.<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">John Wood</a></i><br />
<br />
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------------------------------------<br />
<b>John Wood</b> would love to be a Philip Larkin or a Dylan Thomas but, as it turns out, is a distinctly unliterary sometime ferry skipper and small time farmer from Cornwall, England. Ah well, if you can't do it, just enjoy it or parody it!
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The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-51179096591683692962019-12-30T00:00:00.000-08:002019-12-30T00:00:14.871-08:0019-52.1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">The Formalist</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/86142-i-give-you-now-professor-twist-the-conscientious-scientist-trustees">with a nod to Ogden Nash</a></u></i></div>
<br />
I give you now Professor Fist,<br />A storied verbal pugilist.<br />Said linguists, "He's above the rabble.<br />He'll never stoop to common babble."<br />Fist listened to his colleagues preach<br />On misuse of the parts of speech.<br />"Them that for 'whom' would give us 'who,'"<br />Chimed one, "are quite without a clue."<br />Fist smiled in his familiar way.<br />"You mean," he said, "not 'them,' but 'they.'"<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Julian D. Woodruff</a></i><br />
<br />
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------------------------------------<br />
<b>Julian D. Woodruff</b>
came to literary invention while telling authorities in East Berlin how
he lost his passport. His poetry appears on the websites of <i>Carmina</i> and T<i>he Society of Classical Poets</i>. <i>Reedsy</i> and <i>Frostfire Worlds</i> have each issued a short story. He is a member of the Rochester, NY Area Children's Writers and Illustrators and SCBWI.
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The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-946465895484268382019-12-27T00:00:00.000-08:002019-12-27T00:00:00.680-08:0019-51.5<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Death Responds to Mr. Donne</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44107/holy-sonnets-death-be-not-proud">with a nod to John Donne</a></u></i></div>
<br />
I have heard many silly taunts<br />
in my extensive time,<br />
and they are never more clever<br />
just because they rhyme.<br />
Ignorance should whisper<br />
like a muffled chime.<br />
<br />
I am not proud<br />
though you are too proud to see<br />
that the Grand Bungler<br />
who created you also created me.<br />
<br />
I am not mighty or dreadful—<br />
do not overthrow.<br />
Those are your birthmarks.<br />
You are your foe.<br />
<br />
Poison and war are a scaly brood<br />
for which I have no need.<br />
They hatched in the same nest as you,<br />
and you are the fodder on which they feed.<br />
<br />
Chance is a monkey<br />
whose mischief ends at the tomb.<br />
Fate and sickness are encrypted<br />
when you're in the womb.<br />
<br />
You are the slave<br />
of desperate men and kings,<br />
who look like lice to me—<br />
or other insects without wings.<br />
<br />
I am a lantern at the end of your day.<br />
I am not the Magnificent Fumbler,<br />
who gifted you with feeble DNA.<br />
<br />
I bring peace after you have done your worst,<br />
and while I may eventually die,<br />
you will die first.<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">James Reynolds</a></i><br />
<br />
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<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>James Reynolds</b> lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia and is a member of Valley Writers in Roanoke. His work has been published in Ariel Chart and will also appear in upcoming editions of <i>The Broadkill Review</i>, <i>Scarlet Leaf Review</i>, and <i>Lighten Up Online</i>.</div>
The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-35257912063079077372019-12-26T00:00:00.000-08:002019-12-26T00:00:00.328-08:0019-51.4<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Thirteen ways of Looking at a Maltese</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45236/thirteen-ways-of-looking-at-a-blackbird">with a nod to Wallace Stevens</a></u></i></div>
<br />
<b>I</b><br />
Among many cozy covers<br />
I lost the little thing<br />
Where the heck is that Maltese.<br />
<br />
<b>II</b><br />
I'm losing my mind<br />
can't you see<br />
How can I chase three Maltese?<br />
<br />
<b>III</b><br />
The Maltese wet in the autumn leaves<br />
It was a small walk for that pal 'o mine.<br />
<br />
<b>IV</b><br />
A man and a woman<br />
have fun.<br />
A man and a woman and a Maltese<br />
watch TV.<br />
<br />
<b>V</b><br />
I do not know which he prefers<br />
a bowl of wet dog food<br />
or the beauty of many kibbles—<br />
The Maltese slurping<br />
or just crunching.<br />
<br />
<b>VI</b><br />
Faces small in the front window<br />
with nostril stained glass<br />
The bobbing of the Maltese<br />
Crossing it, up and down<br />
Their mood<br />
traced to my footfalls<br />
Are they waving their little paws?<br />
<br />
<b>VII</b><br />
O you men of Main Street<br />
Why do you maneuver giant dogs?<br />
Do you not see how the Maltese<br />
Walks around my feet<br />
And hot women approach me?<br />
<br />
<b>VIII</b><br />
I know comic accents<br />
And stupid, inescapable limericks;<br />
But I know, too,<br />
That there are no Maltese jokes<br />
In what I know.<br />
<br />
<b>IX</b><br />
When the Maltese ran out of sight,<br />
It marked the edge<br />
of my neighbors hibernum.<br />
<br />
<b>X</b><br />
At the sight of Maltese<br />
playing in a green park<br />
even the grouchiest of jerks<br />
would forgo frowning.<br />
<br />
<b>XI</b><br />
He flew over Connecticut<br />
way back in coach.<br />
Once he got nervous<br />
but then he just hugged<br />
his well behaved therapy dog<br />
A Maltese.<br />
<br />
<b>XII</b><br />
That daisy is moving.<br />
The Maltese has gone pee pee.<br />
<br />
<b>XIII</b><br />
It was pizza all afternoon.<br />
It was football<br />
And it was going too long.<br />
The Maltese sat<br />
In the La-Z-Boy.<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Phil Huffy</a></i><br />
<br />
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<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>Phil Huffy</b> started writing poems in late 2017. He placed nearly two hundred pieces in journals since that time and is pleased to be eminently googleable. His moderate success may be due in part to his use of various styles of poetry, metrical and otherwise. He plans to release a book of limericks in 2020 (unless his wife finds out) written to the same high standards to which he customarily aspires.
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The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-65602285429068402242019-12-25T00:00:00.000-08:002019-12-25T00:00:03.263-08:0019-51.3<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Mr. Hopkins Considers Getting a Cat</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44399/pied-beauty">with a nod to Gerard Manley Hopkins</a></u></i></div>
<br />
Glory to the gods for feline things—<br />
the lynx, the sphinx, the Manx, the ocelot,<br />
the Himalayan, Persian, Siamese,<br />
the paw that pats, the crescent claw that clings.<br />
All things that hunt and hide and heed you not<br />
derive from Egypt their divinities:<br />
Bastet, benignant as the sun at noon,<br />
mother of those who chitter, pounce, and purr,<br />
who keeps the cosmic harmonies in tune<br />
and makes your kitten's eyes change with the moon—<br />
Feed Her.<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Gail White</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
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<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>Gail White</b>, a resident of Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, feeds stray cats on Bayou Teche. Her poetry is formal and often feline-oriented. On being nominated for a Pushcart prize this year, she had to lie down for two days to get over the shock.
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The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-88510732867026263932019-12-24T00:00:00.000-08:002019-12-24T00:00:09.095-08:0019-51.2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">The Cultivation of Christmas Trees</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://theimaginativeconservative.org/2018/12/the-cultivation-of-christmas-trees-ts-eliot.html">with a nod to T.S. Eliot</a></u></i></div>
<br />
There are several attitudes towards trees,<br />
Some of which are utilitarian,<br />
Some ecological, some aesthetic,<br />
Reverential, flatly symbolic<br />
(And there are things a tree can symbolize<br />
That might not immediately strike us),<br />
But no attitude as circumscribing<br />
As that which surrounds the Christmas Tree lot,<br />
Where potential centuries meet cement<br />
And farmed nature is gaily sifted through,<br />
Measured against bright living room ceilings,<br />
And tied down to the roofs of cars. Perhaps<br />
We shoppers, scurrying in our festive rounds,<br />
Should not be baffled by the sadness<br />
Tinging the Christmas Joy of that rare child<br />
For whom the needle-shedding, gilded tree,<br />
Tinsel-boa'd and capped with an angel,<br />
Is not only a symbol, but a tree.<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Max Gutmann</a></i><br />
<br />
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<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>Max Gutmann</b> has contributed to dozens of publications, including <i>New Statesman</i>, <i>The Spectator</i>, and <i>Cricket</i>. His plays have appeared throughout the U.S. and have been well-reviewed (see <a href="http://maxgutmann.com/">maxgutmann.com</a>). His book <i>There Was a Young Girl from Verona</i> sold several copies.
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The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-56653279172272097022019-12-23T00:00:00.000-08:002019-12-23T00:00:06.796-08:0019-51.1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">The Modern White Supremacist's Song</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Major-General%27s_Song">with a nod to Gilbert & Sullivan</a></u></i></div>
<br />
<i>Trump:</i><br />
I am the very model of a modern white supremacist<br />
With Nazi propaganda from my Jewish chief polemicist<br />
I read no books, I've got no friends, I have no curiosity<br />
No manners, and no character except my grandiosity;<br />
No music, patience, empathy, no courage, and no loyalty<br />
Except to brutal despots and hereditary royalty—<br />
I like the rich and powerful, and all authoritarians<br />
Korea, Russia, China, and the Muslim Saud vulgarians.<br />
<br />
<i>Self-Loathing Chorus:</i><br />
He likes the rich and powerful, and all authoritarians:<br />
Korea, Russia, China, and the Muslim Saud vulgarians.<br />
<br />
<i>Trump:</i><br />
I haven't got integrity, compassion, nor normality,<br />
No conscience, no respect, no shred of honor, no morality<br />
I do not recognize the ancient truths nor modern verities<br />
And cheat and steal from businesses and governments and charities.<br />
<br />
<i>Self-Loathing Chorus:</i><br />
He does not recognize the ancient truths nor modern verities<br />
He cheats and steals from businesses and governments and charities.<br />
<br />
<i>Trump:</i><br />
I love the evangelicals because they're most defraudable<br />
I love the left-wing liberals because they're very proddable<br />
And often it's the same damned thing to which they are susceptible<br />
Some happily accept what others deem as unacceptable.<br />
When something that I do or say is widely hailed as horrible<br />
The white-bread theologians all embrace it as adorable<br />
At least they say in sermons my behavior is ignorable<br />
And Protestant or Catholic they cheer themselves deplorable.<br />
<br />
<i>Self-Loathing Chorus:</i><br />
At least they say in sermons his behavior is ignorable<br />
And Protestant or Catholic we cheer themselves deplorable.<br />
<br />
<i>Trump:</i><br />
They say "I'm not a racist, but"—and then they say a racist thing,<br />
And if they have a choice of two they always say the basest thing.<br />
I let them wave their Bibles and believe what they have guessed I meant<br />
Although there's not a person who is white in either testament.<br />
<br />
<i>Self-Loathing Chorus:</i><br />
He lets us wave our Bibles and believe what we have guessed he meant<br />
Although there's not a person who is white in either testyment.<br />
<br />
<i>Trump:</i><br />
When everybody's outraged and the internet is simmering<br />
That's when my trollish ego is most Freudianly shimmering<br />
I love it when the Democrats are shocked dismayed and scandalized<br />
By yet some other of their sacred cows that I have vandalized.<br />
I call you people names because when you are most antagonized<br />
That's when my basest base is most excitedly band-wagonized.<br />
There's really nothing to it—why the more that I'm notorious<br />
The better chance my white folks have to finally be victorious.<br />
<br />
<i>Self-Loathing Chorus:</i><br />
There's really nothing to it—why the more that he's notorious<br />
The better chance we white folks have to finally be victorious.<br />
<br />
Trump:<br />
I'm President because I lied and cheated electorally<br />
And nothing you can do can touch me legally or morally.<br />
With Nazi propaganda from my Jewish chief polemicist<br />
I am the very model of a modern white supremacist.<br />
<br />
Self-Loathing Chorus:<br />
With Nazi propaganda from his Jewish chief polemicist<br />
He is the very model of a modern white supremacist.<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Marcus Bales</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
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<br />
------------------------------------<br />
Not much is known about <b>Marcus Bales</b> except he lives in Cleveland, Ohio, and his work has not appeared in The New Yorker nor Poetry Magazine.
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The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-14265641849790932692019-12-16T00:00:00.000-08:002019-12-16T17:17:48.447-08:0019-50<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Kisses</span></b></div>
<br />
Rain kissed,<br />
sun kissed,<br />
the final kiss of death.<br />
A send-off kiss,<br />
a come-home kiss,<br />
kisses stealing breath.<br />
<br />
Kiss the princess;<br />
kiss the frog;<br />
a Judas kiss of truth.<br />
Blow a kiss,<br />
Eskimo kiss,<br />
kisses in a booth.<br />
<br />
Kiss and tell,<br />
kiss the dust,<br />
kiss the pain away.<br />
Steal a kiss,<br />
kiss my grits;<br />
a kiss to make him stay.<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Arvilla Fee</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
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<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>Arvilla Fee</b> has been married for 17 years and has four children (two grown, two at home). They live in Dayton, Ohio, where Arvilla teaches English Composition for Clark State Community College. Writing has been a passion of hers since she was just a kid. She often poured childhood angst into poems about getting dragged along to yard sale after yard sale after yard sale! She's been published in numerous magazines, including several college campus magazines while obtaining her Bachelor's and two Master's degrees. What she loves most about writing, though, is the sheer power of words—the ability to make people feel joy, sadness, strength or anger. Finding the right word for a poem or story is like finding the five dollars you didn't know you had in your pocket! It's glorious! (so says Arvilla).
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The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-30556646044030357952019-12-09T13:26:00.001-08:002019-12-09T13:31:20.046-08:0019-49<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">If</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://www.example.com/">with a nod to Rudyard Kipling</a></u></i></div>
<br />
If you can fake a 4-F due to "bone spurs,"<br />
With a podiatrist who rents from Dad,<br />
And never go to war and win your own spurs,<br />
But boast of dodging STDs instead;<br />
<br />
If you can mock a Muslim Gold Star family<br />
And decorated heroes like McCain,<br />
And brag of "knowing" ISIS, oh so hammily,<br />
But what you know, you never quite explain;<br />
<br />
If you can tweet the soldiers out of Syria,<br />
Betray the Kurds and leave our allies flat,<br />
Till neither men nor mad dogs can be near ya,<br />
But you've still got a tweet worth two of that;<br />
<br />
If you can try to save your reputation<br />
With a quick stop for selfies in Iraq,<br />
Call the troops "suckers," give out their location,<br />
Insult the country's leaders–to their back;<br />
<br />
If you can dress in costumes and play Army<br />
While getting every single detail wrong–<br />
Your name is Drumpf. The whole world knows you're barmy,<br />
And playing Chief Commander. Not for long.<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Cheryl Caesar</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/buy.html">Support</a></u><br />
<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>Cheryl Caesar</b> lived in Paris, Tuscany, and Sligo for 25 years. She studied at the Sorbonne and taught literature, phonetics and "civilization." She teaches writing at Michigan State University in East Lansing, demonstrates, reads and publishes protest poems in the U.S., Germany, India, Bangladesh, Yemen, and Zimbabwe. facebook.com/bindiwankatterpi
</div>
The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-87574645787169867192019-12-02T10:56:00.001-08:002019-12-02T11:04:05.816-08:0019-48<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Blue Girls Revisited</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://allpoetry.com/Blue-Girls">with a nod to John Crowe Ransom</a></u></i></div>
<br />
Styling in your leggings, wildly designed,<br />
Strutting to classes in your modern schools—<br />
While texting. Roll your eyes at those old fools<br />
Who think they're so refined.<br />
<br />
Toss back the pink extensions in your hair,<br />
And think no more of SATs at all.<br />
But plan to meet BFFs at the mall<br />
To shop for earrings there.<br />
<br />
Make duck face selfies while guys who watch dream<br />
about your lovely, well-toned flesh so tight.<br />
It will sag some day, bringing no delight—<br />
in spite of firming creams.<br />
<br />
You think I don't know beauty, but I do!<br />
I know a woman with a poison tongue<br />
and beady eyes that used to be bright-blue.<br />
She turned heads near and far when she was young<br />
and surely knocked the shine off all of you.<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Janice Canerdy</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/buy.html">Support</a></u><br />
<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>Janice Canerdy</b> is a retired high school English teacher from Potts Camp, Mississippi. She has been writing poetry for over fifty years. She especially enjoys rhymed, metered poetry and gets a real charge out of parodying the famous poems she once shoved down her students' throats (while assuring them that studying such noble literature would greatly enhance their lives).
</div>
The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-46034732635962010562019-11-25T00:00:00.000-08:002019-11-25T09:38:47.672-08:0019-47<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Murray's Loss, Morrie's Gain</span></b><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>or,</i><i> The Silent Treatment</i></span></b></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://modernfarmer.com/2017/12/true-story-behind-mary-little-lamb/">with a nod to The Mother of Thanksgiving</a></u></i></div>
<br />
Murray lost his little clam<br />
one day along the beach.<br />
He feared it had been swept away<br />
by surf, beyond his reach.<br />
<br />
He searched the shore, both high and low,<br />
combed every grain of sand.<br />
He called to it. It answered not:<br />
clams are a silent band.<br />
<br />
Morrie found that little clam<br />
amid the tide's debris.<br />
He talked to it, but mute the clam<br />
remained as in the sea.<br />
<br />
He took it off to school one day.<br />
The clam broke not a rule:<br />
the best behaved in class it was—<br />
no doubt in all the school.<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Julian D. Woodruff</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/buy.html">Support</a></u><br />
<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>Julian D. Woodruff</b> came to literary invention while telling authorities in East Berlin how he lost his passport. His poetry appears on the websites of <i>Carmina</i> and T<i>he Society of Classical Poets</i>. <i>Reedsy</i> and <i>Frostfire Worlds</i> have each issued a short story. He is a member of the Rochester, NY Area Children's Writers and Illustrators and SCBWI.
</div>
The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-82201045976358346932019-11-18T00:00:00.000-08:002019-11-18T11:10:22.980-08:0019-46<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">To My Angry Partner</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://poets.org/poem/do-not-go-gentle-good-night">with a nod to Dylan Thomas</a></u></i></div>
<br />
Go gentle into that good night.<br />
Don't burn and rave. Don't slam the door,<br />
And when you leave, please turn out the light.<br />
<br />
Perhaps you're suffering some imagined slight,<br />
Forked words that you just can't endure.<br />
Go gentle into that good night.<br />
<br />
I thought you were articulate and bright,<br />
Not some grieving, grunting boor.<br />
When you leave, please turn out the light.<br />
<br />
How did we ever reach this plight<br />
When no deed matters anymore?<br />
When you leave, please turn out the light.<br />
<br />
It's stupid, who was wrong or right,<br />
Our quarrel as blind as some old metaphor.<br />
Go gentle into that good night.<br />
<br />
The two of us make one sad plight.<br />
Raging's clearly not the cure.<br />
Go gentle into that good night,<br />
And when you leave, turn out the light.<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">David Galef</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/buy.html">Support</a></u><br />
<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>David Galef</b> has published over two hundred poems in magazines ranging from <i>Light</i> and <i>Measure</i> to <i>The Yale Review</i>. He's also published two poetry volumes, <i>Flaws</i> and <i>Kanji Poems</i>, as well as two chapbooks, <i>Lists</i> and <i>Apocalypses</i>. In real life, he directs the creative writing program at Montclair State University.
</div>
The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-77577731278776671762019-11-11T00:00:00.000-08:002019-11-11T00:00:07.507-08:0019-45<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">They Grow Up From Me</span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45589/they-flee-from-me">with a nod to Sir Thomas Wyatt</a></u></i></div>
<br />
They flee from me that sometime did me seek<br />
with toddler foot, stalking our bedroom chamber.<br />
I have seen them hilarious, giggling, full of cheek,<br />
that now are detached and do not remember<br />
that sometime I put them in their manger<br />
to clean their poop with Luv's wipes; now they range,<br />
busily hanging out with a bunch of strangers.<br />
<br />
Thankéd be fortune it hath been otherwise.<br />
Twenty times better; but once in special,<br />
in Halloween costume, under dark November skies,<br />
when their bags of candy from their hands did fall;<br />
therewithal sweetly did they hiss,<br />
"Daddy, you'll have none of this!"<br />
<br />
It was no witchcraft: I lay broad waking.<br />
But all is turned thorough my largesse<br />
into a strange fashion of forsaking;<br />
and I have shock at their apparent rudeness,<br />
and they also love their growing adult sureness.<br />
But since that I am so kindly burnéd<br />
I would fain appreciate an email returnéd.<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Richard Cummins</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/buy.html">Support</a></u><br />
<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>Richard Cummins</b> lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife, Meg. They have two successful kids who have grown up from them. One is a writer in NYC; the other is a writing student and a senior at a university a full mountain range away.
</div>
The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-78160030322172357452019-11-04T00:00:00.000-08:002019-11-04T00:00:00.905-08:0019-44<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Saw</span></b></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I never saw a Purple Cow,<br />I never hope to see one;<br />But I can tell you, anyhow,<br />I'd rather see than be one.<br /><i>- <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Purple_Cow" style="text-decoration-line: underline;">Gelett Burgess</a></i></blockquote>
<br />
I finally saw a purple cow.<br />
I'd never hoped to see one<br />
Nor dreamed that I'd be writing now<br />
To tell you that to be one<br />
<br />
Is not so fun. I know because<br />
On seeing, I became<br />
A purple cow! And nothing was<br />
Ever again the same.<br />
<br />
The boys all laughed, the mean girls sneered,<br />
And grownups shrieked in fright.<br />
I asked an old friend what they feared.<br />
He said, The very sight<br />
<br />
Of you! So, with a can of paint,<br />
I sprayed my skin all green.<br />
Thus ended everyone's complaint,<br />
The world turned not-so-mean.<br />
<br />
I've noticed how the world is full<br />
of folks who will allow<br />
and accept almost any bull<br />
but not so much a cow.<br />
<br />
While underneath, I know that I<br />
Am really purple still,<br />
I keep it to myself—and sigh,<br />
As certain poets will.<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">James B. Nicola</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/buy.html">Support</a></u><br />
<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>James B. Nicola's</b> poetry has garnered two Willow Review awards, a Dana Literary award, and six Pushcart nominations—including one from Parody! His full-length collections are <i>Manhattan Plaza</i>, <i>Stage to Page</i>, <i>Wind in the Cave</i>, <i>Out of Nothing</i>, and <i>Quickening: Poems from Before and Beyond</i>. His nonfiction book, <i>Playing the Audience</i>, won a Choice award.
</div>
The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-83051818662022619762019-10-28T00:00:00.000-07:002019-12-20T14:04:19.609-08:0019-43<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Fear" is the thing with dark fur—</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://www.example.com/">with a nod to Emily Dickinson</a></u></i></div>
<br />
"Fear" is the thing with dark fur—<br />
That perches on the soul—<br />
And snacks upon the winged beasts—<br />
That may be resting there—<br />
<br />
And growling—in the calm—is heard—<br />
And Heavenly's the peace—<br />
That could allay the mangy hound<br />
Of which so many warned—<br />
<br />
It found me in the silent night—<br />
With naught for hope of sleep—<br />
It gnawed on each extremity,<br />
Left not a crumb of me.<br />
<br />
-----------------<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: 32.6406px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Mixed Drinks</span></b></div>
<br />
You can change how the tea leaves land.<br />
You're not required to close your eyes<br />
and blindly swirl.<br />
<br />
But don't let your reader know.<br />
She'll just go on and on<br />
and on. Something<br />
about the mystery or upsetting the fates:<br />
as if they're going to raise<br />
their heads from the loom<br />
for just any old mug.<br />
<br />
So if it looks as if<br />
the leaves are about to land<br />
and hand you a cup of misfortune<br />
just give it one last shake, or<br />
perhaps, dump it on the table<br />
upside down.<br />
<br />
You're doomed anyway.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Brian Garrison</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/buy.html">Support</a></u><br />
<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>Brian Garrison</b> doesn't frequently make a habit of shameless self-promotion, but you can read more of his poetry in his chapbook <i><a href="https://www.bugthewriter.com/p/buy-things.html">New Yesterdays, New Tomorrows</a></i>.
</div>
The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-79064891957125678192019-10-21T00:00:00.000-07:002019-10-21T00:00:05.079-07:0019-42<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The Gilded Cross</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-left: 32.6406px;">
<i><u><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45502/the-red-wheelbarrow">with a nod to William Carlos Williams</a></u></i></div>
<br />
so much depended<br />
upon<br />
<br />
a gilded wooden<br />
cross<br />
<br />
glazed with human<br />
blood<br />
<br />
beside the silver<br />
bullets.<br />
<br />
<i>by William Carrion Williams</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>and <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Tara Campbell</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/buy.html">Support</a></u><br />
<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>Tara Campbell</b> (<a href="http://www.taracampbell.com/">www.taracampbell.com</a>) is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction editor at <i>Barrelhouse</i>. Prior publication credits include <i>SmokeLong Quarterly</i>, <i>Masters Review</i>, <i>Jellyfish Review</i>, <i>Booth</i>, and <i>McSweeney's Internet Tendency</i>. She's also the author of a novel, <i>TreeVolution</i>, and two collections, <i>Circe's Bicycle</i> and <i>Midnight at the Organporium</i>. Tweet her up at <a href="https://twitter.com/TaraCampbellCom">@TaraCampbellCom</a></div>
</div>
The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-78709431427405501492019-10-14T00:00:00.000-07:002019-10-14T08:33:13.409-07:0019-41<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Whenas Undead My Julia Goes</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47339/upon-julias-clothes">with a nod to Robert Herrick</a></u></i></div>
<br />
Whenas undead my Julia goes,<br />
then, then (methinks) how thickly flows<br />
that putrefaction from her nose.<br />
<br />
Next, when I cast mine eyes and see<br />
that slick concoction each way free;<br />
o how that glittering taketh me!<br />
<br />
<i>by Rotting Herrick</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>and <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Tara Campbell</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/buy.html">Support</a></u><br />
<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>Tara Campbell</b> (<a href="http://www.taracampbell.com/">www.taracampbell.com</a>) is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction editor at <i>Barrelhouse</i>. Prior publication credits include <i>SmokeLong Quarterly</i>, <i>Masters Review</i>, <i>Jellyfish Review</i>, <i>Booth</i>, and <i>McSweeney's Internet Tendency</i>. She's also the author of a novel, <i>TreeVolution</i>, and two collections, <i>Circe's Bicycle</i> and <i>Midnight at the Organporium</i>. Tweet her up at <a href="https://twitter.com/TaraCampbellCom">@TaraCampbellCom</a>
</div>
The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-80356897606300605772019-10-07T07:32:00.000-07:002019-10-11T11:20:34.599-07:0019-40<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">I Plodded Lonely as a Cloud</span></b>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45521/i-wandered-lonely-as-a-cloud">with a nod to William Wordsworth</a></u></i></div>
<br />
I plodded lonely as a cloud<br />
That thumps outcast o'er vales and hills,<br />
When all at once I saw a crowd<br />
Of humans, armed unto the gills;<br />
And when young Victor spotted me<br />
They swarmed, and I could only flee.<br />
<br />
Continuous as the stars that shine<br />
And twinkle in the sky's expanse,<br />
Their torches marched in shuddering lines<br />
And marked the angry mob's advance:<br />
The trembling flames, my desperate flight,<br />
My darkest nightmare every night.<br />
<br />
I see flames bob above their heads<br />
And Victor marching at the fore,<br />
Oh, had he only kept me dead!<br />
Instead I crouch here, friendless, poor,<br />
Imagining the fatal day<br />
They find my craggy hideaway.<br />
<br />
For oft, whilst lying on the floor,<br />
My only bedding piles of dust,<br />
I brood and wonder, more and more,<br />
What would have happened had I just<br />
Not made that terrible mistake,<br />
And tossed the girl into the lake.<br />
<br />
<i>by Chilliam Wordsworth</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>and <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Tara Campbell</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/buy.html">Support</a></u><br />
<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>Tara Campbell</b> (<a href="http://www.taracampbell.com/">www.taracampbell.com</a>) is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction editor at <i>Barrelhouse</i>. Prior publication credits include <i>SmokeLong Quarterly</i>, <i>Masters Review</i>, <i>Jellyfish Review</i>, <i>Booth</i>, and <i>McSweeney's Internet Tendency</i>. She's also the author of a novel, <i>TreeVolution</i>, and two collections, <i>Circe's Bicycle</i> and <i>Midnight at the Organporium</i>. Tweet her up at <a href="https://twitter.com/TaraCampbellCom">@TaraCampbellCom</a></div>
The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-69773557538303028042019-09-30T00:00:00.000-07:002019-09-30T00:00:07.478-07:0019-39<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Little Miss Muffet</span></b>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46957/little-miss-muffet">with a nod to Mother Goose</a></u></i></div>
<br />
<br />
What kind of lunch is this?<br />
Curds and whey? Is this<br />
what they call cottage cheese?<br />
And what the heck's a tuffet?<br />
Why am I in this stupid picture—<br />
this snapshot of my life,<br />
when I am not happy at all about it!?<br />
Why can't I have hot dogs<br />
or potato chips or cake like most kids?<br />
My parents push it to the limits<br />
with this "wholesome" mush stuff I'm forced to eat.<br />
And you know what? I've now a stain on my tushy<br />
from this tuffet that has me roughing it<br />
out here in this beast-infested Bush.<br />
I'll never come back here again.<br />
No way! A spider, eek! How dare<br />
he sit beside me, or is it a she?<br />
Hey, I'm outta here.<br />
This place is creepy!<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Lynne Goldsmith</a></i><br />
<br />
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<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>Lynne Goldsmith</b> can be found roaming the beautiful Sierra Nevada mountains with a dog or two. Her upcoming book-length manuscript won the Halcyon Poetry Book Contest and will be published by <a href="https://www.middlecreekpublishing.com/">Middle Creek Publishing</a>. Check her out at <a href="http://lynneagoldsmith.com/">lynneagoldsmith.com</a>.</div>
The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-71106509152753702482019-09-23T00:00:00.000-07:002019-09-23T07:13:17.642-07:0019-38<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Dirge Wailed Against the Music on the Car Radio</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52773/dirge-without-music">with a nod to Edna St. Vincent Millay</a></u></i></div>
<br />
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving cats in the loud car.<br />
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:<br />
Into the hard case we go, the wise and the lovely. Barred<br />
From pedals and traffic, I know; but I am not resigned.<br />
<br />
Kneaders and prowlers, into the box with you.<br />
Be one with the thrum, the car's jarring and thrust.<br />
A fragment of what you chased, of what you chewed,<br />
A scratchpad, a treat remains—but travel you must.<br />
<br />
The pounces quick and keen, the blinking look, the purring, the love—<br />
They are gone. They are gone into the carrier. Elegant and curled<br />
Are the tails of the mice where I go. I know. But I do not approve.<br />
More precious were the mice in this house than all the mice in that world.<br />
<br />
Down, down, down into the darkness of the car<br />
Clutching I go, the beautiful, the furry, the kind;<br />
Yowling I go. She says I'm supposed to be brave.<br />
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Elise Morse-Gagné</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
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<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>Elise Morse-Gagné</b> has been employed as a bakery salesperson, proofreader & copy editor, index-maker, translator, cobbler's assistant, researcher, lactation consultant, linguistics professor, and substitute teacher. She is a writer and photographer. She has lived in New Hampshire, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, Norway, Indiana, and Mississippi. She likes lists. She also likes old things: old books, old furniture, old pottery, and rocks. Even her cell phone dates back to 2012.<br />
<br />
Elise is a widow with two grown children. In 2018 she moved from Mississippi back to Massachusetts. The three-day truck drive appalled her hitherto strictly non-automotive cat, who remains horrified by road trips (though nowadays sedation dials the volume down from 11 to 7 on a scale of 10). Elise, too, is vociferously unreconciled to the unacceptable. This particular list includes put-downs, consumerism, condescension, white-think, complacency, boxes, potassium sorbate in cider, professorial hazing, Nestlé, authoritarianism, error loops in online forms, the school-to-prison pipeline, grammar sneers, cliques, bombast, shut doors that ought to be open, and open doors that ought to be shut (closet doors: there be monsters). Honorable mention goes to fakery: fake wood, powdered creamer, fenugreek masquerading as maple, inaccurate Olde Englisshe, ignorance posturing as expertise in any field, and scams aimed at the vulnerable. Occasionally she lightens up enough to write a funny poem.</div>
The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-85030231361170739112019-09-16T00:00:00.000-07:002019-09-16T00:00:00.612-07:0019-37<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Better Be</span></b></div>
<br />
A part-time amateur spirit reader told me,<br />
in her unsolicited opinion,<br />
my work will be published soon.<br />
<br />
I sit,<br />
wait<br />
and hope,<br />
for her sake,<br />
that is true<br />
so I won't have to write<br />
a scathing Yelp review.<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Douglas S. Malan</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
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<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>Douglas S. Malan</b> is a writer who lives. A devilish risk-taker, he signs contracts and checks in pencil and refers to hashtags as pound signs.
</div>
The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-56174528807630541682019-09-09T00:00:00.000-07:002019-09-09T06:39:32.739-07:0019-36<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The Traffic</span></b><br />
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43687/the-tyger">with a nod to William Blake</a></u></i></div>
<br />
Traffic! Traffic! Burning gas,<br />
On the highways nose to ass,<br />
What deranged, sadistic mind<br />
Would jam commuters to this grind?<br />
<br />
In what deepest darkest hells<br />
Burns the poisons thou expels?<br />
On what tires dare He roll?<br />
What the wheel that lost control?<br />
<br />
And what tolls, what breakdown lanes,<br />
Could speed the neurons of thy brain?<br />
And when thy brain should overheat,<br />
What dread voice? On what dread street?<br />
<br />
What the road rage? What the gun?<br />
In whose brain should I put one?<br />
What the horn? What baseball bat<br />
Dares the driver to combat?<br />
<br />
When the drivers shout their jeers<br />
And ram the others, sides and rears,<br />
Did He smile his work to see?<br />
Does He run the DMV?<br />
<br />
Traffic! Traffic! Burning gas,<br />
On the highways nose to ass,<br />
What deranged sadistic mind<br />
Would jam commuters to this grind?<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Bob Lorentson</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
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<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
Despite not having an MFA, <b>Bob Lorentson</b> persists in writing. When not writing he likes to indulge in his passion for wondering. He is a wonderful wonderer who wonders about nearly everything, including why he would write this silly bio when he could be wondering why he can't find a publisher for his novels. Recent stories and poems however have found homes or are in the adoption process at <i>Sleet</i>, <i>Praxis</i>, <i>Better Than Starbucks</i>, <i>Leaves of Ink</i>, and <i>Quinnehtukqut</i>. He lives in rural Connecticut.</div>
The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-36181831616835199032019-09-02T00:00:00.000-07:002019-09-02T08:28:59.838-07:0019-35<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Calling in Sick</span></b><br />
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://poets.org/poem/sick">with a nod to Shel Silverstein</a></u></i></div>
<br />
"I cannot go to work today,"<br />
Said middle manager Peg McKay.<br />
"I've had enough of bullshit meetings,<br />
Mindless tasks and smarmy greetings.<br />
My inbox fills me up with dread—<br />
Two thousand emails still unread.<br />
So many deadlines I could cry,<br />
My blood pressure is crazy high.<br />
My jaws are clenched, it's hard to speak,<br />
My headache's pounded for a week.<br />
My nails are chewed to bloody nubs.<br />
My ego's bruised by boss's snubs.<br />
Carpal tunnel wrecked my wrists—<br />
I cannot type more to-do lists.<br />
My shoulders hunch, my back is sore,<br />
There is no strength left in my core.<br />
My pants are tight, I chafe and groan,<br />
I've gained ten pounds this month alone<br />
From being chained to my desk chair.<br />
I want to rip out all my hair.<br />
Then I'd be bald as well as stressed.<br />
I might be clinically depressed.<br />
My head keeps bumping ceiling glass,<br />
My lips are chapped from kissing ass.<br />
My tongue is raw from licking boots.<br />
Do I enjoy my labor's fruits?<br />
No raise, promotion—not one perk.<br />
My sole reward is tons more work.<br />
I've lost all hope, my heart is—what?<br />
What's that? What's that you say?<br />
You say today is... Saturday?<br />
I'm off to yoga, <i>Namaste!</i>"<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">E.A. Cockle</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
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<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<b>E.A. Cockle</b> is as dedicated to writing as she is to being a good cat mommy. She lives in Toronto, ON, where she is a member of CITADEL. Her work has appeared in <i>Hello Writer</i>, <i>Poetry Atlas</i>, <i>Bonsai Journal,</i> and <i>2Elizabeths</i>. You can find her on Instagram <a href="https://www.instagram.com/ej_colling">@ej_colling</a>.<br />
<br /></div>
The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9060267669812074912.post-35027387077928992112019-08-19T00:00:00.000-07:002019-08-20T06:22:42.176-07:0019-33<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Blake Visits the Aquarium</span></b><br />
<div style="margin-left: 5%;">
<i><u><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43687/the-tyger">with a nod to William Blake</a></u></i></div>
<br />
Octopus, octopus, sticking tight,<br />
Though I pull with all my might;<br />
What slimy, squishy deity<br />
Could frame thy eight-fold symmetry?<br />
<br />
Who coulda thunk, much less devise,<br />
The ghoulish glimmer of thine eyes?<br />
What ugly mood was he evoking?<br />
When he made you, what was he smoking?<br />
<br />
What's with the suckers? What's with the ink?<br />
Why change colors—do you think<br />
You look any better red than yellow?<br />
You're still essentially wet jello!<br />
<br />
Octopus, octopus, flee in fright,<br />
To some dark hole, and well you might;<br />
Your maker must have thought of thee,<br />
While suffering gastrointestinally.<br />
<br />
<i>by <a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/contributors.html">Tom Schmidt</a></i><br />
<br />
<u><a href="https://www.parodypoetry.com/p/read-online.html">Read more Parody</a></u><br />
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<br />
------------------------------------<br />
After decades spent launching academic paper airplanes from ivory tower windows, <b>Tom Schmidt</b> now composes poems from the tree house he built above his bee-loud glade in central Vermont. His outlook is much improved. Now and then an editor likes his work, but more often his family and friends do, and that's a deeper satisfaction. His grandsons are more impressed that he can make authentic noises for eight different kinds of construction vehicles. And they love the tree house.<br />
<br /></div>
The Haikooliganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18271357034087173531noreply@blogger.com