In my little town, when a chill autumn breeze

Comes sweeping down through the colorful trees

Whisking the leaves that float down when torn,

And the cold harvest moon rises over the corn;

Out near the old graveyard, so townspeople tell,

Dwells a monster that’s straight out of Hell.

They say that this creature, so awful and foul,

Is a shape-shifting thing who sometimes takes the form of an owl.

They caution all visitors who come passing through

To avoid the graveyard if they hear any owls crying “hoo”.

A scientist once came to live in our town,

And he thought that he ought track this bird down.

The people all told him he ought not to go,

But he was a skeptic, who doubted the legends, and so,

On Halloween night, he went off to the wood

Trying to find that bird if he possibly could.

He sought the old graveyard–that forbidden zone–

And there, on the unhallowed ground, he waited alone.

His journal records that, as near midnight drew,

He heard that unmistakable “hoo, hoo!”

He did not have to make much of a search,

For atop the ancient, untended crypt the creature did perch.

He must have pursued it inside, underground,

To judge by his footprints–the only traces the search party found.

He’s not been seen since–where he is, none can presume–

And none of the searchers dared to go down in that tomb.

And every man in the party swears on his life that he knew

He heard an owl, in the daylight, calling mockingly: “hoo”.

But this is only old folklore–and from so long ago,

That whether it’s true I cannot claim to know.

Nowadays, the screeches of owls seldom pierce the night air,

And perhaps ’tis the case that there aren’t any there.

But some people say that on dark Autumn nights,

On old country roads, far from the town’s lights,

They have glimpsed a strange man, with a curious cowl,

Whose features resemble those of an owl;

With piercing round eyes, and a nose like a beak.

And there is only one thing that compels him to speak:

If you say the scientist’s name, he’ll look right at you,

And his eyes seem to smile, and he says simply:

“Who?”

(more…)

Football season is upon us!  It’s only pre-season, but still!  Therefore I have prepared some poetry for the occasion.  I wanted to do more haiku since my political ones were pretty popular, and I got the idea to do a football-themed set from Gregg Easterbrook.  Some of them contain an actual prediction, some just make a lousy pun, but all of them contain 5-7-5 syllable goodness!

Atlanta

This will be the year

They win a postseason game.

But only the one.

Arizona

Two great receivers

Never get hands on the ball

If QB’s on ground.

Baltimore

Most boring good team

Will make playoffs, win, then lose.

Wash, rinse and repeat.

Buffalo

Upgraded defense.

But inconsistent passing

Will give the fans “Fitz”.

Carolina

“Cam will change the game”

Maybe so, but then again

We’ve heard that before.

Chicago

Will win division.

And if they can stay healthy

Will reach New Orleans.

Cincinnati
They ought to be good.

Yet, whenever we think that,

They always collapse.

Cleveland

They seem to have been

Re-rebuilding ever since

1999.

Dallas

Poor Dallas Cowboys:

With the biggest screen ever,

And a small window.

Denver

Broadway Joe the Ram

Unitas as a Charger

Condemned to repeat.

Detroit

Don’t blame Megatron;

‘Cover curse’, and their defense,

Put them in cellar.

Green Bay

Defense gets better

But offensive regression

Makes them a fifth seed.

Houston

Just who are these guys?

They lost Mario, but they’ll

Win the Lombardi.

Indianapolis

Well, with any Luck

They will be back into form

Come twenty-fourteen

Jacksonville

They’re gonna be bad.

Like, really, really awful.

As in, not too good.

Kansas City

They might be healthy

This year, and have a good chance

To win Division.

Miami

Major rebuilding.

The last time that they did that

They made the playoffs.

Minnesota

Is it just me who

Believes that “Christian Ponder”

Should be Tebow’s name?

New England

Impressive offense

Figures to run up the score.

Without the “running”.

New Orleans

Team’s united; there’s

No mutiny on bounty.

But still, no Captain.

 New York Jets

Should have signed Owens

And Moss and Ochocinco.

Would be great TV.

New York Giants

They look weak compared

To the Eagles and Cowboys.

Like they did last year.

Oakland

How’ll the West be won?

I don’t know, but it will not

Be by the Raiders.

Philadelphia

Unpredictable

They always surprise people.

Not this year–sixth seed.

Pittsburgh

They tried to Ward off

The ravages of time, but

It’s caught up to them.

San Diego

I think that Turner

Could lose all sixteen games and

Still not get fired.

San Francisco

Will regress a lot

And still win their division

But not NFC.

Seattle

Weird new uniforms

Make them the NFL’s Ducks:

Good, but not elite.

St. Louis

Could surprise some teams,

But Braford’s injury prone.

Can’t beat the Niners.

Tampa Bay

Like the G-Man says:

“Rise and Shine, Mr. Freeman”.

Wrong man in right place.

Tennessee

They appear destined

For second in division

And missing playoffs.

Washington

Griffin next Newton.

Puts up good numbers, but fails

To win seven games.

The Republican Party

Cut tax and spend less.

And Heed the Word of the Lord.

But mostly, cut tax.

The Democratic Party

We must tax the rich.

Unless they’re in Hollywood.

Then we’re conflicted.

Libertarianism

Cut Government Waste!

Like useless departments that

Monitor spending.

The Tea Party

We hate government

Unless it does what we want.

So… basically… yeah.

Moderate Democrats

We can disagree

On Reagan’s policies, but

His hair was perfect!*

Neo-liberalism

Globalism good.

If there’s more to it than that,

We don’t want to know.

Liberal Progressivism

We’re disappointed.

We won’t vote for Obama.

Kucinich ’16!

Moderate Republicans

We’re not Democrats.

No, really, we promise you!

Not the same at all!

The Alt-Right/”Manosphere”

We strongly believe

We’re slaves to biology.

Go build some robots.

Objectivism

We are all selfish.

It worked great in the novel.

Check your premises.

Anarchism

Why do we have to adhere to this stupid form? We will use however many freakin’ syllables we damn well please!

*Apologies to the late, great Warren Zevon for stealing this line.

I stood there alone

As I pondered the sun.

I had wandered since gloam,

Traces of life I saw none.

I was lost in the sand,

My body was dirty and smelly;

“Lone and level”, by damn,

Was the scene, as would say Shelley.

I shouldn’t have gone on this trip;

I’d be better off home.

I hated the sand and its grit,

But lost, I continued to roam.

At length, I discovered some shade,

An oasis and system of caves.

I sat me down there to wait

And gazed at the pond and the waves.

I fancied I saw in that pool

A vista of planets and stars,

A whole galaxy, and nebulae too,

And centaurs and globules and quasars.

I fell from the hot desert clime

Into that abyss of icy infinity.

Where the stardust twisted like vine

Amidst lights that danced like divinity.

I fell like a rock into space

And sometimes I believe I fall still.

For I am only a body displaced,

And I go where the Universe will.

So, as usual, there’s a lot of Lovecraftian Cosmicism in this. I did do something I’ve been wanting to try for a while in this poem, though. You’ll notice it’s in a typical ABAB rhyme scheme, but all the “As” are not rhymes but rather assonances. They don’t end on the same sound, but they contain similar sounds.

What should I write a poem about?

That is something I would like to figure out.

There’s lots of folks who could write a decent poem,

And what is more, I’m pleased to say I know ’em:

There’s Shelley and there’s Yeats and there’s Edgar Allan Poe,

But how they wrote their poems is something I don’t know.

What should I write a poem about?

I feel that I’ve attempted ev’ry route.

I tried to write some poems without a form or rhyme

And it came out as pure nonsense ev’ry single time!

I even tried to write in other than my native tongue,

And bless me, what a Götterdämmerung!

What should I write a poem about?

That is something I can’t seem to figure out.

Them who read legendes may read of a moor

Where there is ſaid to be a ghoſtly figure around.

Wher he paces about while ſtars all roll o’er;

 ‘Tis ſaid he won’t leave till what he hunts for is found.

My fellowes and I knewe when we drewe nigh

That Forces Unholie had dwelt in this Terrible Place.

We ſet up our camp beneathe the grey ſky

And ſhivered at darkneſs encroaching apace.

We clutch’d at our muſkets, too frightened to reſt;

Each fearing ye Evil embrace of the breeze.

We watch’d as our ſun fell low in ye Weſt

Sinking behind the ſkeletal arms of the trees.

Our fire went out, and we took turns stand’g guard

But nothing at all came to paſs on that night.

For a week this went on, and though it was hard

Our courage was ſtrengthened as we grew uſed to ye ſite.

On one morn, I was ſent out for ſupplies

As I walked down ye road into towne in ye gloom

I felt meſelf gazed at by many inhuman eyes

And ſaw a ſtone pile that I thought a Druidical tomb.

When I reach’d yonder towne I reſolved I’d inquire

About the hiſtory and the tales of the place.

But on creſting ye hill, I ſaw ye entire

Towne was gone, in its stead was ye face

Of a great, grey impoſsible City,

Made of Metals and of Lights and of Glaſs.

And from ſoulleſs windows, drained of pity,

Ye Denizens mov’d about in a maſs.

I ran madly afeard back, then, to my camp,

But though I looked, I found no trace of it there!

Every man, every gun, every tent, every lamp

Had vaniſh’d as if into air!

There’s ſtill legends told of a ghoſt on a moor

That ye Folk in ye City nearby think they can ſee.

But ev’ry inch of this place have I ſcour’d o’er,

And I’ve yet to ſee anybody but me!

  (more…)

It was suggested in the forum by a person named Santorum

That the people would vote for ‘im if on the Bible he would run.

Another sought to bring rich people’s cash, and having which,

This man called Gingrich had once thought he’d all but won.

And at this time the call for “revolution” went up all

Among supporters of Ron Paul who were so sure they had struck gold.

And all the time was omnipresent the suspicion that Mitt Romney

Only could keep folks from needing their misery and poverty consoled.