Saturday, in a light
Of two Saturns painted white,
We searched for fillings from my cavities.
By the time we were done,
We saw Sunday’s setting sun
And laughed that we had drained our batteries.
All posts in category Rhyming verse
Saturday, in a light
Posted by Tom Busillo on May 6, 2013
the paths after dark
make the search for light
a horrid task
a difficult care
combing the dawn of all its night
sorting for light in the pile of night there
oh, the sensible man knows
there’s less light in night
a million times over more light in day
but we are possessed
and this dark fire makes us
hunt light in night, compels us to say
it’s not how much light
you’ve got from the night
but knowing the way
you’ve made the night pay
Posted by Tom Busillo on January 25, 2013
Posted by Tom Busillo on June 19, 2012
We can talk (to project). We
can talk, project to, “Please,
ask a question of the shadow.”
“Do you talk in Shadowese?”
“Are you sheltered or you swallowed
by your big brother the night?”
“Shadow, where do you think you’ll go
once everything is light?”
Posted by Tom Busillo on May 14, 2012
The Ballad of Bill “The Bunter” Hobson (A Spectacularly Undistinguished Practitioner of the Art of Professional Fisticuffs, Who Nevertheless is Remembered as a War Hero)
It was just in Bill Hobson’s nature,
before he was even a runt,
why, before he even learned to walk,
he’d taught himself to bunt.
He showed little interest in grade school.
His teachers found him as a student wanting.
He’d do no homework, but every day in his backyard,
for six hours after school, he’d diligently practice bunting.
He made the freshman baseball team,
but he gave his coaches a fit,
for Bill insisted on bunting – no matter what the sign –
as a way to get a hit. (He never did.)
Tossed off the team for insubordination, next fall, he tried out for football.
The coach showed him how to punt it,
but instead of catching and kicking the ball,
Bill Hobson tried to bunt it. (It will come as no surprise that he did not not make team.)
Bill got a job as a night watchman.
After he’d made the rounds and checked all the locks,
he would spend the rest of the night
practicing bunting out on the loading docks.
Late one evening, a gambler spied Bill,
said to his partner, “Look at that schmuck.”
His partner said “He doesn’t look like a fool to me,
He looks like a stroke of good luck!”
And so the boxer Bill “the Bunter” Hobson was born.
Of his prowess at fisticuffs the gamblers would sing
as they’d travel from town to town, get Bill into a boxing match,
then bet the house of the other guy in the ring.
His head it was battered.
His jaw it was shattered.
Across his tattered baseball jersey,
his blood it was splattered.
His eyes black and bruised,
but he never felt used,
for if one’s calling is bunting,
one’s life can’t really be choosed.
Then the Great War in Europe broke out (version II).
Bill was drafted and sent to the front.
It was at the Battle of the Bulge
that Bill made his most famous bunt.
A German soldier tossed a grenade at his platoon’s foxhole
It hung in the air, everyone thought in that instant, “My God! We’re done for and that’s that”
but Bill saw the grenade as a baseball,
and bunted it with his bat.
And even though Bill “The Bunter” Hobson was a failure as a student,
could not even stay on the baseball team,
never stood a chance at making the football team,
never became a doctor or a lawyer,
and although his lack of prowess with women was up until this point
not heretofore mentioned, one can only imagine,
and his total number of wins as a professional boxer amounted to zero (0-533 to be exact),
when it came time for his final out,
Bill Hobson died a hero!
So it doesn’t matter if you reach first base,
it doesn’t matter how many runs you score,
in the town square of Rosemont, Ohio, is a statue
erected in honor of “Bill ‘The Bunter’ Hobson – a Hero of the Second World War”
Posted by Tom Busillo on April 14, 2012
Posted by Tom Busillo on February 21, 2012
The children of the shoemaker have no shoes?
Does that mean the children of the blues guitarist don’t have any blues?
The children of the fruit peddler don’t have any fruit?
The children of the boot maker don’t have a single boot?
The children of the banker, their pockets have no money?
The children of the beekeeper, they’ve never tasted honey?
The children of the tailor have never worn a suit?
The children of the beauty queen have never heard of cute?
The children of the school teacher, they really have no class?
The children of the mule breeder, they really have no ass?
The children of the barber they all have the longest hair?
The children of the carney never once been to the fair?
The stonemason’s children, they can’t find two stones?
The archaeologist’s children – do they really have no bones?
The children of the botanist, always asking “what’s a leaf?”
The children of the butcher, always asking “what is beef?”
The children of the tanner, they don’t know where’s to hide?
The children of Colonel Sanders never tasted chicken fried?
The children of the astronomer think that the moon’s a star?
The used car salesman’s children have never ridden in a car?
The saxophonist’s children can’t tell a woodwind from a horn?
The children of the midwife are still waiting to be born?
The tug captain’s children can’t tell a train from a boat?
The children of the Navy Seal were never taught to float?
The children of the silk trader never touched a piece of silk?
The children of the wet nurse have never tasted milk?
The housecleaner’s children all live covered in soot?
The children of the podiatrist are each missing a foot?
The travel agent’s children, they have nowhere to go?
The disc jockeys children, they have no radio?
The children of the carpenter live in a home without a door?
The linoleum layer’s children walk in kitchens with no floor?
The children of the cheese maker are most in need of cheese?
The children of the etiquette columnist never once say “please?”
The electrician’s children are forced to read by fire?
The plumber’s children like to clog the drain with fishing wire?
The children of the rug maker have never walked on rugs?
The children of the pharmacist have never taken drugs?
The children of the odor tester have never smelled a scent?
The children of the penny-maker have never held a cent?
Posted by Tom Busillo on August 14, 2011
“A poem that rhymes must express a new thought!”
A dome made of dimes, rust represses what’s sought,
A tome bound for Nome, a pony in the pansies’ gust.
A foam finger wag, a bony arm draped over lust.
The downstairs doorman, he’s been bought.
Don’t bother to dress, we’ve already been caught.
In the middle of the riddle, invite the slow dogs to the griddle,
Pancakes off a paper plate, Chuck Daniels on the fiddle.
A think that poems must address a new rhyme.
We drink to homes, got the blinds in mind.
A rust gave to seeking a roam’s road of dimes,
A lust for fulfillment fingers tingling like chimes.
On the far right, on the five black keys,
On the second verse, play anything you please.
Don’t pound on forms, you’ll wear out your knees.
The honey’s okay, but I’d rather have the bees.
A rhyme that poems must undress a new sought.
“Fit the model, make it tight or your rhymes are all for naught.”
“You haven’t made a thing if your thing’s not read or bought.”
I rather poem a reach for whatever can’t be caught.
Posted by Tom Busillo on July 19, 2011
When you open your mouth,
what color is the dust?
Yellow like sand,
or orange like rust?
Black like your vision,
or white as your eye?
Does a tiny little puff come out
your nose when you sigh?
You’re missing the forest for the form,
how it flows and ebbs,
happy with a steady diet
of old cobwebs.
Scoffing at free verse?
Dissing Ginsberg? Indeed!
Do you need a rhyme to teach you
not all stirrups fit the steed?
(i.e. a horse
I somehow joined the GoodReads.com Poetry forum and signed up to receive a daily email of new posts and threads. In one of today’s discussions, I observed an idiot call Allen Ginsberg a “non-poet” because he wrote in free verse.
I’d post the above in the thread, but I prefer to be a lurker (and a laugher, or a laughing lurker).
Posted by Tom Busillo on July 17, 2011
What’s the point of
digging up the root?
Once the tree’s been felled,
the root is moot.
The view is clear,
they’re no more leaves.
Leave the root to itself
and all that it grieves.
Posted by Tom Busillo on July 16, 2011