in going through some old blogs/journals recently, i came across this classic. i remember it well – it stemmed from an email i sent to my family, inquiring of them what their favorite words were. and then, on a whim, i crafted a poem using all of those words.

(i think many of you have read this before – forgive me, then; in cleaning out old blogs, i wanted to make sure i didn’t lose this.)

we took a poll, and did a test:
we found our fav’rite words to say.
meanings are moot; some words sound best,
according to our wee survey.
a plethora of words were found,
auditioning exquisitely–
voices dangled each luscious sound,
wooing our ears perpetually.
“unlucky” some we could not call
(and carnacopia was one)
with others we in love did fall
(waddling and chicken — so much fun!)
and then at last, two words breezed by–
a murmur and a lullaby.

(c) anothernicole.
(like someone else is going to want credit for this.)

the next morning, i got a reply-all from smr, the first of my 3 brothers:

A Haiku:

Beauty of this poem
Marred only by misspelling:
Cornucopia

-smr

appreciative, i changed the spelling; but, not to be outdone, replied with this:

A Limerick:

There once was a boy named [his name, rhymes with dawn]
Whose knowledge stretched forth like the dawn
He knew all his spelling
And i thank him for telling
And saving my poem thereupon.

-anothernicole

and then there was no stopping us: (click below to read the rest of our rhythmic prattle)

In the bonny wee village of Anaheim
Lived a boy – nay, a MAN – of much free time.
He wasted his hours
By wasting his powers
On limericks of awfully weak rhyme.

-smr

His sister would not be outdone
After all, she’d been born #1.

Two couplets she gives
To match the limerick of his

And one line tacked on for good fun.

-anothernicole

With fire in his eyes he looks down
At the gauntlet that lies on the ground.
A war and a battle
Of poetic prattle?
Unleash the bloodbath of nouns!!

-smr

As you cleverly craft your reply
I strike first with an attack on the sly.
I’ve just forced your hand,
Now you must disband
Your response which no longer applies.

-smr

although she admires his skill
one thing she must say, and she will.
“your meter is off”
she says with a cough.
and basks in a triumphant thrill.

-anothernicole

she waits: breath baited and eyes bright
to see if he’ll arise and write.

if he cannot, if he stays down
defeat is his; hers is the crown!

-anothernicole

and then the second of my brothers had had enough of the reply-alls

Neither one of you masters the art
Of how to cleverly out-smart–
Meters are oppressive and outdated,
The sonnet is dead and antiquated–
I am the last anti-iambic alive!

Cute rhyme schemes commodify message
They fall short of being impressive
Do not talk; Do not write; Do not be!
That is what I both hear and see.
I am the last anti-politico alive!

To know has been relegated to being proficient
Aesthetics are thought to be sufficient
Art isn’t art anymore, remember this truth
I graffiti political cartoons inside voting booths.
I am the last anti-plastician alive!

-air

and the youngest could hardly back down now…

there once was a family of four.
The oldest through third born were bore,
They wrote lots of stuff,
And spammed inbox enough,
SO the youngest was greatest therefore.

-aer

well, i couldn’t take that lying down, could i?!?

the youngest is all but INSANE
to think that his words are germane.
he steps on the field,
with small sword and shield-
will his fighting be poor or urbane?

-anothernicole

In order to play in our game
We require a much hotter flame.
So show us your war-face,
Your blade, and your mace,
For fortune ne’er favors the tame.

-smr

so, smr was still in the game; i hadn’t won yet.

what, what is this?
he’s up– arise?
yet she was sure of his demise!

but no, not yet,
his poem will say
she cannot claim to win the day.

he woos the fourth,
the little one,
and draws him into warring fun.

arg, arg, she says
with grinding tooth
i almost won, forsooth, forsooth!

the field is packed
now things are new
four teams? or two with allies true?

its hard to say
with all these boys
waving their words like army toys.

one girl alone
in valor bright
will beat down ev’ry poem of trite.

-anothernicole

late that night…

so it be late and all are sleep,
except the wee, who builds a keep.
A castle strong; syntax and rhyme,
Is now the moment, or the time,
In which they fail? And all aghast,
for the little one has victory grasped.

-aer

the oldest sighs and shakes her head-
the little one should go to bed.
she does not sleep, or if she do
one eye is open, watching you.
his castle’s strong, his rhyme will work
but one small thing provides a quirk
his poem has not a victor’s weight:
his last line’s ten instead of eight.
(there is a chink in iambs, too
a lesson may be overdue.)

* * *
(what fight we for by the way?
a flawless poem? or last alive?
is there a point towards which we strive?)

-anothernicole

the youngest sits and out of breath,
for soccer has his energy swept,
but as he sits he sees a box,
a message from the one who talks,
[brother #2] sends a glee hello,
they talk for short of years ago,
And as they talk they both recall,
A time, of good, of lands and all
Of redman kingdom; others too,
But [brother #3] can’t recall. Poo Poo.
So if you know the names of all,
the lands we made when we were small,
Please let me know and pass it round,
Or RedMan kingdom burns to ground.

-aer

My brain closes tight like a clam
[and] my words flow like strawberry jam.
Am I even poet?
Would I even know it?
I think, therefore iamb.

-smr

I’m tired of our poetry war
The rhymes just don’t come anymore
The iambs are right
(Ah, such a sweet sight!)
But I wish I could gauntlets ignore!

-anothernicole

and then my parents must have gotten really tired of the reply-alls

Hush, hush, lambs.
Gentle…still…allay.
Youth sallies to the war;
Age rests in royal array.
Hush, hush, lambs,
and let the volleys stay.
Iambs and trochees
be silent,
and a festive meal set way.

-the dad

Ah…. says the mom!
The poets I’ve borne!
If only they would write
and publish them all,
I’m sure they would see
a great fulfillment and much more!

-the mom

Publish? Publish?
Publish? Publish?
Is there a soul alive
who would pay for this rubbish?

Exeunt.

-smr

look here,” she said with a long sigh,
i’m tired and the weekend looms.
if you will let this poem pass by
you’ll save yourself from further dooms.
i do not want to fight you more
yet neither do i plan to lose.
be saved here from impending gore
retire now your rhyming muse.
you’ll keep your lands (that pithy ground);
no final shame you’ll have to know.
sure, i will be with laurels crowned,
but we will all your courage know.
just give it up; no other way
can end this farce and save the day.

-anothernicole

the eldest asks a simple plea,
that all the rest might humor thee,
a truce of earth shall save the land,
but she shall own thy winning hand?
For this is farce, as farce can be,
surrender hope and land to thee?
for what’s those famous words once said,
when persia tried to sparta shed,
though not writ in magna carta,
my fair lady, “THIS IS SPARTA”

-aer

Yo, Yo, Yo,
Yo, Yo, Yo,
I’m skillful
That means I never be fearful
No matter what happens I’m here for
You, no matter what you do
I got the Benzos in the back
Packed with the party crew
I got more bling on my rings
Diamonds, silver, gold and things
My Hummers on my dubs
and they call me the Gucci King
If you try to beat on the basketball court
You find facing off a ghetto cohort
It doesn’t bother, the police after me
Cause I know they ain’t got the audacity
Put me behind bars
I’ll just be a bigger star
I pop out records
Faster than Honda makes cars

-air

i think the turn is mine to write
a simple poem, and not too trite.
your words are brave; they honor you,
and yet prolong this all, they do.
(haha i yoda sound like now,
the price for an iambic wow.)

-anothernicole