My Own Private Ulysses: Stealin’ & Rhymin’

"LENEHAN: Plagiarist! Down with Bloom!"

- Ulysses, James Joyce

Dishonor student why do you insist,                   

On cribbing Ulysses to look astute?                   

You’re not Grade A, you’re not even D-List.           

So sit down and shut up and please stay mute.         

Unacademic All-American,                               

Why do you steal from Joyce’s masterpiece?            

Between you, there’s zero comparison.                 

So, do your worst, your worth will not increase.      

You’re less than nada, the cream of the crap          

Inside your skull, you’re no brain and all stem.      

You’re zilch cum laude, so don the dunce cap.         

Accept life’s lot, you’re the phlegm de la crème.     

Whoa, if my jack of Joyce makes the crowd jeer,

Wait till they realize this rips off Shakespeare.

Stay tuned for more stolen sonnets.

Same scheming time, same cheating channel.

My Own Private Ulysses: Celtic Climate Change

“BLOOM: (Trembling, beginning to obey.) The weather has been so warm.”

-Ulysses, James Joyce

What if Bloomsday was a different day?                

Not weekday, another month than hot June.             

For this dumb question, we’ll stick with Thursday,    

And bobble the seasons like a buffoon,                

Flop-flipping summer and winter solstice,             

And reversing the weather for this spoof,             

Would Molly still cat-scratch for steamy bliss        

Like Helen of Troy on a hot tin roof?                  

Would Bloom hotfoot it toward Circe’s voices,

After succumbing to Gerty’s faux fling?

With all this filth, Judge Woolsey winked: Joyce’s

“Locale was Celtic and his season spring.”

When the tale’s running gag is potted meat,      

Forget faintly falling snow. Bring the heat.

Stay tuned for more June-January Romance Sonnets.

Same icy time, same fiery channel.

My Own Private Ulysses: Happy Bloom Year!

Happy Bloom Year! It’s the same as Leap Year,              

Depending how you define the word ‘same.’                   

Both provide an extra day on our sphere,              

If time-hop-skip-and-jumping is your game.            

One’s a Gregorian rounding error,                      

And one sails backward through the book’s time door,       

Named after Homer’s god-cursed seafarer,              

And lands in June, Nineteen Hundred and Four.              

Bloom’s port calls from a Devil’s Triangle,           

Where one-plus-one-is-two does trip and fall,         

And from the clock’s anchor chain you’ll untangle,         

And free-dive in depths outside of time’s trawl.      

With Bloomsday, every year is a Bloom Year,      

Have faith, read Joyce, leap from the now and here.

Stay tuned for more sometime sonnets.

Same timeless time, same watery channel.