Rare Von Brownian Poetry

I rarely, if ever, write poetry.
I admire, perhaps even revere, the art.

It's just not my forte. Maybe it's the rigid structures that thwart me? [Yes, I know of "free form" poems - but I am even more in awe of the poets who achieve it.] Whatever the reason, to me poetry is the wonderful garden Alice sees through the keyhole, but I lack both the "Drink Me" potion and the key.


Though, I have taken a class or two. So my poetry does exist. But I'll be the first to tell you not to read it. Not out of humility, privacy or embarrassment. Because you'd be better off reading someone else's. My only real poetic flavors are in my prose.

However, I am going to share one with you. For this one is a little different. I wrote it for class. The assignment: Write a parody of a well-known poem. So, trying to give myself a challenge, I chose Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven.


The Wombat

Once upon a noontime sunny, while I laughed at jokes unfunny,
Told many a time and overly stupid, a hopeless bore.
Time I wasted, evening dawning, suddenly there came a fawning,
As of something yawning, yawning at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some moocher," I grumbled, "yawning at my own chamber door --
Only this and nothing more."

Let whatsoever it may be to wallow in its own misery
As long as I, content with pleasantries am up one on score.
And thus let the world turning, fellow humans in their yearning,
Listen now to an intriguing tale that proves most obscure.
I witnessed a creature not native here -- it was quite obscure.
'Twas a creature I adore.

A nocturnal marsupial which did not wonders for my morale
Stood there looking so much smarter than I can give credit for.
"If thou were not so cute and furry, there," I said, "might be some worry.
Princely small yet stately Wombat wandering from the Nightly shore --
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Edgarian shore!"
Quoth the Wombat, "Whate'er for?"

This I pondered while surprised that with an animal I compromised.
Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore
Yet somehow had logic deeper than dreams of a profound sleeper.
Being soothed by its fine wisdom I began to long for more.
Even though 'twas of simple nature, I craved it all the more.
Quoth the Wombat, "Whate'er for?"

"Prophet !" said I, "knowledge golden! Now I know that mine life of olden
Does not cut mustard and all along has been some awful chore.
I should not care for just myself or stock my mem'ries on a shelf.
'Tis fruitless to care just for me or lament o'er dead Lenore.
I could spend my life grieving you for all my days -- but Lenore:
Quoth the Wombat, "Whate'er for?"

Thus my past no longer needing the Wombat and I started feeding.
On both corporeal and intellectual meals we soar.
With the past always fleeing, we are into future seeing.
Heed the Wombat's words and you'll regain happiness for sure.
Question all your current practices of which you are not sure.
Philosophy: "Whate'er for?"