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Finally I am putting up something else with Iambic pentameter. This poem is meant to be a humorous exageration of a typical teenage student's views on Shakespeare.((He invented his own style of Iambic Pentameter)) Well, here you have it:





Writer Guy



A long, long time ago there was this guy,

who wrote a lot of poems I have read.

He must have had a better brain than I,

I think he understood the things he said.

I failed a test today on how he wrote.

I can’t remember what his style was called!

And on that note, his name escapes me to.

Although I know for sure that he was bald.

His sonnets, plays, and poetry I guess,

were all the rage in fifteen eighty eight.

Though all I’m learning from this guy is stress,

some nerdy people think he’s pretty great.

So I’ll just take my ‘F’ and shake my spear,

Who needs a great big brain when you have hair?

This poem was written to illustrate just how much something can be exagerated, distorted, and completely blown out of proportion. I noticed sometimes when this has happened in the world around me these distortions are treated as facts... well just read it already:





I Have a Little Problem



I have a little problem with the butter on my bread,

it tastes a bit like vegetables, which by the way, I’ve read

that vegetables have chemicals that make you feel unwell,

and when you feel sickly then you’ve lost your sense of smell.

And everybody knows that nose that cannot smell a fire

creates a situation that is possibly quite dire

for the flames could blaze across the floor and burn it all to bits,

while the person with the nose who cannot smell it simply sits,

and his home is gone, his wealth is gone, his problems know no ends,

and those with many problems will in turn inflict their friends,

and inflicted friends aren’t long to be the friend of one who pouts,

so the poor, sick, lonely sufferer will have to do without.

And this is just the problem with the haughty folk today!

Deserting friends forever on the grounds of just dismay!

Then the poor, sick, lonely sufferer is angry with the world

and he wants to seek revenge upon the folks with whom he quarreled.

So he takes the only rifle that would catch the winter store

that would feed the hungry widow and her children overmore,

and he clambers down the path into the pasture of his land,

he pinpoints all the milking cows and shoots them where they stand.

The children cry and moan because they have no milk to drink

thus parents are so occupied they don’t have time to think,

and thoughtless people never do their duty in the town–

so everybody’s businesses are quickly closing down.

There’ll be chaos, pandemonium, and radiating dread,

all because I have a problem with the butter on my bread.



© 12-1-07 The Hopeless Optimist





Sorry about the lines being all messed up.

Slaves Beneath the Sea



All living men are slaves beneath the sea

of tears shed by their fathers’ slavery.

Entombed by thrones of life we lie in wait,

For some Deliverer at life’s dark gate.

But Death won’t dress in black to save tonight,

nor will she bind oppression’s whip of light

We choose to be oppressed, not stand and fight,

in this illusion that life’s furnace great

should char our flesh the less than flames of hate

than those in living hearts we did create.

Still life begets that we must ever be,

the living slaves who labor in that sea,

a sea that none but Death can hope to drain,

until then we in bondage thus remain.



©February 15-- 2007, The Hopeless Optimist