Tag Archives: Poem

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

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 Santa Cycle – Part 5

It was the eighth shopping day
before Santa jumps in his sleigh
and sprints around the world
on a trip fueled by meth and cocaine
stealing my cookies and all the acclaim
for the gifts I bought with a card
I'll no longer be allowed to retain.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Miss Disdain

I met a girl whose smirk was fire
when on the edge of thirteen.
I'd been a boy unblemished by desire
before she burned her brand on me.

Her disdain drove me to distraction.
Her antipathy struck me as wise.
She taught joy brings no satisfaction
and contempt is Love's favorite disguise.

Miss Disdain grew up and multiplied, 
and I have delighted in each Fury's spite.
Knowing all the flaws that I hide
their indifference can only be right.

She was the alpha of all cruel passions
whose touch would make lesser men wince
and in various forms and fashions
I've chased Miss Disdain ever since.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Union Street

Let's go down to Union Street
where impoverished people meet
around barrels brimming with green despair.
They'll fidget nervously while we stare,
as each in turn dips a cup,
lifts to quivering lips and drinks it up.

On Union Street the barrels overflow
so we'll see many rounds before we go.
And as they drink themselves blind,
we'll walk through a door they'll never find.

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