Badriomaku – Bless you

It’s very hard to know when The Poetic Moose on the Loose is being serious, or when he’s having a larf. He makes up words and concepts all the time – it’s like living with the Monty Python cast!

So when he provides us with a new ‘Hungarian’ poetry format – badriomaku – I instantly look for the pun within the word. “Bad R I, O M Ku”? “Bad riom” (bad rhyme)? I can’t find a good one, so it’s either hidden in the depths of his rather silly imagination, or it’s a genuine poetry form he’s discovered. Either way, it now exists, so I’ve written one.

Without further ado, I present my badriomaku:

You are
so silly.
Incorrigible.
LOL
But you are clever –
the creator
of a new art form.

With a syllable count of 2-3-5-1-5-4-5, the Hungarian Badriomaku is interesting in that it gives you a structure that doesn’t fit any preconceived ideas.

I suggest all you lovely, wonderfully talented poets write one to kickstart its popularity 🙂

I didn’t lick the cat!

I licked it, so it’s mine.
Even though I dropped it on the floor.
I picked it up within three seconds.
That’s the rule, isn’t it?
But I’d licked it and it was sticky
and there was cat hair on the carpet.
It might be mine,
but I’m not licking it again.

Inspired by absolutely nothing. I don’t have a carpet. I have nothing to lick. I do have a cat. I’m not licking the cat.

Rosie, the rat catcher. I didn't lick her.
Rosie, the rat catcher. I didn’t lick her.

Nothing to see here

Another Spooner-inspired scribbling…

Maine’s Jews sing,
“Pipping my dinky in the pondry poet”
Which, whilst it might sound thus,
is not a euphonium.
There’s a low-ethic papoose on the moose;
pilty with grimy rations,
pealing my stome ideas.
Gnomes of poot and France ents.
These were my challenges,
grisen to voraciously.
He’s quite never when he puts his clog into it.
Digressing, this home is not about Pim –
it’s about the reverent, and the irreverent
and, dare I say it?
It’s irrelevant.
Look away.
Move along.
Keep walking.
Nothing to see here.

(I’m expecting a visit from the poetry police very soon)

City of London

Where is sleep?
I’ve checked under the pillow.
I’m sure I saw him once there,
but tonight he evades me.
So I lie here
and listen to his heartbeat,
his gentle breath cooling my arm
on this barmy (sic) night.
I’m tired, so
from hereon in, I’ll let
predictive text
write some nonsense…

logo-city-of-london

Poetry is my heart of the city of London police said he
The last or so much more about you than a very good job
Tanka very welcome and encouraged by my hair loss
(Which will soon come when I ‘brave the shave‘)
The words from you like me and have no problem
In the end of the day job as a lot of people
who are not to be confused with a lot of space and time
Consuming and inefficient to a moment

The Race for Nonsense

‘Twas twirly on a Sunday morn
Nonsensical nonsenses was born
In triolettuce of eight, six, four
‘Bout cats and mats and something more
My gnat-sized brain was addled, yet
My fingers flew and I was set
To pen this verse in competition
They writing of their own volition
The race is on to post it first
Yet copy, paste is proving cursed
My tablet seems to work much better
Than his, he’s struggling with his letters
It looks like I might win this game
Which will be such a crying shame
For his was typpened so much faster
Now it looks like he’ll be laster

.

To see the masterpiece from which this poem was spawned, see here
NONSENSE POETRY IN 8-6-4

Poopy Face

I’ve been playing with words and patterns again. This one is all over the place and no title, or picture, seems to fit.  Ergo, I bring you ‘Poopy Face’

You’re appealing to the child in me;
your sense of nonsense ability
makes my sides ache.

Your passion feeds the whore in me;
incensed with full intensity,
makes the earth quake.

The feelings of the woman in me
sense incessant infidelity;
make my heart break.

Me try Poemetry

highwire

Dis guy, in disguise, in da skies;
one eye, on wires, unwise!
Up high, a pie appeared.
I join him, adjoin him;
whiling away hours
while weighing our options.
Oft shins collide.
Col lied.
He told Bridget the toll bridge, it was close.
It was closed!
Was clothes that saved them,
say them that looked on
Lucky one!