Thread: Rejoice, The Economy Recovers

Poor and bewildered he wandered the street
With no destination and nothing to eat,
And no one to care if he lived or he died.

I see by the papers the news is so bad
The bankers are crying, it's really so sad.
I saw one old broker who broke down and cried.

The child in the street is now living alone
And begging for someone to toss him a bone.
He weeps in the dark with a dog for a friend.

The cries of the bankers at last reached the ears
Of the good Congress people and all of their peers.
They promise a bailout, all problems to end.

The little child's hunger is ended for good.
Now he's asleep in a coffin of wood.
The dog too is gone; who knows or who cares?

The bankers rejoice, their cries have been heard,
The good Congress people, as good as their word,
Sent word to the bankers, 'We've answered your prayers!'

Hah! You're funny. I was worried about the bankers, too! So worried!

Sent word to the bankers, 'We've answered your prayers!'

Should we through them a party?!

What I love. A good sting at the end!

Thouroughly enjoyable! And we could really use some good 'ol caustic wit around here! garza, please keep them coming. Laurie

This is sweet stuff. Brutal truth though...

In third Stanza, I'd make it "A child".

Much enjoyed

The child in s3 is the same as the 'he' in s1.

This was an experiment just to see what would happen. It was my grandfather taught me to write this sort of thing when I was very young. 'Junk poems', he called them. My grandfather was from Belfast, the Irish side of the road, and could spin a yarn as well as any Limerick lad. He could come up with verses any time you asked him, composed on the spot, what you might call Irish calypso.

My grandfather taught me how to structure a poem, fitting the sense to the easy rhythms, the eight-foot and four-foot lines, without forcing anything. He taught me how to juxtapose iambic and trochaic. He taught me how to let the words dance and play, or weep a sad tear, often in the same line. But for all that he never considered this sort of rhythmic-rhyming to be true poetry. Clever and catchy, fun to write, but shallow.

The first draft of this one was written as fast as I could type. I spent another ten minutes or so smoothing it out a bit. I write these to relax when I'm preparing some long and very serious report or article and most of the time they are dumped almost as fast as I write them. They are playthings, toys. I decided to post this one as I remembered the reception of the only serious poem I've ever posted here, 'The Cane Field', and the curious difference in the reception given recently to another bit of doggeral, 'The Poem True'.

I am happy that a few of you found some value in the lines.

Ah, I thought it was a banker! Cleared that bit up...

In general I find poems are difficult to compare, unless maybe they were in the same genre.

I get a big kick out of writing these, but I don't consider them real poetry. I got hooked on Wallace Stevens around the time he published 'An Ordinary Evening in New Haven' and his work has influenced all of my 'real' poetry since then.

The little child's hunger is ended for good.
Now he's asleep in a coffin of wood.
The dog too is gone; who knows or who cares?

garza, all of your lines went so smoothy telling a rough "tale" as your grandfather might put it. The contrasting is impactful. This stanza above really appealed to my sense of compassion. Such imagery and then the stunning. Laurie ~