Walter Twiddle's Twiddlepated Rhymes

Harry Potter and the Badly Written Rhyme

2007-07-22T00:26:00.000-06:00

Potter, Harry,
Quite contrary,
How does your series grow?

With magic spells
And potion smells,
And little wands all in a row.

Deathly Hallows
Surely follows
Goblets and Princes and more;

I've just begun
The reading fun:
Spoilers, away from my door!

Spring Has Its Ups and Downs

2007-04-03T17:37:00.000-06:00

One gate won't open, one won't close:
Spring has sprung, and the ground done rose.
This whole darn city's built on gumbo--
Whoever put it here was dumbo.

Upon the completion of the annual skating show

2007-04-01T16:50:00.000-06:00

A daughter who skates is a fine thing, you think--
Until you spend seven straight days at the rink.

Why Viagra doesn't advertise on airships

2007-03-27T15:40:00.000-06:00

While airships of non-rigid type
Dominate the airship field
Then no amount of airship hype
Will make a single airplane yield.

For what man wants to fly a blimp,
In preference to something rigid?
The rhyme for blimp, alas, is "limp."
The rhyme for rigid--rigid.

A poem from the slush pile

2007-03-25T10:41:00.000-06:00

If you think spring means pretty flowers,
Singing birds and all that mush,
Come visit old Saskatchewan,
Where spring mostly means slush.

The Imbibing Poet

2007-03-21T23:44:00.000-06:00

The imbibing poet imbibes at his peril:
His rhythm may wobble, his rhymes may go feral,
Escape and demolish their end-of line spots,
Form up into packs and devour his thoughts.

'Bots, boughts, cots, dots, gots, hots, jots, lots,
Naughts, nots, pots, rots, sots, tots...aargh!

Springing

2007-03-20T22:15:00.000-06:00

Spring is springing,
Snow is melting,
Birds are singing--
Heck, they're belting!

Global warming may be bad,
But hemispheric warming? Rad!

A Rhyme for Poem

2007-03-19T15:51:00.000-06:00

Does poem rhyme with home?
Does poem rhyme with foam?
Does poem rhyme with loam?
Doe poem rhyme with tome?
Does poem rhyme with comb?
Does poem rhyme with dome?
Does poem rhyme with gnome?
Does poem rhyme with roam?
Does poem rhyme at all?
You poets make the call!

Walter Twiddle Returns!

2007-03-16T09:58:00.000-06:00

The months flash past like speeding swallows,
And while you wait for Deathly Hallows,
Stop here a while and rest your brain
As Walter Twiddle blogs again!

A daily scribble I will post
(Unless my brain gives up the ghost).
A teeny-tiny bit of rhyme
(I'm sure that I can find the time).

So welcome back to Twiddleblog,
Where doggerel is all we've got:
With eye of newt and toe of frog
We stir it up and serve it hot!

Once Upon a Time a Poet Made a Rhyme

2006-09-25T16:02:00.000-06:00

Once upon a time
A poet made a rhyme:
Not a song that you could sing,
Just a simple little thing.

It sat upon his blog
Like a bump upon a log,
And it made the poet sad,
And perhaps a little mad.

"Why does this poem just sit?
"It's not why it was writ.
"I thought that it would dance
"And inspire some romance!"

But still the poem just sat--
And that's all there is to that.

On Looking Into Google News, September 20, 2006

2006-09-20T23:16:00.000-06:00

A poem built on a skeleton of phrases taken from Google News, Wednesday, September 20, approximately 4:30 p.m. CST

So Chavez calls the Thai coup leader
With a U.S. motto;
“Share the fatty fish consumption!”
Thousands bid farewell.

Citigroup and JP Morgan
May sue automakers:
Saddam’s judge throws out the suit.
Awards and music? Swell!

The Hungary prime minister
Enjoys E. coli spinach.
“You’ll die!” warn all the scientists.
But he replies, “I scoff!”.

And Zuma calls, as he is sentenced,
“Victories for all!”
(Plus “Stand pat, Reds!” and “Flee League Cup!”--
His brain’s a little off.)

A Simple Question from a Simple Man

2006-09-19T23:47:00.000-06:00

Breathes there a man with soul so dead
Who never to himself has said,
"Oh what a perfect world 't'would be
"If giant plasma screens were free!"?

On Looking Into Google News, September 19, 2006

2006-09-19T10:41:00.000-06:00

A poem built on a skeleton of phrases taken from Google News, Tuesday, September 19, 10:45 a.m. CST

Thai military has declared first real emergency;
Americans arrive prepared to help busted Willie.
Protestors storm, and then demand--an outcry over fate:
And Rice says, "Race a factor!" in Israeli army hate.

As Gordon weakens, McCain fights with oil, gas stocks mixed:
Motorola is set but Microsoft steps in--all nixed.
The UK underestimated: drug cocktails help;
Bush is to meet "Light-Fingered Smith," but calls him "silly whelp."

The space tourist who's female says, "How was the spinach? Bad?"
The UN Gen'ral Assembly hears Ahmadinejad.
With Duquense shootings likely Anna Nicole pockets cash.
And "Google news," health ministry warns, "can sometimes cause a rash."

A Snowball's Chances Are Actually Pretty Good Right Now

2006-09-18T23:55:00.000-06:00

Although I am not one to curse
It seems to me there's little worse
That needs a hearty heck-and-darning
Than a summer night's frost warning.

11:52 p.m., September 18
Temperature: 0 degrees Celsius

Fair warning!

2006-08-16T07:45:00.000-06:00

"The time has come," the blogger said,
"To blog some poems once more;
"For far too long this blog's been dead,
"But just today a comment read
"Within my email made me think
"There're readers at the door!"

So let this be a warning fair that
Walter Twiddle's still alive,
And, very much like some thought-dead rat
Scutterin 'cross the kitchen floormat
Twiddle's rhymes can not be killed
Though they may stink, they thrive!

Walter Twiddle's Still Alive

2006-05-02T23:18:00.000-06:00

Walter Twiddle's still alive,
But Walter Twiddle's busy.
Someday soon, he says, no jive,
He'll blog until he's dizzy.

Google Sports: August 23, 2005

2005-08-23T23:35:00.000-06:00

(A poem constructed from words selected from the Google News sports headlines at 11:40 p.m. on August 23, 2005, using a secret formula. Words from the headlines are in bold; those Twiddled into place are not.)

Matsui faced the facts, cold-hard.
He couldn't match the deathless Bard.
"Armstrong!" he cried. "My poem so stinks
"That its mere mention calls for drinks!"

But Armstrong, qualifying, said,
"Santana's poem is just as dead.
"A surge ahead at this late date,
"By lucky chance could make you great!"

Cubs and senior poets waited,
Voice and breathing both well bated,
Hoping to trade hugs and back-pats
With whomever won the "Packrat's

Magazine Poet of the Year" race:
Duke of Poetry, King of White Space.
Matsui flees, despite encouragement
From the show crowd. Such discouragement!

A judge then delivers his curse:
"I am he called Owen Slowverse.
"Matsui we have just sent packers:
"By our judgement, he is crackers."

Google World: August 19, 2005

2005-08-19T23:22:00.000-06:00

Found poetry: A poem constructed from the deconstructed headlines of Google News's World page at 11:32 p.m. CST, August 19, 2005.

Suspended rebels crash party in
Gaza's guilty synagogue.
Troops rally, fighing worshipers.
Relatives search landmark election for
Answers, unity, peace, bold policy...
Prisoners of war.

"We're innocent!"

Explosion.

A Clear-Eyed Look At My Own Abilities and Limitations

2005-08-07T01:18:00.000-06:00

For poetry, I lack
The knack.
But doggerel
I Blogger well.

On looking into one's Site Meter stats

2005-08-05T17:44:00.000-06:00

Alas, alack, oh, sad, sad, day--
There's really not much more to say!
I've looked deep into all my stats,
And my response, I fear, is "Rats!"

Nobody comes to Twiddle's blog.
I feel unwanted as a frog
Who's plopped, with dank and muddy skin
In something he should not be in.

Yes, like a frog upon a cake,
Who'd rather be in some clear lake,
I ask you all, both near and far,
"Why am I not more popular?"

Twiddle's Return

2005-08-05T17:36:00.000-06:00

A poet named Twiddle
Had cakes on the griddle
That kept him from blogging at all.
"Of time, there's a lack!"
Said Twiddle. "My back
Is quite clearly up to the wall!"

But deadlines have eased,
So Twiddle is pleased
To once again set down in rhyme
The things in his head
He needs to have said--
Until he next runs out of time.

Does a spring in your step make your feet wet?

2005-03-05T14:45:00.000-06:00

The snow is melting on the street,
I just walked home and got wet feet,
Out in the sun I feel some heat--
Could this be spring?

The calendar does not agree.
The equinox is almost three
More weeks away, and yet to me
It feels like spring.

But, I live where the north winds blow,
And know that, melting ice or no,
We're bound to get a bit more snow
Before it's spring.

Still, it won't last, and when it goes,
And when the lake gives up its floes,
And grass turns green, then heaven knows
It WILL be spring!

Upon the screen I toss my spleen (yuck!)

2005-03-02T23:03:00.000-06:00

And so, upon the glowing screen
I toss my pixellated rhymes.
Sometimes I vent my raging spleen,
Sometimes I rail against sad crimes.

Sometimes I try to make you laugh,
Sometimes I try to make you cry.
I do it all (I have no staff)
Alone--oft fail--but always try.

Just now, with this, I killed a score
Of minutes. Whoosh! They're gone! Adieu!
I could have spent them on some chore
I really, really need to do.

Instead I try, 'til fingers bleed,
To make you giggly or sobby.
And why? It's not because I need
Your love--it's really just a hobby.

A kindred spirit

2005-02-25T10:08:00.000-06:00

Walter Twiddle's not the first
(Although he may well be the worst)
To like to set his thoughts in rhyme--
Here's one from an earlier time:

Short Route to the Orient

Jules Verne, that brilliant son of France,
Astonished all with wild romance;
Around the world in eighty days,
This tale it doth no more amaze.

For the Canadian Pacific
Runs her cars at speed terrific;
Her steamers swiftly plow the seas,
Which gives us our cheap, fine teas.

For she is bound to lead the van
With her short, quick route to Japan;
And proudly she may glory vent
In highway to the Orient.

From a small sprout these leaves they grew,
And bard now bids you kind adieu.

--James McIntyre, Poems (Intersoll: The Chronicle, 1889)

The Midnight Rhymer Writes Again

2005-02-24T23:10:00.000-06:00

And so, as midnight nears again
I set myself the chore
Of writing one last poem--and then
I'm heading off to snore.

I don't know why I'm driven
To compose these little rhymes.
I'm not with angst all riven--
I'm not beset by mimes.

(That last line's rather silly--
It won't never win no prize.
But it's late, and willy-nilly
I end [and apologize].)

Lament of the Unread Blogpoet

2005-02-24T15:48:00.000-06:00

If no one reads my blog poems,
Does it matter very much?
There's a million blogs to choose from
On politics and such.

A million more are diaries
About life's woes and joys
And at least a million more
Are obssessed with girls (or boys).

What if I get no page views
For these bits of rhyming dreck?
There are millions more in the same boat--
So I say, "What the heck!"

Call me a Cab, but not a Spätburgunder

2005-02-21T15:43:00.000-06:00

I beg your pardon, eh,
But I don't like Chardonnay.
Give me Gewurtztraminer:
It has a taste that's cleaner.

And then there's Pinot Gris:
Yes, that's the white for me.
(Unless I have a Tokay--
As sweet stuff goes, it's OK.)

A Riesling can be fine,
When you want German wine.
Or some Sauvignon Blanc
(Just good stuff--not the plonk.)

Red Pinot Noir, no doubt,
Is what wine's all about--
Although a Zinfandel
Is also very swell.

Norton? What (or who)
Is Norton? What's he do?
A Merlot can be grand,
When it's grown on good land.

A Vidal ice-wine's yummy,
And Baby Duck is crummy.
But better (final thought!)
That you have wine than not.

Q'est-ce raison d'Eason?

2005-02-18T11:08:00.000-06:00

What could be your reason
For resigning, Mr. Eason?
The blogs don't have that power--
They only point and glower.
You say you never said
What some people said you said,
Or at least you didn't mean it--
Though you don't want us to screen it
(The video, I mean)
So the truth we cannot glean.
You weren't lynched, but were you flung
Out the door before you hung?
It's a mystery, I deem,
Cloaked by media mainstream.

Snore

2005-02-13T23:26:00.000-06:00

'Tis better to sleep,
With nary a peep,
Then try to rhyme "blog"
When you're tired as a...as a...

...bog?
...cog?
...dog?
...frog?
...hog?
...log?
...oh, never mind.

"The right kind of American"

2005-02-09T22:37:00.000-06:00

"The right kind of American,"
the expat Canuck posted,
"is moving up to Canada."
She positively boasted!

"The right kind of American"
Who won't stick to her guns?
Who, when her party loses
Just up and cuts and runs?

"The right kind of American"
Who thinks that half the people,
Because they don't agree with her,
Are dim-bulb Jesus "sheeple"?

"The right kind of American"
For Canadians, it seems,
Is one who hates her country,
Thinks it's ripping at the seams.

"The right kind of American,"
It then appears I'm not.
'Cause I think Bush is on a roll--
And Canada is not.

"The right kind of American"
If you ask me (or don't)
Sees risks that must be dealt with
That we know the U.N. won't.

"The right kind of American"
Believes in freedom's spread,
Believes Iraq deserves it, too,
Thinks terrorists best dead.

"The right kind of American"
Lets the leftists spit their drivel,
Sure when history has, at last, its say,
In its light their lies will shrivel.

Late-Night Lament

2005-02-07T23:47:00.000-06:00

I used to stay up late at night
To play Dungeons and Dragons,
Well-fortified with chips and dip
And giant Coke-filled flagons.

But now I stay up late at night
To catch up on the blogs
While wife and child gently sleep
The well-earned rest of logs.

To sleep would sure be smarter--
Tomorrow I'd feel great;
But the night-time is the time I love:
It's mornings that I hate!

Sweet genes are made of these

2005-02-04T23:24:00.000-06:00

Gregor Mendel played with peas,
In the garden, on his knees.
(A proper posture for a monk,
But still, who would have ever thunk
That a monkish Augistinian
Would help cement all things Darwinian?)

There once was a planet called Earth

2005-02-04T00:09:00.000-06:00

There once was a planet called Earth
Whose people were blind to its worth.
They poisoned the air
That once was so fair
And wondered why nothing gave birth...

Oh dear. It seems limerick style,
Although it's been with us a while,
Just isn't quite right
For starting a fight
Or outpouring activist bile.

Sonnet sonnet

2005-02-02T23:07:00.000-06:00

How serious are you, my poet friend,
About the craft to which your heart aspires?
Do your words borrow pain, and seek to lend
Unto the world the vision it requires?
Do you object to light verse as a waste
Of energy best spent on grander things?
Do you desire to scale the heights and taste
The clear, sweet air where lofty language rings?
To don poetic glory like a bonnet,
My friend, I think that you should write a sonnet.

Tiny Thoughts on Tiny Things

2005-02-01T23:03:00.000-06:00

It could be the very greatest thing since we learned to slice bread,
Or else it is a killer that will quickly make us dead.
It is gonna usher in the age of everlasting wealth,
Or leave us gasping out farewells to our departing health.
Crichton wrote about it, so you know it must be big,
If you research materials, it's part of your whole gig.
Let fans and critics face each other, fight mano a mano--
I personally think it's great that we've got tech that's nano!

Vote Note

2005-01-31T17:49:00.000-06:00

Here in the West we've had the vote
So many years it's now just rote.
So every lefty's sour note
Aimed at Iraq sure gets my goat.
To them I'm giving just one quote:
"HEY YOU! WAKE UP! YOU'VE MISSED THE BOAT!"

Wheeze

2005-01-30T23:14:00.000-06:00

Sniffle, sniffle, sniffle, hack!
Cough, cough, cough.
I sound like a smoker
On the verge of kicking off.

But not to fear, I'm not dead yet,
There's no need to be sad:
It's just a daycare bug--a gift
From daughter to dear Dad.

A Blog-Reader's Lament

2005-01-30T01:05:00.000-06:00

Blog to the Left! Blog to the Right!
Bush-man, Kerry-fan, fight, fight, fight!

"Saddam was bad, he's gone, we're glad!"
"The USA is worse!"
It makes a sober proser
Turn to drink--or even verse!

Before I started reading blogs
My life was calm, serene.
I read the morning paper, thought
I understood the scene.

But now I hear the paper's in
The Loony Left's right hand--
Or else taking dictation from
Mad Karl Roves's bad band.

No TV can be trusted and
All radio's a joke--
Dan Rather has been busted and
NPR's blowing smoke.

I Google here, I Google there,
I Google everywhere.
I search for Truth, but all i find
Is girls sans underwear.

It's getting late, and bed can't wait,
My eyes are full of sand.
Tomorrow I will search again.
Glenn Reynolds, hold my hand!

Walter Twiddle is my name

2005-01-29T23:51:00.000-06:00

Walter Twiddle is my name
Writing poe-try is my aim.
Even if it doesn't scan,
Walter Twiddle's still Da Man!