I am a little rusty at this
but I truly trust in practice.
Practice is what practice makes. See,
practice now no longer takes me
half as long as practice did when
I began. I was a kid then.
Now I show what practice does.
I’m practicing simply because
I'm here with nothing else to do
than practice this alone with you,
and whoever else is reading this in
the same way as those who listen
right along with what they're reading,
every line pronounced, proceeding
by as if it was possessed
by those to whom it’s been addressed.
If you find meaning in such situations,
then you understand the import of relation-
ships thought to be issues of accept, or reject,
though more nearly matters of technique to perfect,
and that takes some practice. Didactically, a Saint
proves practice makes perfect with minimal complaint.
Both doing and trying, I have often said,
perform perfect practice when they're done in bed.
In bed I was thinking, and stinking up sheets,
just one of my much more miraculous feats,
when once of a moment did foment a thought
that became quite plain. To explain it, I ought
use language precise, like a nice analogy.
But then, thinking twice, in digital technology,
one thing about bed can be said, after all.
Though it's been a while, with a smile I recall
it's for sleeping, and keeping sheet stink. I suppose
I’d better explain that refrain to your nose.
What if we met? Then, at that meeting,
would circumstance decide our greeting,
and would that great greet circumstance
address our destinies by chance?
Would we know, or think we did,
what was meant by what was said,
and thus resolve our differences
despite disparate inferences?
I contend. That is, I think
we'd recognize each other's stink.
If truth lies there, then truth to tell,
when all else fails, we make sense of smell.
So I would, if I could, write words to make you think fast,
because smarts, like some farts, linger after the stink's passed,
and words that you've heard spell another breath spent.
You can tell by the smell when words are flatulent.
but I truly trust in practice.
Practice is what practice makes. See,
practice now no longer takes me
half as long as practice did when
I began. I was a kid then.
Now I show what practice does.
I’m practicing simply because
I'm here with nothing else to do
than practice this alone with you,
and whoever else is reading this in
the same way as those who listen
right along with what they're reading,
every line pronounced, proceeding
by as if it was possessed
by those to whom it’s been addressed.
If you find meaning in such situations,
then you understand the import of relation-
ships thought to be issues of accept, or reject,
though more nearly matters of technique to perfect,
and that takes some practice. Didactically, a Saint
proves practice makes perfect with minimal complaint.
Both doing and trying, I have often said,
perform perfect practice when they're done in bed.
In bed I was thinking, and stinking up sheets,
just one of my much more miraculous feats,
when once of a moment did foment a thought
that became quite plain. To explain it, I ought
use language precise, like a nice analogy.
But then, thinking twice, in digital technology,
one thing about bed can be said, after all.
Though it's been a while, with a smile I recall
it's for sleeping, and keeping sheet stink. I suppose
I’d better explain that refrain to your nose.
What if we met? Then, at that meeting,
would circumstance decide our greeting,
and would that great greet circumstance
address our destinies by chance?
Would we know, or think we did,
what was meant by what was said,
and thus resolve our differences
despite disparate inferences?
I contend. That is, I think
we'd recognize each other's stink.
If truth lies there, then truth to tell,
when all else fails, we make sense of smell.
So I would, if I could, write words to make you think fast,
because smarts, like some farts, linger after the stink's passed,
and words that you've heard spell another breath spent.
You can tell by the smell when words are flatulent.
This rhyme is rendered with scents for the head. See
a pause for the cause [...] surely silent, but deadly
with little to say to stay any reports
that pertain to the stains that remain in my shorts
and this smelly verse that gets worse with each line
as if stink helps me think with poetic design.
So make note the nose, both width and length.
It's meant to tell of smells and stinks.
Mine tells me now how last night lingers,
stinking up my nose with fingers
thrust in just the perfect way,
and that is all one needs to say.
The politics of compromise,
when once resolved between one's thighs,
extends unending through the mind.
At least, that's what I hope you'll find.
When someone says I smell ‘funny’,
I say funny it is not,
when cannabis costs so much money,
and people are in need of pot.
To inure oneself of an odor
might require explaining why.
So, if you’d think I’d quell my stink,
then with these words I’ll try
to spell my smell, so that you may tell
whether or not it’s satisfactory
in its depiction of the predilection
of the relevant olfactory
sense. You see, this poet’s tree
is a forest filled with Gumps,
where ‘Stupid is as stupid does.’,
and 'Sentez l'air du temps.’
means that seeds, planted in deeds,
eventually will ripen.
So, here’s your chance to take a stance,
and collect your sinus’ stipend.
Shortly after Elizabeth Barrett Browning's death in 1861, her husband, the English poet Robert Browning, wrote a dramatic monologue about the prospect of facing his own mortality without fear. Its title, 'Prospice', is a Latin word that means 'to look forward'. What follows is similarly themed soliloquy with regard to conquering one's personal fears of death and looking forward.
Would that I could write a poem like 'Prospice',
and read it to those that I know, now in hospice, but I do more clowning around than Bob Browning,
so my wit is just a bit more funny sounding.
Sometimes I standup, and sometimes I sit, lest
some wind should pass due to my faulty witness.
My witness perceives those who grieve, and rejoices
with those who'd propose to give laughter their voices.
Laughter hereafter, and until Death do us part,
will linger when fingers are pulled, and we start
thinking about stinking, then running to places
we find when a behind's wind breaks in our faces.
👃