My Own Private Ulysses: Still Not a Poet

Still Not a Poet

No, I can’t quote James Joyce chapter and verse,      

I have no solve for his Gordian Knot.                  

And when I converse, I rarely coerce.                 

I’m not a scholar, I just rhyme a lot.                

So, you’re a cultivator of the vine?              `   

Or, like Dude’s line, a human paraquat?               

Fine, you opine on thine wine, I decline.                   

I’m not a critic, I just rhyme a lot.                  

From itself, poetry staged secession.                  

As simile stands, there’s like a boycott.             

Invention sold out for self-expression.               

I’m not a poet, I just rhyme a lot.                    

But on Joyce I’m big fun, a good layer,

I just crushed a lil’ pun for you, player.

My Own Private Ulysses: Bloom’s Three-Body Problem

Bloom’s Three-Body Problem

First is queen Molly, Bloom’s wandering wife,

Her mind’s a river of run-on phrases,            

More like a gutter, with smut her head’s rife.        

Her thirst has lit his world up in blazes.            

And the princess of the seaside striptease,           

Gerty shines outside, not some boom-boom room.        

And when it comes to that seminal sneeze,             

Her gravity pulls it out of old Bloom.                

And Martha, whom Bloom keeps under his hat,           

He’s hounded by her cool haughtiness.                 

Oh, his gentle lady’s a real wildcat,                 

Who purrs to punish his hot naughtiness.              

Bloom spirals chaotic between three stars.            

He’d have more luck with green women from mars.

Stay tuned for more celestial sonnets.

Same starry time, same spinning channel.

My Own Private Ulysses: Dauntless Dilly Dedalus

Dauntless Dilly Dedalus

She’s on a mission in her shabby dress.               

Back home, her sisters drink soup without her.        

Who’s she, this dauntless Dilly Dedalus?              

She’s a true Dublin Streets Irregular.           

Surly Simon demands she stand up straight,            

And calls his daughters insolent bitches.             

Dilly’s hungry, but she won’t bite the bait,          

From his pockets, herself she enriches.               

With shoulders high and her new French primer,        

She asks sad Stephen if it’s any good.                

Her self-centered sibling’s answer to her:            

He asks about his own books. Yeah, he would.          

He’s as bad a bro as Simon’s a dad.              

She’s far better than them, Dilly’s pretty rad.  

Stay tuned for more pronoun-stuffed sonnets.

Same Sherlockian time, same Conan channel.