Are Limericks Poetry

Gray_Bicycle picture_2012-07-31

2013-04-12 – While I’m posting poetry, I thought I’d ask the important question: Are limerick’s poetry? A few years ago I wrote a bunch of limericks. (No, not the type you are thinking of.) When my old blog host went belly-up, I lost many of them. Here are some that were saved:

Gone cold wind, gone gray sky, gone icicle
Come sunshine, come green leaf, come bicycle.
We’ll go to the seaboard
To set up my keyboard
And play a sad song once or twicicle.

His thoughts and his words don’t cohere.
There’s calm in his voice amidst fear.
He’s right when we’re left,
He is warped when we’re weft,
And he’s truthful when we’re insincere.

To Einstein the luck of the draw
Was meaner than spiritual awe.
“Gott don’t play mit dice!
“What is r-r-random ain’t nice!
“Dem’s Heisenberg’s natural flaw.”

Though life would provide her a plateful,
She wasn’t entirely grateful.
“I can’t eat it all,” she said,
“And the plate is too small,” she said,
“And your manner’s entirely hateful.”

At twilight the outskirt’s policed
And the gates sealed and blessed by a priest
Lest love and compassion
Spell habit and fashion
And famine give up to the feast.

There’s nothing that makes folks unite
Like a mutually staggering fight.
If you can’t hate your friend
Then you’ve got to pretend
Or be nice to your friend just for spite.

When feeling and thought and emotion
Aroused a dark, dangerous notion,
“I’ll do this for you,” he sighed,
As he threatened his suicide
And went for a dip in the ocean.

It’s harder each day to be ruthless.
“Compassion!” That word sounds so youthless.
I used to cause fears
With the merest of sneers
But I better be nice now I’m toothless.

He drank up to quench a great thirst
He ate up till he nearly burst
He slept all the day
Made love in the hay
And wondered if he was the first.

His good points were largely ignored.
His bad points were noted and scored.
So he joined in their element
By becoming irrelevant
And they gave him a token award.

The world’s full of cruisers and freighters
And spark plugs and clogged carburetors.
There’s some that say, “Wow!
“I am doing it now!”
And there’s some who are doing it “Later.”

In truth the world’s soiled and gritty.
Our destiny’s sorrow and pity.
The salve is habitual
Abuse of ritual,
And cure is referred to committee.

You’re smoking cigars in bazaars,
You’re playing guitars under stars,
The water is flowing,
A cool breeze is blowing,
You’re eating an omelet on Mars.

A rock can resist cruel corrosions.
A heart can persist in explosions.
But either is weak
When it’s stuck up a creek,
For it’s harder to weather erosions.

While sipping his midmorning brew
The accountant began to accrue.
Each day’s more hum drummer.
Each number is number.
His big thrill is to post accounts due.

You eat till you want to explode.
Then she asks, “How ‘bout one for the road?”
You can’t eat another
You say to your mother.
“Understood! How ‘bout pie a la mode?”

The project of penning a poem
Pits heart against wit just to show ‘em
Your art with a word,
Your flirt with absurd,
And meter and rhyme if you know ‘em.

A stylish man’s tie was askew,
The newspaper covered with dew,
The body showed marks
Of four species of sharks–
A mystery without even a clue.

The dangers of life can unnerve us
Precautions we take may conserve us
But life will be less
If we never say yes
Embalming will also preserve us.

He wanted to be a great writer,
So he drank booze and pulled an all-nighter.
“I’m experiencing life,
All its troubles and strife!”
He explained as his words became triter.

The sudden dark damp of a chill wind
On a bright sunny day is an ill wind
And an omen to guide
Of when storm clouds collide
But a worse omen yet is a still wind.

She hungered to hang the old geezer
When he cornered and started to squeeze her.
Just a knee to his part
Was too much for his heart
And now he’s laid out in a freezer.

A murky, ambiguous sizzle
Some lightning as clouds roil and swizzle,
And drafts stir the dust
Of the hard earthen crust,
And be gone without even a drizzle.

He’d rather a wild hurricane
Than hear her morosely complain.
“There’s calm in its eye,
“You’ve become a stir fry
“With noodles you resemble chow mein!”

The grass piled in clumps where it’s mown
The trash by the curb where it’s blown
Dry leaves in a creak
Air conditioner leak
And you on your bike all alone.

Your pain is your own and you cry
You stay home alone and you sigh
The marchers win points
As they’re smoking their joints
And tell all the world “occupy!”

Learning the practice of Zen
Makes you the rarest of men
You make your mind empty
So nothing will tempt ye
And sit on an egg like a hen.

If you’re tired of the poetry, come back Sunday. I’ll be back to prose.

* * *

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