Flytape
I saw a little fly go by For whom it didn't matter That I was fixing to employ A flag to make him flatter
He fairly flitted 'round the room Not landing where I wanted So flippant in the face of doom, is freedom, so, he flaunted
Then noticing a gnat or two He stopped to chit some chatter He didn't see the gummy goo, But landed in the batter
His friends were silent, and it fared Our little fly no better, Than had he sought opinions aired Beneath my holey banner.
Copyright©2002 Arne M. Herstad
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Lightbulb
He doesn’t deign to give his light By spirit, wax or oil Instead a thing that hides from sight Comes coursing through his coil
Suspended in a house of glass Between his earth and sky A vacuum may let him last But may not meet the eye
As if by time or happenstance Though not by much surprise A hissing thing eludes the glance To find its way inside
The withered coil is waning dim Whose ashes are assigned To meet a gloom awaiting him Until it meets the eye
ArneHerstad©2002
revised 11-18-02 ---------------------------------------------
Pharaoh's Court
Eyes, eyes, burning eyes Rimmed of blood so red Cast about the wicked night, Blossoms to behead!
Hands, hands, scaly hands, Claws of fiery clay Pluck the candle from its stand! Strum infernal lays!
Heart, heart, icy heart Lurking to the last... Minion of demonic art, Mildew, botch and blast
Christ, Christ, risen Christ Look upon their mind Fend away the foul device! Break the chains that bind!
©A. Herstad Sept 5, 2001 --------------------------------------
Salvation
If salvation was not simple If it was not free There could never be a place In Heaven made for me
I could never pay the price that Jesus paid that day, When upon the cross he died To take my sin away
Yes, I know salvation's simple And I know it's free For the Father sent the Son To make a place for me. ------------------------------------------------
Politician
Politician bags the prize By promises besought Never is his word belied By what he does, or not
For, on gaining office, he Reneges on every vow, Knowing there's another with A hand upon the plow
Nothing by that Other Hand Is ever left to chance If a devil slips the harness Seven more advance
In this state no candidate Need entertain the thought Fretting how he ought to plow: Looking back, or not
Arne Herstad©2004 October
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A true account by Arne Herstad
A great battle fought with limericks took place in the Tacoma Tideflats in late September, 2004 (precipitating the reawakening of Mt. St. Helens). It began when Loren the Dane honored himself in my presence by quoting a raunchy limerick written of him by a person of dubious mentality many years back. To correct his manners, and to properly belittle the poet he quoted, I composed the following:
There was an old golfer named Loren Whose chief difficulty was scorin' Except in such holes As are tunnelled by moles Or places one might dip an oar in.
ArneHerstad©2004 -- For Loren Hansen, in honor of his foundational impulses, 9-21-04. Notice how I honored him in that last line with an allusion to his mighty Viking ancestry, and how he forthwith repayed my kindness:
There once was a sawyer* named Arnie (sic) So profound he belonged in a carny* When he talked about God I'd simply stand there and nod When in truth I was thinkin' 'bout Barney* -Loren the Dane
To which I replied:
Consider poor Loren, the Dane Whose glasses are coke-bottle panes The world is apprised By the state of his eyes That his hand in the matter is plain.
ArneHerstad©2004 --For Loren, in response to his poetic impulses, 9-22-04.
So the battle continued. I told my wife of the battle, and she advised me not to attack his manhood, which impluse I withstood until Loren fired back the following:
At Manke's* I knew a Norwegian Who fancied himself a collegian He was proud of his wit Most times miss, sometimes hit For the Danes are the brains of their region -Loren the Dane
In Denmark the cheese is so thick They can't get their stickers to stick But knowing the Swedes Can service their needs Eases their cheeses a lick ArneHerstad©2004
An alternative is shown below. In obedience to my wife's warning, I didn't include it in the copy I gave him, lest it fall into the hands of his only child, a daughter, who by all accounts takes after her mother, being high-minded, ambitious and kind.
In Denmark the cheese is so thick They can't get their stickers to stick But knowing the Huns Can provide them with sons Eases their cheeses a lick ArneHerstad©2004
I guess that was the end of it for poor Loren, who in the tradition of his ancestors, gave up trying to best a Norseman in the art of scurvy speech. To commemorate his concession, I wrote the following:
Upon this refrain, did Loren the Dane, In his strain at composing another, Concede his defeat And offered his meat To my axe as it fell on its fodder ArneHerstad©2004
Finally, an alternative scurvy verse was given to Loren in order to
...forestall the floods of raven-beer* to flow, Should Arne's malt-surf* ever find its mark, Behind the bald, ignoble Danish brow And penetrate, with light, the Danish dark ArneHerstad©2004
In charity, then, the following face-saving token of mutual loss was composed for Loren the Dane on the eve of his defeat:
How mighty, the two who foreswore Their part in the limerick war Since each by his wit Fell on his own spit With no one to turn, as before ArneHerstad©2004
So endeth the bludgeoning for this day.
e. timber-sawer ** i.e. carnival *** "Barney", a cartoon dinosaur known only to those who watch television. **** "Manke's" =. a sawmill in Tacoma ***** "Raven-beer", an old Norse kenning meaning "blood". ****** "Malt-surf", and old Norse kenning meaniing "poetry".
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The Codfish
The Devil baits the hook with truth Which leaves the cod no doubt That what he has before his eye Need never be spat out
But hidden deep behind the bait The beck'ning, brutal hook Relieves the cod of every choice He had before he looked
Beware of every fleeting flash Lest thou be like the cod Who lacks the sense to look aloft To see who holds the rod
Arne Herstad©2004 November 7th
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Bookwormin'
I like to ruminate on leaves of misbegotten lore And rake them in a pile so deep I cannot feel the floor
To sift anew some severed soul Now partly left behind And weigh his words in mortal hands Before the Judgment Time
And dream of prayers from death dispatched That I would drop a lighted match
ArneHerstad©2005 February 1st
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My Neighbor
My neighbor's eyes are never full, nor ever are his lips Devoid of any foul aspersion, bitter curl, or quip The meter on his mother's grave, which lately he's installed Is set to jerk him from his bed, in case her corpse is called For when the graves disgorge to bear the saints to the Assize He'll be the first to catch the pennies falling from their eyes He'll stay to rent the open holes to some poor heathen schlubs, Or maybe let to headless holdouts measured to their stubs
When the hooves of Jehu's horses hound him from his sleep, When the final sickle through the roaring tempest sweeps, Will my neighbor weigh his bag with only one complaint: "Where at this late hour can I procure a can of paint?"
ArneHerstad©2005 May 13th
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The Drowning Cat
Vainly clawed the kitty At the waning waves of light, Dancing on the surface On a wavy, Moonlit night
Two reposing tuna Found a moment of resolve: "Let's not kill it," said the one, "Let's let the pig evolve."
©A.Herstad Sept, 2005
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Thibboleth
My speetth hat not a thingle thlur My tongue, a ready writer, To put to flight the offither That filth my rearview mirror No lack of thibilance of mine Will raith a foul thuthpithion Becauth tho many thober thouls Are found in that condithion
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