The Makings of a Poem

It's hard to make a poem.
Sometimes a poem
  just won't come.
Sometimes one just comes.
It's better if you have
  somethin' to say,
If you have a story to tell,
Sometimes you can
  tell it in a poem.
Strange things poems are.
They mean different things
  to different people.
Everybody's got an idea
  what makes a good poem.
And this isn't one.
A poem needs to rhyme,
At least most of the time.
Some time, its O.K.
  if a poem don't rhyme.
Why do I try so hard
  to be a bard?
I'll keep trying a bard to be.
But a bard isn't me.
A bard's not I.
Yet I'll be a bard 'fore I die.
Yes, a bard bye and bye.
At least I'll try.
That's the best I can do today.
At least I tried anyway.
It's not easy to write a poem.
But if you try and try,
  you'll write one 'fore you die.
You gotta look for poetry
  in everything you see.
Like a judge sittin' high on the bench
Or a 'fendant stan'in' 'fore him in a pinch.
You gotta look for poetry
  in everything you see.
Hey! Whoever said I was a poet!
Wordsworth was a poet;
And Poe was a poet;
But I'm no poet,
  and I surely know it;
And when I write a poem,
  I always blow it.
So give it up, let it be!
Quit trying to write that poetry!
Just gotta be like Harte Crane;
Gotta carry that notepad with you
And write down a line when it comes.
Rush to write it down,
'Fore you forget it.
Little by little you put a poem together.
Just a few words, that's all it takes.
And it's nice if they rhyme,
Most of the time.
Some say, "If it don't rhyme,
It ain't worth a dime."
But they'd throw away
The Twenty-Third Psalm any day,
Just lookin' for a rhyme:
What a crime!

Talent! Talent!
Some people have it,
Some don't.
It's a gift from God,
But it must be cultivated.
"Practice makes perfect,"
I've heard 'em say.
And I can't argue with that.
No way!
I'll practice and practice and practice,
And try to do it better.
I'll try to make a poem,
But this isn't one.
Oh, well!  Tell me somethin' new!
I'm beginnin' to see:
You've just gotta have
  Somethin' to say.
And I don't seem to have
Anything to say.
At least not today.

When you've said it once,
Don't try to say it again.
Get you somethin' else to say,
And say it in your own way.
You gotta be a thinker
And with words tinker
'Till you say what you wanta say
In your own poetic way.

Irving Berlin asked, "What'll I do?
What'll I do? What'll I do?”
That's pretty cool!
Some of the best poetry
Is in the songs we hear.
At least, as I see it.
What'll I do
  to write a new poem?
And try to make it rhyme
And be in perfect form?
What'll I do? What'll I do?
  What'll I do?
Suppose I could just leave
  this alone
And come back to it years hence
And I might find it interesting.
Or I might be embarrassed.
Who knows! Who cares!
What'll I do? What'll I do?
  What'll I do?
Give it up!  Give it up!
Quit tryin' so hard
  to be a bard.
Take a break!  Take a break!
  Take a break!
OK! OK! OK!
But I'll be back.
Such silly stuff!
Such stilly stuff!
As I said before,
  Haven't I already written enough?
Oh, well! Tell me something new!

Stupid me! Stupid me!
Ain't got a brain in my head, head head.

BOBBIE BURNS

Had a way with women,
As he had a way with words.
He was always in a rush,
And he made the women blush.

There was Clarinda, Jean, Anne and Kate,
Bonnie Lasses he made his mate.
He was the rock 'n roll poet,
And he made the world know it.

Though he was a little shady,
He could always please a lady.

His body always was hairy,
And his ladies they were airy.
He could always please his woman
By the thing that he was swinging. (???)

Moments of madness and sexual encounters,
And iconic status like Marilyn Monroe,
And he pleased the women
Wherever he'd go.

Spent his boyhood days on a Scotish farm
And as a youth invited into the girls' dorm
Debauched and devoted
To things he had noted;
But got a raunchy feelin',
When he fathered two chil’ren.

And though he had a checkered life,
When he fathered twins,
He was forced to take a wife
Who stayed with him all his life. (???)

He invented rock 'n roll
To save his mortal soul;
And he wrote anywhere, anytime any place,
Even on a window glass.

John Macsween makes up Haggis
For Burns nights all over the place.
It's warming, delicious, healthful, nutricious.
I'm trying' too hard to become a bard.

Scratched his poems in panes of glass,
Wrote on alehouse walls.
Where he'd write furious and fast,
And to the women make cat calls.

He wore sideburns like Elvis,
And he too knew how to use his pelvis.
The Scots' biggest star,
Especially in a bar.

Made rapid progress in reading,
And was tolerable at his writring.
Born in Alloway, Ayshire
To William Burness and Agens Broun.

Eldest of seven sons,
He could whistle quite a tune.
Spent his boyhood days working on the farm
And as a teenager radied the girls' dorm.

In spite of poverty
Was extremely well read,
And took many a Scottish lass
To bed.

Called it "some kind of counterpoise
For his circumstances."
First verse "My Handsome Nell"

Scotch whiskey and ladies,
He loved them all.
Married Jean Armour,
Mother of his twins.

A "Ploughman's Poet",
He mingled in illustrious circles
Of artists and writers,
The Literati of Edinburg.

Local hero, celebrity
No mere wordsmith he.

Wrote over 400 songs,
Great poetic masterpieces as well.
Like "Tim O'Shanter"
And "A Red, Red Rose"

Ten thousand people watched him "die"
And Millions honored him bye and bye.
Holding Burns' suppers
And eatin' Haggis and drinking Scotch whiskey.

More could be said
Of the bard now dead.

Hunter Thompson
  don’t' need me.
Nor Larry Ferlinhetti.
Saw Larry at City Lights
And he told me about Hunter.

Read old Hunter's books.
Kenneth Badon knows him.
Hunter ran for Sheriff and lost,
Like I ran for judge.

Fear and loathing in Lake Charles:
The LA GONZO LETTERS.
Wonder what Hunter'd think.
Oh, well?! Tell me something new!

Debating the issues at Union Square
And going out to Alcatraz
And running the crookedest street.
Was it the Shakespeare Hotel?
Thanksgiving Dinner at O'Douls's Bar
No A/C in the Hilton
One-hundred sixty a night.

Burnin’ in the night,
Tryin’ to do it right.
Lookin’ for a place
To get away and write.

Going to L’auberge
When I get the urge
When I’ve got the money
To go out there and splurge.

Sailin’ ‘cross the bay
And into Corpus Christi.
Going ashore to play
With ladies pretty nifty.

The city on a hill
That rose above the bay.
Where Barry Goldwater spoke
One that September day.

Time is now twelve fifty-six,
Gotta get to bed
With my little woman
I’ll lay my weary head.

Doin’ the best I can.
Tryin’ to make it, man.
Just don’t know what to do
To carry out my plan.

Rhyme, rhyme, rhyme, rhyme;
Your poems aren’t worth a dime.
You know it is a crime
To write such worthless slime.

  Face the Facts!

Hymies and Kykes
Nappy headed hoes:
Were the words
Jesse and Imus chose.

And their racism did expose.
But everybody knows
Blacks hate Whites
And Whites hate Negroes.