Badger Name of Tyler [Classic] (20 line poem)

Even my silly poems have gruesome endings.


Came a badger name of Tyler
be a-knockin’ at the door.
Sellin’ brushes from the marshes
he be scrubbin’ on the floor.

Dumps a bushel full of garbage
to be showin’ how they work.
Bendin’ over pail of water
he be scrubbin’ until dark.

He be done in half a minute
he be sayin’ as he goes.
I can tell he be a-lyin’
by the growin’ of his nose.

Comes the Missus from the kitchen
seein’ badger, brush, and pail,
Garbage soakin’ into carpet
she can’t help but start to wail.

Grabs the shotgun from the closet,
shoots the badger in the head.
Takes the body to the kitchen…
Badger soup and homemade bread.

The Smithean War [Classic] (1500 word story)

I submitted this as a mythology assignment in high school. The core story was too short to meet the required word count, so I padded it at each end by adding a narrator.


It had been a long day and now the five of us were sitting around a too-small fire finally getting something to eat. Out of the ten who had been assigned with us yesterday, two had been killed and the other three were already asleep, here and there, in their cloaks. It was pretty poor accommodations for an army if you ask me.

I was the only foreigner here because it was a local war, but I had been in the area and decided to act as a kind of mercenary and join the fun. I have certainly seen my share of fighting and it follows that I must be a pretty good swordsman or I wouldn’t be here today.

The language I picked up easily enough, and on this, my fifteenth day, we finally saw some real action.

Earlier today, I had saved the lives of two brothers whose names I won’t mention here mainly because I can’t remember them. Their chariot had overturned and I was in the area so I went over and held off a few of the enemy while the brothers collected their wits and drew back toward camp. I quickly forgot about it and went on bravely to get my shield run through and my right shoulder cut pretty badly.

Later, they reminded me of the incident, seemed very grateful, and kept me the center of attention at our so-called meal. That is if you can call some kind of dried meat that tasted like leather and a hunk of bread soaked in spoiled milk a meal.

Annacles, the fourth in the group, looked too young to be in this business but seemed very interested in the story they were telling. He was even younger than the twins.

Did I mention there were twins? That’s probably why I can’t remember the names — because I couldn’t tell them apart.

A fellow called Calmendes, the fifth in our group and a bear of a man, was reputed to be a very good warrior. He seemed jealous of the attention I was getting and he just stared into the fire doing his best to ignore us.

Anyway, we got to talking about my homeland and I found myself telling them about the Smithean War.

“A long time ago, there was a beautiful group of islands call Smithos. The water around the islands was a beautiful deep blue and it was said that, with all the wild animals and fruits on the islands, a man could spend all of his life there and never eat the same thing twice. Every nation wanted possession of Smithos but there were two who were closest and had the best claim on the islands and they were Darma and Horbos.

“Now Darma was part of the mainland, and the warm climate and tropical sun bred tall, copper-skinned warriors who had long, tall shields and were all versed in the use of the spear. Horbos was a fair-sized island that took two days to be crossed on foot but it was still smaller than Darma. The men of Horbos were stouter and fairer than those of Darma. Horbos had a fine navy but, because of its size, it had fewer men than Darma and this disadvantage is what finally turned the tide in the war.

“The war went on for about eight years with losses nearly equal on both sides. The Horbeans were becoming desperate because they were running out of soldiers so they planned to use the remaining army for one last thrust to end the war once and for all.

“It was clever scheming by the Horbean navy to feint a retreat through a narrow pass in the islands and then ambush from above and behind. It did end the war, but not the way the Horbeans preferred.

“The Darmides managed to escape and quickly destroyed what was left of the Horbean fleet. While the Horbean ships were being hunted down, they had no opportunity to warn Horbos of the inevitable raid — though Horbos did guess that the Darmides would come once the Horbean ships that came regularly to bring news and take supplies stopped coming.

“They prepared well for the siege and took all the islanders into the ruling city of Horbaetus and stocked the city well with food and water.

“The Darmide fleet collected the injured, divided their spoils, and prepared to set sail directly for Horbos. They were so confident of an easy victory that they did not stop at Darma first for supplies.

“The Darmides started the voyage with light hearts, but the voyage which should have taken twelve days took twenty. Wild storms battered them and filled the Darmides hearts with dread. Several times, they nearly turned back but decided instead to press on. On the morning of the twentieth day, they found themselves upon Horbos.

“The Darmide fleet anchored in the Harbor of Treve which was across the island from Horbaetus. Horbos had lost most of its navy at Smithos and they chose to conserve what little was left in case they had to leave quickly. The Darmides had decided to take the city by surprise from the inland and the army started on their trek across the island.

“When word finally came that the Darmide fleet had landed, the Horbeans were almost relieved that the long wait had finally ended until rumor spread that the Darmide army was five times as large as the remaining Horbean troops.

“With those left to protect the city, there were some old men who were once good warriors and were still able to take up a sword. Also, there were some youths who had just achieved manhood but had not yet gone to war. Together with the old warriors and youths, the Horbean force was doubled and they had two men for every five Darmides.

“They remembered back to the magnificent Spateus — the greatest fighter in the history of Horbos. In his day, the fame of Spateus had spread throughout the known world and he was hailed as the greatest warrior of his time.

“Spateus was reputed to have single-handedly defeated the savage Trespites from the South and stopped their invasion of Horbos. He disappeared years ago during his battle with the sea beast Clormeus who was terrorizing the island’s eastern shore. Clormeus was believed immortal and Spateus sought only to drive him off, but the beast’s carcass was said to have washed up on the beach at Clydes, a land many miles north, a few weeks later.

“His son Androus was also a great warrior but, when he was young, he had set off in search of his father whom he believed was not dead, and Androus had not been seen since.

“Even though the Horbeans were far outnumbered by the Darmides, they knew that with just one such man as these, they might stand a chance to defeat these raiders.

“The Darmides made the journey across the island and came without hardship to within sight of the walls of Horbaetus where they set up camp. They knew that with the great warriors Spateus and Androus gone, they should have no trouble defeating the Horbaetus so they expected the siege to be over very quickly, and —” I stopped. I must have gotten carried away with my story because I didn’t notice that I had put everyone to sleep.

The fire was nearly out and my fellow soldiers had all curled up in their cloaks leaving only big Colmendes awake and still staring into the fire. I rolled up into my own cloak and closed my eyes.

“…and —?”

I opened my eyes and found myself looking into the big face of Colmendes. He said again:

“…they expected the siege to be over very quickly and —?”

I was too tired to risk angering him by mentioning his previous lack of interest but I smiled in the near darkness and continued.

“…and it was over very quickly.”

He was clearly disappointed by this ending as any man would be. Listening to a long tale late at night and then having it end poorly is not my personal favorite pastime. The fire had gone out.

I closed my eyes again and paused for a time to allow him to think the story over. Then I said:

“Yep. The siege was over quickly because two unexpected arrivals came to the rescue of Horbaetus. It was said that the Horbean cheering nearly drowned out the sound of men being cut down as father and son waded through the sea of Darmides and, with the aid of those remaining Horbean warriors, cut down the Darmides in a day and a night.”

I waited for comprehension to dawn upon the giant and, if it is possible to hear someone smile, then I did that night.

Darkness [Classic] (unfinished story)

I think I’m secretly creepy. (My son says it’s not so secret.) I have dozens, maybe hundreds, of story snippets and have been grabbing random stuff and typing them up here. Below is one that caught my eye. Kind of an unsettling, serial killer, stream of consciousness piece.


Tonight I’ll see her. I’ll find her at the corner where we first met. She’ll smile when she sees me and ask me for a ride. Walking through the park very late I’ll meet her — taller and thinner this time. She’ll laugh self-consciously when I startle her and we’ll make strained conversation about how unsafe it is at night. At the grocery store, pleased to see me after all these years — we’ll go for a drink and talk of college days until after the sun goes down. Walking her home from a movie we’ll take a shortcut I know through a dark, deserted neighborhood. Hitchhiking, I’ll give her a ride back to town. Her date has dropped her in the middle of nowhere, the bastard, and she is glad to find someone else driving at night on this godforsaken road.

Vic Memory 2 [Classic] (140 words)

I found the next Vic memory! The first is here. If you haven’t already, read Memory 1 first.


Memory 2
Vic lying in his bed, his mother and father arguing in the next room.

“He is not retarded,” his mother’s voice is the screeching of harpies “he’s just overly imaginative.”

“You didn’t see the look in his eye when he came at me with the bat. Jesus, Gloria, the kid scares me.”

Their voices fade in and out as Vic drifts off to dreams of knights and dragons and kingdoms to conquer…

He is awakened again by the screeching of harpies. “We’re not going to send him away!” Vic’s mother wails as she rushes into his bedroom to protect him.

Vic looks up to see his mother swooping toward him, eyes red from crying, hair in disarray. The screeching of harpies still echoes in his ears as the filthy beast stretches out its claws. Eyes wide with terror, Vic screams.

Strange [Classic] (14 line poem)

Since today is ‘brother day’ [I posted some riddles written with another brother here], below is a poem written with my brother Rob when we were both quite young — early teens? pre-teens?

Silly is good. Weebles, if you don’t know, are toys from my youth [link]


the untiring sound of scraping your dog
the wonderful feel of bumps on a log
the pleasant aroma of reheated gloves
the inflatable raft of your only true love
bowling balls marching from here to Siam
the congested sinus of Lizzie the lamb
the rhythmic laughter of Weebles at play
the croak of a needle that’s lost in the hay
the hum of a hummingbird not told the words
the triumphant bugle of elephant birds
the innocent fungus infesting the crown
the munching of Freetos to Sweet Georgia Brown
the puckered-up thumbprint from sucking your thumb
the end of this poem most surely has come

Riddles A [Classic] (4 line poem)

This riddle was written with help from my brother Rick for playing Dungeons and Dragons with my friends in college. Being full of imagination, I was of course the dungeon master when we played at school. Feel free to enter your answers as comments.


Riddle A
You never want it in a pot
It’s only there when it is not
It changes name when it gets wet
The more you add, the less you get

The Kids [Almost New] (unfinished poem)

Though unfinished, this is part of my big Alice-like narrative which I’ve mentioned that ties together my longer poems. Prior to my sabbatical, this is one of the few things that I’ve written within the past few years. I may need a new category to tag these items — ‘almost new’ or ‘classic plus’ doesn’t quite cut it.


The children from the town have come to play around the farm.
These kids are always trouble so I’m sounding the alarm.
Half the kids are astronauts, half the kids are clowns.
Half the kids are standing up and half are falling down.

The animals have gone to hide, the birds have flown away.
The donkey and the billie-goats are hiding in the hay.
Half the kids eat ham and cheese, half the kids eat cake.
Half the kids are on the shore and half are in the lake.

Starlight [New] (12 line poem)

This was inspired by watching my lovely wife at the Russian River yesterday. I had lots of problems with this poem because none of the verses wanted to be like the others — I still have a long/extra line in the second verse that refuses to go away. Plus there were fish and slow moving animals in an earlier draft of the poem — but they kindly agreed to leave and await some future opportunity to help out.


She rises golden from the water
The current cradles her memory
Her name echoes in the depths
And is whispered in the shallows

She moves with grace through nature
Which is bettered by her presence
…..and depleted by her passing
The animals bow down
And stand silent once she’s gone

She is Artemis, Athena
She is Helen bathed in starlight
She’s the west wind from the desert
Bringing promise, bringing change

What Is a Poem?

They teach us that poems come in all forms and need not rhyme. But I feel that there are rules.

It’s a little like modern art — you can throw a pile of garbage on the floor, splash blood on it and call it art, but is it? I think there is some minimum level of aesthetic that must be met. Art not intended to evoke pleasure should come with a warning label. There’s a phenomena known as the ‘uncanny valley‘, where a human replica (say, a robot) actually evokes revulsion the closer it looks to human while being recognizably not. I think some modern art lies in that uncanny valley — looks like art but it’s not.

Back to poems — even poems that don’t rhyme have recognizable patterns: line length, verse length, rhythm. It’s hard to argue that a news article or reference passage is poetry. I’m working now on a poem that, by design, doesn’t rhyme — but currently also has varying line length, and even varying line count per verse. I’m struggling with how much I need to bully it into shape to be (recognizable as) poetry (nudging it out of the uncanny valley) while trying not to lose some of the existing wording that I like. I don’t want to waste too much time on it, but I also don’t want to abandon it prematurely.

🙁


ADDEMDUM: I finished the problem poem ‘Starlight‘. It came out okay — phew!.

The House [Classic] (unfinished poem)

This, which I wrote years ago, seems related to my more-recent passage here.


Abandoned by all things divine
Surpassing death, transcending time
The House stands hungry, eager in its wait
Of life The House becomes aware
A braggart’s bet, a liar’s dare
A hand reluctant reaches for the gate

Into the inner depths of mind
Where fear and pleasure sleep entwined
The House steps soft through unfamiliar ground
A wave of joy, a burst of pain
The hand withdraws, then moves again
With hand to gate, a heart begins to pound

(NOTE TO SELF: I have more individual lines written that could be included in future verses.)