What rhymes with orange?

As my first post on this new blog, I suppose I should answer the question posed in the introduction.  As any doggerel monger will tell you, it's not how you get there, it's how well it rhymes and how clever it is.  As far as I'm concerned, there are no rules except successfully completing the rhyme while trying to maintain the meter. Just ask our Patron Saint – Dr. Seuss.

This poem, which answers the 'orange' question, was written for my wonderful Dad who passed away 11 years ago.  He's the guy who read me The Dr. Seuss Sleep Book so many times we both memorized it.  He was also a terrific poet himself, and responsible for any poetic and musical talent I may have.

So Dad, this is for you.  I love you and miss you!

ODE TO A CREATION TURN
Copyright 2011 by Roger B. Stone

An agonizing turn of phrase;

A wisp of tortured rhyme;

This tangled web of syntax

Constitutes the poet's crime.

For what sin is he indicted

If not verbal mutilation?

He'll commit syllabic larc'ny

To keep rhythmic his creation.

He's the master of forced couplets

He'll pair O.J. with Nicole;

No taboos and nothing's sacred

In his sick linguistic soul.

He will stretch the lengths and breadths of taste

In weaving his melange.

In his conceit he'll even have

A Frenchman shout, "Orange!"

Is it a talent or a curse

To feel compelled to erudition?

Is mangling the Queen's tongue

Cause for sainthood or perdition?

But like Tantalus he reaches

Towards excruciating pleasure,

Because one time in a thousand

He'll unearth poetic treasure!

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY 1996!!!

House of Correction?

So here's another Father's Day poem.  Don't know what year I wrote it, but based on the paper, it was composed on a typewriter (remember those)?

CIRCUMSPECTION
Copyright 2012 by Roger B. Stone
A man's home is is castle and no one ought question
His subtle and sober and pensive direction
For as head of the household and charged with protection
He is wont to exhibit a strong predilection
(Upon thoughtful, considered, and lengthy reflection)
For sharing advice or a weighty suggestion

Which is quickly rebuked so he feels great rejection
And likens himself to a slug or infection
(Which doesn't stand up to a careful inspection)
But he stuffs himself full of all types of confection
Which only upsets his poor, tender digestion
After years of receiving this type of correction
He finally makes the enlightened connection
This twisted abuse is a sign of affection
By loved ones who realize that without exception
He is getting too close to a state of perfection

Happy Father's Day!

Political Suicide!

I started writing this song many years ago but never got past the first verse and chorus.  It has a reggae beat, and in my head Sting is singing it.  But since it's about an election, it has a pretty short shelf-life.  So every four years I'd think about finishing it, but I'd miss the boat and have to drop it for another four years.  And then, in 2016, Donald Trump came along and started running his bizarro presidential campaign, and THAT inspired me to get serious about completing my song.  Of course I had to completely rewrite most of the words, but the idea, the structure, and the tune remain the same.

So after a decade or two on the shelf, here is....

Political Suicide

(The Ballad of a Trumped-Up Campaign)

Copyright 2016 by Roger B. Stone

I’m running, I’m running, but in the wrong direction

I’m trying, I’m trying, to win the big election

I'm leading, I'm leading, but everyone says they hate me

I’m warning you, warning you, never underestimate me

I’ll build a big wall to keep out all the killers and rapists

I’m pro-life and pro-choice to piss-off left-wingers and papists

I’m closing the border to foreigners… well, not the good ones

Maybe that’s why my policies tend to be misunderstood ones

They call it, they call it… political suicide

The candidates, you know they can run, but they cannot hide

The waves of public opinion go in and out with the tide

Oh, they tell me, tell me, I’m committing political suicide

I’m gonna tear down the Department of Edification

My supporters say going to school causes too much frustration

I don’t see the value of environmental protection

Global warming just might accelerate natural selection

I’ll cancel trade deals that are killing the strength of our nation

The Chinese will bow to my great skill at negotiation

I’m making America great again, you can believe it

I just wish I had some idea about how to achieve it

They call it, they call it… political suicide

The candidates, you know they can run, but they cannot hide

The waves of public opinion go in and out with the tide

Oh, they tell me, tell me, I’m committing political suicide

I’m not a misogynist… big, ugly women adore me

I’m not an iconoclast… cherished beliefs simply bore me

Don’t call me a demagogue… my words are always distorted

I’m not xenophobic... I just want you losers deported

I’m joking, I’m joking, I’m not really runnin' for nothing

Can’t you see, can't you see, my campaign is all full of stuffing

It’s just a publicity stunt that you’ll always remember

Better hope, better hope that it all falls apart by November

They call it, they call it… political suicide

The candidates, you know they can run, but they cannot hide

The waves of public opinion go in and out with the tide

And I know, yes I know, I’m committing political suicide

That’s right…
I know, yes I know, I’m committing political suicide

50 Years Later

Back in 1995, my parents flew out to Dad's 50th high school reunion in Whittier, California. Before they left, I wrote Dad this poem.  (He made copies and shared it with his friends.) They had a great time and came back with lots of stories.  Sadly, most of those mentioned in the poem have now passed on, but in 1995 they had quite a party!

THE 50^th REUNION

Copyright 2012 by Roger B. Stone (with a nod to Dr. Seuss)

Way out in the West, right next door to L.A.

The Whittier High gang has called it a day.

All night long they’ve been acting like kids at a bash,

But it’s fifty years later – they’re ready to crash.

Tommy Mattis was there and Bob Lassleben too,

Mike and Conley and Sherf added to the Who’s Who.

There was Roger "the Coop", and ol’ "Stoney" Bob Stone,

And they all still had crushes on Marilyn and Joan.

“So what you been up to these last fifty years?”

“Oh not much – how ‘bout you?” they began between beers.

But they soon got warmed up and began reminiscing,

About good old days with the friends they’d been missing.

They talked about cars, and they talked about bars,

And they talked about fires on the beach ‘neath the stars.

They recalled some old songs, and an old drinking bout,

And the lies that they’d told about who’s making out.

They spoke of their lives and their loves (in hoarse voices).

They told of careers full of good and bad choices.

And in just one short night full of laughter and tears,

They managed to cram in the whole fifty years.

They remembered their teachers – some lousy, some dear,

Then they toasted old friends who are no longer here.

And they all celebrated just being alive,

With the Whittier class of Nineteen Forty-Five.

Way out in the West where they have perfect weather,

A half-century's gone by since they last got together.

They’re sleeping right now, but tomorrow they’ll say,

“What great memories we have – seems like just yesterday!”

To Bust Or Not To Bust?

I'll admit this one is just plain weird.  During his Birthday one year, my Dad had just undergone hernia surgery and was still recuperating.  So of course I had to write about that. Was it a wise choice?  I dunno.  But it sure was fun!

ODE TO A GUT

Copyright 2012 by Roger B. Stone

We've read lots of poems about love and despair,

There are tributes galore about beauty and hair,

There are songs to blue eyes, and to ruby lips, BUT,

No one ever has written an “Ode to a Gut”.

There are ballads to ships, and about Easter bonnets,

Hell, even the Portuguese have their own sonnets,

Nantucket’s a limerick devoted to smut,

So why not a sensitive “Ode to a Gut”?

Now you’d have to agree it’s a noteworthy part,

Both Rodin and Renoir glorified it in art,

And babies are nurtured inside Mama’s belly,

Even ol' Santa Claus has a gut full of jelly.

It has many uses we tend to ignore,

It’s a wonderful place for a kitty to snore,

It keeps a book open, remote-controls near,

It’s even a great place to set down your beer.

And it’s oft overlooked as a symbol of fun,

But I have a memory that’s second to none,

Of wrapping my legs 'round your gut in the pool,

Then you'd dive to the bottom – now talk about cool!

So just for a while, you must treat yours with care,

Like a trusty jalopy, it’s under repair,

But pretty soon now you’ll be out of this rut,

And always remember your “Ode to a Gut”.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY 1998!

(and get well soon)

Naughty or Nice

Another one for Dad.  This one's just plain silly.  And a little naughty too.

WHAT'S IN A NUMBER?

Copyright 2012 by Roger B. Stone

You've reached that certain age now

When maturity's expected.

Your knowledge and experience

Are traits to be respected.

Your dignity is legend,

Your compassion's world renown,

Your terrific sense of humor's

Recognized throughout the town.

Your intellect's amazing,

Your philosophy sublime,

Your morals and your ethics

Have withstood the test of time.

And so at your age how can it be,

Whatever does it mean,

That the number sixty-nine

Still makes you giggle like a teen?

 HAPPY 69th BIRTHDAY!

Justice? You Want Justice?

Do you remember what happened on my Dad's birthday, December 8, 2000? That's the day the Supreme Court, in a 5-4 decision, picked our next President. Yup.  On Dad's birthday, the Supreme Court decided to make George W. Bush president of the United States.  And the rest – is history.  So that day I cobbled together a quick verse to mark the occasion.  Sadly, I've been unable to heed my own advice.  Not that I'm still bitter....

THE HANGING JUDGES

Copyright 2012 by Roger B. Stone

So who woulda thunk it, way back in November,

That here we would sit, so far into December,

Awaiting the outcome of courts so Supreme,

With Demo’s and ‘Publicans building their team.

And then on your Birthday the word would come down,

Making pachyderms smile while the asses all frown.

We’re Bushed from the process and Gored all to tears,

And now we’ll be saddled with four bumbling years.

He’s misunderstated, his pie built so high,

He resignates energy up to the sky.

He’s clever and witty (so much like his Pop),

And he’s always prepared with a quick malaprop.

So as we remember the day you were born,

It’s time to be gracious and stop all the scorn.

Let’s focus on you now, the world’s greatest Dad,

And try to forget about each hangin’ chad!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY 2000!

Opera Schmopera

For her birthday one year, my wife and I took my Mom to an Opera Dinner at Sotto Sopra Italian restaurant in Baltimore, MD.  The 6-course meal with live operatic performances throughout the evening is a real treat for opera lovers.  Since we were going to hear arias from a variety of operas, I wrote this poem on her invitation.

THE OPERA FROM HELL
Copyright 2011 by Roger B. Stone

When we first started out I wrote une poeme,

To celebrate going to see La Boheme.

Then the season got changed and they booked a new story,

So I wrote a long verse about Il Trovatore.

Then that one fell through, and it made me get crotchety,

Tryin’ to develop a rhyme for Pagliacchity.

Once more they adjusted, and once more I needed,

To come up with something that works with Aida.

But they did it again, (now it’s getting pro-forma),

So I started all over a-rhyming with Norma.

Well son of a gun, now, and ain’t it just charmin’,

They’ve revised the damn thing – and this time it’s Carmen.

Those bastards, I wish they would all go to Hell-o,

They switched it and scheduled a night of Otello.

I’m blowin’ the opera house up, cause I’ve gotta

Re-write the whole thing – now it’s La Traviata!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Love, Brazilian Style

My wife loves Italian food!  In fact, she says, "I may not be not Italian, but I'd be willing to convert!"  But for Valentine's Day in 2000, instead of Italian, I decided to take her out for a Brazilian feast.  Here is the poem on her invitation.

DIA DOS ENAMORADOS
Copyright 2011 by Roger B. Stone

You've often confessed that you'd like to convert,
But just for tonight, Dear, that plan we’ll subvert.
We’re staying away from all things Neopolitan,
But don’t worry none, we’ll still go cosmopolitan. 

But….

It’ll be vinho tinto instead of chianti,

And caipirinhas, not asti spumanti.

Tonight it’s churrasco and not scaloppini,

And a nice feijoada, replacing linguine.

So….

This Valentine’s Day we’ll be dining in style,

To that great samba beat that makes everyone smile.

And with someone we love, and with food we adore,

Tonight “mio amore” will be “meu amor”!

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY, SWEETHEART!!!!!

Long Live The King

I wrote this on August 16, 1977 – the day Elvis died.  Don't know what inspired me to write it; I wasn't a huge Elvis fan or anything.  Guess it was a slow day at work and the spirit just moved me.  But for some reason it's still in my head after all these years.  So it seems appropriate to write it down on the 35th anniversary of his death.

IN MEMORY OF ELVIS
Copyright 2011 by Roger B. Stone

For Elvis the Pelvis we all deeply mourn.

Without him, Rock’n’Roll might never've been born.

Way back in the ‘50s the whole world was ready,

To hear him sing Hound Dog, and Tender, and Teddy.

We miss him already though he’s just barely gone.

We cherish the memory of his hips and his song.

We’d all love to tell him, “Dear Elvis you’re great!”

But for Elvis the Pelvis, I’m afraid it’s too late.

He passed away August the 16^th, they say.

His feet move no more; his guitar’s put away.

It’s tragic to think of The King in the ground,

When they cover him up so he can’t make a sound.

No songs can be heard from our hero’s sweet lips,

No motion is seen in his legs and his hips,

"Oh Elvis, dear Elvis, won’t you please make us cry?"

No, Elvis the Pelvis is singin’ in the sky.

Gone Coco-nuts

One year my parents took a vacation to Hawaii with my Aunt Millie and Uncle Leigh.  They had a such a great time that they didn't want to come back.  After hearing their stories, I wrote this poem for Mother's Day.

A MOTHER'S DAY FANTASY
Copyright 2011 by Roger B. Stone

It was lo these many years ago, in May of ninety-seven,

On a sojourn for a fortnight to a little piece of heaven,

That our mystery begins where the Pacific currents churn,

For Bob and Pat went off that day and never did return.

Perhaps their ship's been wrecked on an atoll in Polynesia,

Or some coconuts have bonked them causing mutual amnesia,

Or the sun has baked their brains and made them both non-compos-mental.

For what else could cause the Stones to give up all things continental?

One eye-witness said she saw them on the beach and acting silly,

Drinking something from a conch shell with some folks named Leigh and Millie.

And another said he spied them lying naked on the sand.

They had big smiles on their faces and they looked relaxed and tanned.

But they never did resurface and their trail has now grown cold.

The investigators did their best; (or so we have been told.)

My guess is that they're living on a beach out in the boonies,

Where the tourists think they're natives - and the natives think they're loonies.

But whether they're on Maui, or Lanai or Molokai,

Or they've run off to Oahu or retired to Kauai,

You know that they're in Heaven in their new home by the sea. 

Sounds like Paradise, Nirvana, and Utopia to me!

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY 1997!

Whither Mankind?

My Dad was sort of a lay philosopher who used the term "whither mankind" to describe his thinking about the human condition.  He read layman's books on science and metaphysics just because they interested him; and would use that knowledge to try and find the common ground between the physical and the spiritual worlds.  He was always great fun to talk to about pretty much anything. And I sure do miss him!


QUESTIONS, QUESTIONS
Copyright 2011 by Roger B. Stone

Questions unanswered and mysteries unsolved.
Unprovable theories and facts unresolved.
Whither mankind?  Understanding one's wife?
And just what the heck IS the meaning of life?

Dilemmas like these are what prey on your mind.
You seek and you search, but no answers you find.
Quantum mechanics?  Do animals think?
Was Australopithecus really The Link?

What started it all?  Whence the whole human race?
What existed before the existence of space?
Big Bang?  Steady State?  Or divinity?
Is there really a God?  And is He a She?

So many ideas, and when you retire,
Your brain can pursue the eternal quagmire.
New issues to ponder and questions to beg.
Like which DID come first – the chick or the egg?

The Fountain of Youth

Can't remember what inspired me to riff on Einstein's famous mass-energy equivalence formula. This one's got one of my favorite words, "defenestration," in it.  But please don't hold me to the physics!

THE ULTIMATE VACATION

Copyright 2011 by Roger B. Stone

Our concept of time is subjective, you see.

(Don't ask Albert E. to deny it.)

He said, "Square MC and you're bound to get E."

With curved time and space. Do you buy it?

By squirting through wormholes and other phenomena,

At speeds that are faster than light,

You can travel the distance from here to Andromeda,

And get home by bedtime – last night!

The key to this matter is acceleration,

Thus greater velocities seek.

It's an intergalactic defenestration,

A window in time, so to speak.

If you leave here tomorrow and come back today,

You're not moving quickly enough.

The trick is to get back last week, so you borrow,

From all that primordial stuff.

If you save up the years and the months and the days,

They'll increase at a logarithmic rate.

You can lay by the pool and absorb the sun's rays,

And actually rejuvenate.

So go on a cosmic vacation each year.

Don't the travel brochures sound divine?

By taking a luxury cruise without peer,

You can always remain twenty-nine.

Baby It's Hot Outside!

The temperature today is supposed to reach 100 degrees... again, with a "heat index" of 105-110.  In honor of this sweltering summer, here's a poem I wrote several years ago during a similar heat wave. (With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe.)

IT'S NOT THE HEAT
Copyright 2011 by Roger B. Stone

Once upon a noontime sunny,

Overwhelmed by sweat a-runny,

Rolling down my brow and off my nose.

Ice-cold latté gently sipping,

(A vain attempt to stop the dripping,)

Drip, drip dripping; seeping through my clothes.

Then I spied a lovely lassie.

'Quick! Come up with something classy!'

Screamed my re-fried brain that steamy day.

But my mouth intoned stupidity,

“It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.”

She glanced at me… and quickly walked away.

Upscale Mongering

Since my Dad also wrote poetry, our back-and-forth greeting cards often focused on the topic of, well, writing poems.  I gave him this one on Father's Day in 1995. If you've forgotten what was going on in the news that year, read on...

HOW HARD CAN IT BE?
Copyright 2011 by Roger B. Stone

How hard can it be to write a verse

That's warm or wise or witty?

For you and me it takes two secs

To pen an intelligent ditty.

So who are these guys that write the crap

That's stocking all the shelves?

They must be washed-up seasonal help

Like Santa's laid-off elves.

Say, maybe you and I should start

A business writing cards.

A highbrow venture of the mind

For two um...mortal bards.

We'd never stoop to age, or sex,

Or fishing, golf, or drinking.

We'd stick to wordly topics

So our cards would get folks thinking.

Of course it might be tricky

Using Chechnya in a rhyme.

And Bosnia-Herzegovina

Just might take a little time.

It's kinda tough, but I found a way

To make a rhyme with Cali –

But we'd need a big eruption

Or an armed revolt on Bali.

Well then, there's always Castro

and the goings-on in Cuba.

A well-constructed verse might say

That he's their...uh...Grand Poobah?

I've tried to rhyme with Clinton

But my efforts really stunk.

And when it comes to Gingrich, um...

Aw screw it - let's get drunk!

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY 1995!