Tag Archives: Luvgood Carp

The Poetaster

Why does Homer’s Muse disdain me?
Why won’t nymphs touch my flute?
When heroes sail the wine-dark sea
why do I stay home and salute?
When will I know love from lust?
Why do both turn my brain to peat?
Why are lies the only words I trust?
Why is mud the only pie I eat?
My muse is a mouse in a cage
who refuses to obey my command
and when I touch the cold, chaste page
it slaps the dry pen from my hand.
Wicked muse, eat your stale cheese
but breath your stench on another fake,
allow my feeble tongue to unfreeze
for I’ve forms to fill and calls to make
and I’m near the end of my coffee break.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Each Spring Beckons Me Out the Door

A fuzzy pink sweater adorns the cherry tree
and all the ladies, half my age, are smiling at me.

Or so it seems –
maybe they’re just smiling near me.
It’s hard to see with such watery eyes,
as if I’m looking through melting ice.

Each spring beckons me out the door,
but I’m moving slower than the year before
and can’t keep up as the ladies walk past.
When did these women get so fast?

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Neptune Returns Home

Lord, could it be I'm not as great
as they've been telling me?
I was told at an early age
that I'm better than the rest.
I have trophies that prove it true,
but now in every contest
I'm beaten by more than a few.
For years I splashed in a tub
pretending to rule the wine-dark sea,
but when I go to Dad's club
no one confuses Neptune with me.
Now here I am back in my old room
(having finished my education)
with an hourly job and minimal pay
and these trophies say participation.
Lord, club-footed Byron couldn't dance
but you gave him eloquence and artistry,
and now he's the avatar of romance.
So, Lord, what gifts do you have for me?

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

A Tiny Voice

Yes, of course,
we, too, care about
a neglected rose struggling to survive
among the scattered bricks
of a crumbling house,
but we’ve already done
all we can.
Remember  
a child has a tiny voice
and no money –
hardly the sturdy platform
on which to make demands.
Yet here she stands
with her small voice,
empty pockets, and
accusing eyes,
while we continue to tell her
to trust the spider
who swears
he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Luvgood Carp, Editor in Chief

The 4th of July

A straw man riding a sacred cow
pulling a tethered scapegoat
arrived in a town named Trope
just when they were needed most.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Hopelessly Lost

I have seen some who appear lost in a maze,
with only a crust of bread in their pockets
as they turn from dead end to dead end
unable to see over the high thick hedges   
and only later did I learn
they weren’t lost at all.
They were making maps.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Each Spring Beckons Me Out the Door

A fuzzy pink sweater adorns the cherry tree
and all the ladies, half my age, are smiling at me.

Or so it seems –
maybe they’re just smiling near me.
It’s hard to see with such watery eyes,
as if I’m looking through melting ice.

Each spring beckons me out the door,
but I’m moving slower than the year before
and can’t keep up as the ladies walk past.
When did these women get so fast?

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

The Further Dangers of Being a Pretend Poet

The thing about writing poetry is
no one cares that you write poetry.
I found that curious at first.

Then I joined a writing group.

And the thing about a writing group is
no one cares that you write.
I found that curious at first.

Then I read what they wrote
and I'm no longer curious.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

The Poet Taster

Why does Homer's Muse disdain me?
Why won't nymphs touch my flute?
When heroes sail the wine-dark sea
why do I stay home and salute?

When will I know love from lust?
Why do both turn my brain to peat?
Why are lies the only words I trust?
Why is mud the only pie I eat?

My miserable muse is a mouse in a cage
who refuses to obey my command
and when I touch the cold, chaste page
it slaps the dry pen out of my hand.

Wicked muse, eat your stale cheese
but blow your foul breath on another fake,
allow my feeble tongue to unfreeze
for I've forms to fill and calls to make
and I'm nearing the end of my coffee break.

Luvgood Cap, Editor-in-Chief

Fortunately, the Internet Has Everything You Need

People always say to me Hey, Luvgood, you’re one cool dude. How can I be as cool as you? So I tell them: create a blog. And they respond Whoa, now. Shouldn’t I learn to walk before I try to run? And they have a valid point. Creating a blog isn’t easy.  It takes hours. 

Fortunately, the internet has everything you need.  Several vendors will happily provide you with dozens of templates for a fee.  It’s like the Bible says:  if you have a dream and the money to pay for it, the internet will provide. 

Once you’ve selected the best template you can afford, you need to choose a jarring background hue to emphasize a scalding letter color.  Whenever WordPress allows it, I go for angry red letters on a white background. The red represents the rage that can be found everywhere these days. 

All that’s left is choosing the font and font size.  Font is essential.  It says everything about your blog’s personality.  Are you old fashioned like The New York Times?  Choose Plantagenet Cherokee.  Are you a prig like The New Republic?  Choose Garamond.  Are you a pompous snob like the New Yorker?  Choose Franklin Gothic Book.  If you’re cool and approachable, choose the font I use. It’s the one mandated by WordPress. That just leaves font size, and here it really doesn’t matter what you pick, because no one reads blogs.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief