Thursday, April 30, 2009

Quadrimesterly reflections: 2009/January-April

My blog makes a run
around the bright golden sun.
A new lap's begun.

*   *   *

Today is the end of the first year in the life of this blog, and the last day of National Poetry Month, April 2009.

Over two hundred and twenty poems, plus a couple of dozen "cogitation"s. One year's work. This month includes thirty poems, one for each day of the month. I also completed The Geek Poet's Tale (Part I), my epic poem. (I "completed" it by calling the twelve installments so far Part I.)

I want to thank the poem-prompting site Read Write Poem, especially for this month's one-prompt-a-day, which led me to almost all of my poetry for the past thirty days of this National Poetry Month. I also want to thank Totally Optional Prompts for inspiration, this month as well as previous months. These two "communities of poets" are treasured-havens for poets of the Blogosphere, like me.

One change from my last QR: I don't do anything with the wiki I was toying with, but I started a new blog: the copy catalyst. I have become interested, both in terms of subject and possible measly income, in the field of copy. Here I primarily mean copy in the sense of advertising copy, and secondarily in the sense of articles (or copy) in magazines and blogs, etc. As a writer, I don't feel that I am a "story" or "narrative" person, but an "idea" or "concept" person. That's why poetry and copy fit the bill. Whether they can pay any bills — that's a different story.

See you in the Blogosphere and Twitterverse.

Phil Thrift is a Web 2.0 Age poet & writer living in Addison, Texas. Phil can be sited or tweeted @phil_thrift.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

April poems

When his tenth Muse doth end its April run,
The poet thinks his work perchance is done.
But one brief respite's all that she will bear,
Until she brings the Month of May's new fare.

for Read Write Poem: get your poem on #30

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

I don't think I can

  • add "me" to x's "following"s, on his personal Twitter

           (where x is one of those A-list names)

  • multiply my nest-eggs, by any factor bigger
  • subtract the fat, from my mid-fifties frame
  • divide my time, between being worker and player
  • power my poetry, into literary fame

for Read Write Poem: i don't think i can

Monday, April 27, 2009

Seeing red


Angry whitemen seeing red.
        Seeding children, hatred fed.
"Kenyan, Go Home!" "Pinkos, Die!"
        Race-bait magic works its lie.
Posters plenty, bags of tea.
        Redneck solidarity.
Blaming others for their lack,
        Seething red and thinking 'black'.

for Read Write Poem: seeing red

Note: "[Russ] Carnahan" (top left) is Democratic US Representative from Missouri's 3rd Congressional District

Sunday, April 26, 2009


The nascent cadence of crystalline veins


Impossible piggybanks leaking lunacy brains


Backwards specimens leaving wicked stains

for Read Write Poem: read write word #15 (a Wordle)

Saturday, April 25, 2009


The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.
Henry David Thoreau, Walden

the unrequited eyes
        of the brown-eyed barista I see in the store
small fortunes
        so stingily shared to scribblers like me
the athlete's flesh
        I had not too many years before
the time
        I wasted on selfish spree

for Read Write Poem: let's get metaphysical

Friday, April 24, 2009


Science, meaning, reasons sought,
Knowledge, wisdom:

                     Search for naught.

Seeking one true fundament?

                     Write a novel testament.

Theos? Answers? (Wrinkled brow.)

                     Knowing's merely knowing how.

for Read Write Poem: how-to

re scientificus/technikos, my first attempt to deconstruct the notion that technicians, pragmatic "appliers of knowledge" are supplements to scientists, discoverers of "foundational knowledge", or how knowing is not, in any real sense, more than knowing how (see also Two Dogmas of Empiricism, Quine)

Thursday, April 23, 2009


The din of doodle fills my noodle head,
And Twitter-time has taken me instead
Away from read or write of more than one
Line feed—to whom? Is it a friv'lous fun,
Or do I hold constructive time aloof
And ask: Why do I tweet when I could woof?

for Read Write Poem: listen up!

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

perry ha! fu 2

paul drake: fishing bait
lieutenant tragg: tragedy
@ della street, turn!

perry mason turn!
parry! dodge! spin! ha! thrust! whack!
ham burger sizzle!

for Read Write Poem: put on another (cowboy) hat
This poem is a revision of perry ha! fu (June 12, 2008). My "dream" job as a youth was to be a "kung fu" lawyer, like Perry Mason.

Perry Mason characters include: Paul Drake, Della Street, Lieutenant (Arthur) Tragg, Hamilton Burger


Tuesday, April 21, 2009


a collage

With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,1
Long for my soul hungering gymnastic I devour'd
      what the earth gave me.2
Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
      My spirit not awakening, till the beam
      Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
      Yes! though that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
      'Twere better than the cold reality
      Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
      And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
      A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.3
I have no life but this,
To lead it here;
Nor any death, but lest
Dispelled from there;
Nor tie to earths to come,4
      up into the silence the green
      silence with a white earth in it
      you will(kiss me)go5

for Read Write Poem: list day [for earth day]
1 [Sonnets (XXI), Shakespeare]
2 [Rise O Days (Leaves of Grass), Whitman]
3 [Dreams, Poe]
4 [I have no life but this, Dickinson]
5 [up into the silence the green, ee cummings]

Monday, April 20, 2009

rites of pass·age

When I pass age of barely twelve,
Into the confirmation rite I delve.

When I pass age of bold eighteen,
I write the SAT-essay for deans.

When I pass age of twenty-two,
I earn the right (with praise) to grad school zoo.

When I pass age of twenty-six,
I aim to be the wright of my own tricks.

for Read Write Poem: rites of passage

Sunday, April 19, 2009

The cathedral of the shamed

The Bride Wore Red
by pareeerica

The cathedral of the shamed,
Its very own stones, infamed,
Stands erect, until they fall
Upon the charlatans, all.
   And our hands would plait the guts of priests,
   For want of a rope, to strangle kings.

for Read Write Poem: The Bride Wore Red
"Civilization will not attain perfection until the last stone from the last church falls on the last priest."
 — Émile Zola

Et ses mains ourdiraient les entrailles du prêtre,
Au défaut d’un cordon pour étrangler les rois.
(And his hands would plait the priest's entrails,
 For want of a rope, to strangle kings.)
 — Denis Diderot

Saturday, April 18, 2009

With friends like these

Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.*
  — Rudyard Kipling

With friends like these
       (please-ing, tease-ing, appease-ing, defease-ing, ...,
        fleece-ing, freeze-ing, seize-ing, release-ing, ...)
who needs mortal enemies
or recreational pharmacies?

Words are the keys
that unlock humanity's
unspoken pleas.

for Read Write Poem: if she really were your friend

Friday, April 17, 2009


[ Shakespeare / love ]

Why does a pilot stray
opposite Shakespeare?
Why can't Shakespeare egg
Love entertains
Shakespeare chooses
my brigade
around a vertical transformation.

[ Philosophy / Comedy ]

An amusing icon wins
the executed inventor.
Across a romantic fails
an idiosyncratic customer.
Philosophy excludes
Comedy dedicates
The film grants
a permissible cream.
The constant anguish footnotes
throughout a similar noble.

[ straight / sex ]

Sex cracks
next to straight.
Sex locks
an inhabitant
past an enough planet.
Sex powers
before your empire.
On top of straight struggles
the stressed soil.
Sex receives
around a chapel.
Under sex fishes
a provoked pleasure.

[ gay / sex ]

Gay oils sex across
an excess waste.
Gay rolls on top of
Sex stirs over
a successive animal.
Gay yields the muscle behind
a missing lust.

for Read Write Poem: word salad

poems generated by Random Paragraph Generator
(The wordings were not changed; the only originality imposed are line breaks and text alignments. So the poems are gibberish — I think? — but sometimes freakishly profound.)

technical references (aka word salad)

Stanley Y.W. Su & Kenneth E. Harper (1969)
(The RAND Corporation, Santa Monica, CA)
see also: Directed random generation of sentences (

Thursday, April 16, 2009

missing something

I looked for my spirit:
I found it had split.

I looked for my soul:
It went down a black hole.

I looked for humanity:
I saw Sean Hannity.

I pined for some trees:
I found LCDs.

I looked for a shrine:
I found it online.

for Read Write Poem: missing something

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Why is wom·an


Why is wom·an
labeled slut
while a he·man
labeled stud
when they're both doin'
the same crud?


The "feminine"
'l' in slut;*
the "masculine"
'd' in stud
It's a fine line
bum and bud.

posted to Read Write Poem: a t-rex and a thesaurus (what a word conjures up)

see also My letter to letters (on the shapes and sounds of letters)

* "For example, vowels are sonorants, as are [some] consonants like /m/ and /l/. Other consonants [,like /d/,] restrict the airflow enough to cause turbulence, and so are non-sonorant."

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Menu of a Facebook fool

Twitter, Twitter foil and fritter;
Firefox churn, and network litter.

Menu of a Facebook fool:
Add the latest network tool;

App of week, and post of blog,
Wiki farm, and edit log;

Google ads, and click-through stats,
HaloScan with online spats;

Dreamweave site, and clean MySpace;
Change MY RANTS to lower case.

Twitter, twitter foil and fritter;
Firefox churn, and network litter.

posted to Read Write Poem: list poem (instead of)

Monday, April 13, 2009

On the road to a tea party

FOX News flak sheep
D'ya pull any wool
O'er eyes, o'er eyes?
Tea bags — full!
Some for the Palins,
Some for the Hucks,
And some for the FOX 'n Friends who
Think Obama sucks.

re Glenn Beck Gets Ready To Tea Bag

posted to Read Write Poem: road trip

(A poem about cars, Driving My Audie,

To drive my Audie [my speedster's nickname]
Is sweet dessert that tops off a dull day.
I take my Audie for a spin. My heart's aflame.
"Keep me well-lubed," his manual would say.
His rounded rear bumper up to his fore,
His sleek and smooth exterior kept buff,
Eagerly greets me opening his door:
"Please, drive me hard until you've had enough."
His engine revs up; I'm ready to roll.
I lay rubber, stick-shifting low to high.
Exhilarating speed: food for the soul.
Going fast, going slow, 'til end draws nigh.
I spurt to the finish, my head is spun.
To a stop, Audie sputters—one last gasp.
His engine cools down, piston-action done.
I release his shift stick from my firm clasp.
    "Adios," he says, "my driver most fond."
    "Vaya con Speedos, amor," I respond.

is from September, 2008.)

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Gospel truth

As the words in red are read
(they ring true, by whomever said)
there is a knowing that, indeed,
the words around them, instead,
are fantastically invented creed.

Saturday, April 11, 2009


 Once I wrote theorems a-
       long with their proofs;
  Next I wrote programs with
       almost no goofs;
  Then after seven years
       sharp'ning my hoofs,
  I now write poems with
       infrequent spoofs.

    — Philip Thrift

posted to Read Write Poem: where do you come from?

Friday, April 10, 2009

All our heroes

Watchmen don't Mensch words:
The Superman? — Nothing could be deader,
Along with the Bat and the Spider.
The whole genre — absurd.
Truth, Justice, and the American Way®? — had its day.
After Nietzsche — "God is dead" — only heroes took His stead.
Now alone — all our heroes, we bemoan.

I watched Watchmen (review)

other poems at the movies:
      24 FPS
      Terence Fisher Rules
      Vaulted Cinemas

posted to Read Write Poem: see any good movies lately?

Thursday, April 9, 2009

The Thrift of Quine

a Quine-ku1

the dog of logic
chases the cat of truth up
the tree of grammar

an excerpt from "Two Dogmas of Empiricism"2

As an empiricist I continue to think of the conceptual scheme of

science as
a tool, ultimately, for predicting
future experience in the light of
past experience.

Physical objects are conceptually imported into the situation as

convenient intermediaries
                   not by definition in terms of
experience, but simply as
irreducible posits comparable, epistemologically, to
the gods of Homer.

Let me interject that for my part I do, qua lay physicist, believe in

physical objects and not in
Homer's gods; and I consider it a
scientific error to believe otherwise. But in point of
epistemological footing
the physical objects and
the gods differ only in degree and not in kind. Both sorts of
entities enter our conception only as
cultural posits. The
myth of physical objects is
                   epistemologically superior to
most in that it has proved more efficacious than
other myths as a device for working
a manageable structure into
the flux of experience.

posted to Read Write Poem: thrift store

1 Quine's famous quote: "Logic chases truth up the tree of grammar" is in Philosophy of Logic []
2 []

Read some more Quine (including the very first poem in this blog)

And from Willard Van Orman Quine link archive:

Poem on "Quine"

There's a piece of text
he loves; he cherishes it,
runs thought's thumb
over its folds. It slots
into itself, or his mind
does, expending itself
helically downward, following
the natural flow of the
words. Deeper now into
the depths he goes,
pondering its every line,
tracing its hidden referents
with invisible fingertips.
Every whorl of his prints
silently points to this poem
which in part reads,
"His mind nimbly traverses
the tumbling of infinity",
and he realizes what they
meant when they said
that every poem
was written for him.

[ cold link "" ]

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Dante's Short Catechism

Where is Inferno?
      Hell if I know.

What is Purgatory?
      Just a good story.

Who goes to Paradise?
      Whosoever wins the roll-of-the-dice.

from my month of poems (National Poetry Month, April 2009)
posted to Read Write Poem: paradise
see also Paradise Lost 2.0

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Levi—to cuss . . .

Levi—to cuss   him,
     is the only way they'll discuss him;
     and they Bristol at the sight of him;
     but they Palin comparison to him—
is (to me) a charming passing whim.
But I'll go out on a limb,
and say: I'll keep my eye on him.

Levi Johnston's appearance on the Tyra Banks Show

Monday, April 6, 2009

Ode to Iowa's Catholic Bishops

    They wear bright spring
    To hide the big erections

    They often get when they pass
    Those pretty boys during Mass.

Iowa bishops say allowing gay marriage 'will grievously harm families'
Catholic News Service

Sunday, April 5, 2009

The Legend of Preston Hollow

Around the bend of Hollow Way
The Headless Bushman rides today.

At Preston Trail he makes his turn,
And shuns the late rush-hour's churn.

In Nether Land his specter rests
To hide from light-of-day protests.

His mountain bike's low growling roar
Becomes the stuff of Dallas lore.
    View Larger Map

Saturday, April 4, 2009

A letter from 'I' to the other letters

To my fellow letters:

A   is the first rung in the trellis of lits
B   is lips pursed, looking at butts—or tits        (your druthers)
C   is lips pulled back up over the teeth
D   the tongue's to the front of the teeth, with air beneath
E   is the mouth open, standing at ease
F   is an "E", lower lip pulled back, if you please
G   is a "C" with its tongue pushed up
H   is "A"-like, like a ladder — step-up!
J   is an "I" with a lower left-hook
K   is taking an up-and-down look
L   is the tongue on the ground-floor — going-up
M   is "Mommy" with pointy cups
N   is an "M", missing a stroke
O   is rounded lips, just blowing smoke
P   is a "B", or almost the same
Q   is an "O" with a mark on its name
R   is just "P", taking a rest
S   looks like a snake, making a hiss
T   is a table about to tip over
U   catches the eau — aka water
V   is a 'w'edge (spoken like German)
W   is a double-wedged sword, man
X   marks a spot, a target or ex-it,
Y   is when you throw up two arms and ask, "Why not?"
Z   is the buzz-edge of a saw, or the sound
         of a snore

From I   (the pedestal on which I'm adored)

2011/08/18: placed in Poets United Think Tank #62: The 3rd Letter Of Your First Name
(orig. posted to Totally Optional Prompts: A Letter)

Friday, April 3, 2009

Drawing a blank

I'm trying to think of a word for some-
thing but I can't think of that word.

                                                              There must
exist a word for that.                       I hope that some-
one knows that word that's blanked whom I could trust!

The way a lost

will come back

You're not interested
in it now,

in knowing
where it's been.

from "Unbidden" by Rae Armantrout

Thursday, April 2, 2009

The Geek Poet's Tale (Part I)

Note: These fragments of fourteeners were discovered while scouring the backups of a once-thought lost blog on Blogosphere. More fragments may be discovered in the future. -pt

[the first fragment*]

   The Geek poet, patiently sitting, awaited his turn

   To spin his own yarn. "My own tale, I hope, you will not spurn."

My tale begins when I left my native realm, Blogosphere,

And walked planet Earth: to speak my peace, and lend them my ear.

My first encounter was this jazzily dressed dude. "A Beat,"

He said, was what his own land called him, "poet of the street.

Strange poet: What clothing is this? What roads do you traverse?

Are you a Beat poet from an alternate universe?"

"I, a Geek poet, find cosmologists' dark energy

More inspiration for verse than a person's dark psyche.

I weave verses of wonder 'round modern technology;

Some say I don't deal enough with human psychology.

Computers and math catch my poetic imagination;

But for poets of nature, I have great admiration.

And I am willing to learn more of this poetry of Beat,

And from others in your land." With that, we walked down the street.

[the second fragment]

   Together, two poets—one Geek, one Beat—walked down the street;

   Each had a backpack that carried their belongings complete.

My traveling companion curiously eyed my green pack.

"Geek poet, what is it that you carry, there on your back?"

We stopped for a bit on a bus-stop bench. I, Geek poet,

Took a strange case out of my sack. The Beat didn't know it.

"What's in that silvery shell you have sitting on your lap?"

"It's called a MacBook," I said to him, opening its flap.

"It connects me to my Blogosphere and poets like me.

Let me show you my land!" I said, with unusual glee.

"What is this? My AirPort cannot find Wi-Fi in this spot."

The Beat poet, puzzled, scratched his head; he didn't know squat

Of what I was doing and those, to him, alien words.

As far as he knew this gray cage was strictly for the birds.

Then I, disconnected, disconcerted, set it aside.

My interest, after all, was to let him be my guide.

There were more things in my pack I could show if I wanted.

Maybe later, I thought, and I proceeded undaunted.

"Perhaps you could show me what items you have in your store."

The Beat poet seemed eager to show the cool things he bore.

[the third fragment]

   The Geek poet had set aside his silver box that would

   Show the Earth-bound Beat the blogs and wikis under its hood.

In the Beat poet's blue pack was a collection of books,

Bound sheets of browned paper, read multiple times by their looks.

(Books, I only read about on my native Blogosphere.)

He set a few out, leaving behind his other packed "gear":

A Kerouac, two Ginsbergs, plus a Corso stacked beside

A Walt Whitman and William Carlos Williams, like its bride.

Then flexing his metaphorical muscles beside my

Scrawny geek frame, he began by asking, "Want to get high? ..."

[the fourth fragment]

   Some items had appeared from the Beat poets pack: a bag

   Of lemon-tree scented leaves, rice papers, a pre-smoked fag.

"Want to get high?" were the words I remember him saying.

And picturing those college dorm days and disco dazing,

"No thank you," I responded, recalling the old stories

Of mellowed-out dudes, blue smoke, and next-day lost memories.

He reconsidered himself, with a flash, stashed back his hash,

Leaving behind just the books and some tiny bits of ash.

Inside his bound treasures he showed me texts — some long, some terse;

Some looked more like paragraph than some standard poem's verse.

"Prose is poetry and poetry is prose," would all he

Would say. "As long as it has beat, man!" I began to see

The nature of his craft: direct as can be. He began

To read of a meeting at a supermarket fruit stand ...

[the fifth fragment]

   T'was that well-worn Ginsberg from his right stack setting the stage

   For Beat's first read to the Geek from his favorite beat sage.

He read t'me reminiscingly in a screenplay-like prose

Of another beat poet — or was it? — in anguished throes

Of an old love he met — by chance? — in supermarket aisles:

A "hook up" of two poets of like interests and styles.

(When he read, parenthetic'ly, of the persona's touch

 of the other's book, before me, there was one in his clutch!)

They strolled off together — I'm back to his reading — but the last

Bit about Lethe stumped me as he looked back at his hash ...

[the sixth fragment]

   After his Ginsberg-Walt-Whitman conjunction rendition,

   The Beat poet's bag of hashish reclaimed his attention.

As the Beat poet toked, I revoked, and reposed on my

Thoughts of our contrasting style as he easily got high.

This earthly beat poetry, arty and hip, would teeter

My mathematic precision and technical meter.

I had tasted his poetic and set my next venture

On seeing what would be the next-up poetry feature.

As he seemed to doze off into a distant tranquil haze,

A bus stopped at its stop. I boarded. That set the next stage ...

[the seventh fragment]

   The Geek poet's bus traveled Route 66. Left alone,

   The Beat poet dozed on the bench. The Geek checked his cell phone ...

Without a Wi-Fi connection into Blogosphere's net,

I turned to my cell phone and the Twitter poets I've met

While in my own land of wiki, blog, and SMS-screen.

"One-hundred-and-forty characters" may seem very lean,

But that's all that can fit in their thrifty poetry, you see,

And that's OK with us Geeks in these attention times wee.

To my surprise I had Inbox unreads. (Somehow, at least,

I could find the cell systems' net.) I was to have a feast,

Reading the tiny screen's scroll. I opened the box, and rolled

Down the list. One was marked Urgent. What I read left me cold ...

[the eighth fragment]

   The Geek poet read Inbox's text message marked Urgent

   And struggled as best he could to decode what it all meant.

"I've been to the mountaintop. And I've looked over," I read.

At first there was hope, but what I read next filled me with dread:

"And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you."

What did it mean, this text of gloom? MLK left no clue.

( ... A "Reply" was no option for this one-way connection,

But even before I had time for further reflection ...)

A second message "Urgent"ly appeared: "Thy soul shall find

Itself alone / 'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone--" What mind

(Just signed Poe) would send me such a supernatural rhyme

Could it actually be voices from another time?

I flipped close the cell phone and returned to my thought,

And looked around the bus. But then, my attention was caught ...

[the ninth fragment]

   The Geek, with clam-shell computer and cell phone stored away,

   Looked 'round the bus. He saw someone who his tending did sway.

Contrasting with the Beat poet's metaphysical muse,

He was a mathematical man with regular shoes.

Writing on a pad (it seemed more like writing programs in

Blogospherical verse, a script language that seemed more kin

To PHP, C-sharp, XML, or CSS <script>,

His curious form, apart, syntactical standards ripped.

He was one to my liking.—(I thought, what poet could be?)

The mode of his poetry seemed to fit me to a "T".

He decapitalized like a Marseillean guillotine,

Making my verse seem pedestrian ... literal ... routine.

I saw a seat near and repositioned my location,

To introduce myself and to surmise his vocation ...

[the tenth fragment]

   Vying for spot on the bus near the syntax-breaking bard

   The Geek poet crossed the aisle — but then, he was put off-guard ...

I was about to claim seat when that spot was fast taken

By a dandy fey. He cradled, if I'm not mistaken,

A book with childish dust. I seated instead second-best

In the aisle-facing row in front of two, now to my left.

The programmer-poet recognized the puzzle-ing dude,

And they began to converse. I didn't want to be rude,

So I eavesdropped, pretending attention to my iPhone

Instead. Their dialog revealed their particular tone ...

[the eleventh fragment]

   The Geek, who had left Beat, asleep, now traveled on the road

   with the curious two: one of Puzzle, the other, Code ...

The two po's seemed familiars — the playful and the dandy.

Programmer-like one had an old typewritten sheet handy

Whose typographical play I caught sight of, displaying

Words unspun — this, to the poet of conundrum, showing.

He was seeking, so it seemed, some critique from the fey fop.

The logic-bender mused — his hand scratched his feminine mop —

Then let loose a laugh. He was getting the inside joke, while

I, outside, was left craving. But then, I glanced 'cross the aisle ...

[the twelfth fragment]

   Having found two poets with minds like his own geeky muse,

   The bus-rider from Blogosphere was to find other views.

I was intrigued with the banter between cryptic Coder

And the priss-Puzzler, when I looked cross the aisle. No colder

A chill had I felt in my travel. Outside the window

I observed the most mysterious thing: the scenic flow

Had changed from — to me — a somewhat familiar venue

To a late medieval one — history, to me — and, too,

A bearded man with black hood, walking with handwritten book.

What time-demon had transported me with devious hook?!

I had to find out. I pulled the stop-chord, left my own time,

And found myself at the genesis of my own slang's rhyme.

*This ends Part I of The Geek Poet's Tale. This post is a time-ordered compilation of the original posts (with some minor corrections).

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

When in April online-poets fall . . .

    When in April the sweet showers fall
and pierce the drought of March to the root, and all
the veins are bathed in liquid of such power
as brings about the engend'ring of the flower, ...

The Canterbury Tales (The Prologue)

    When in April online-poets fall
to scheme to sell their lonely verse at all,
could online-publishers'
promise pay off*,
Or is this merely foolish naifs' jerk off?

For Pay to be my Pal would taste so sweet,
But who is fooling whom?
And this I tweet.

*online publishers Associated Content, Bukisa, Helium, Triond, etc. all work with PayPal to pay writers

posted to Totally Optional Prompts: Solitaire
and to read write poem: inspired by spring