Dear Mr. Logan:
Attached are five of my lighter poems. I hope you enjoy them.
Mike Berger, Ph.D.
Food captures me.
It holds me for ransom.
I woof it down;
it’s never enough.
I can't leave bread alone.
I sit and stuff myself
till my eyes pop and
my legs turned into stumps.
The cravings grab me
and wrestle me to the ground.
I snarf down chocolates,
till the last piece is gone.
Can't be concerned about weight
though I look like a balloon.
Don’t ask when it goes up cause
I’ve schedule another liposuction.
I found a marvelous technique
to avoid arguments with my wife.
We never shout or throw things.
She pouts while I walk away.
We pleasantly disagree on many things.
She likes things to be spotlessly clean.
I myself am more laissez-faire,
aound me there is chaos everywhere.
When walking away just doesn’t work
this technique is fool-proof and never fails
I simply slip off all of my clothes
she doesn't get excited, she laughs.
Few things in this world, I detest.
There are those over arching things.
Like war, starvation and genocide.
But I hate when the cell phone rings.
Your feet throb as you stand in the grocery line
The woman behind you talks incessantly.
She shouts into her phone more than you want to know.
As she openly discusses her kinky sex life.
In the movie to come to that dramatic part
Where the hero and villain confront each other
Then, just as the hero is about to prevail.
The guy in front of you answers his phone.
You're late, you hurry and pushing it.
But you're afraid to pass the car ahead.
This guy is weaving all over the road.
He is doing business on his cell phone.
Quiet people aren't the only ones who don't say much.
Teenage girls talk for hours and don't say a word.
Our society is driven by conspicuous consumption.
Flashy automobiles have been replaced by cell phones.
I have a fix for this glaring problem.
Conscript all the cell phone users.
Gather up all their evil devices.
And send them to inhabit the moon.
Take $10 billion of taxpayer money.
Construct a lunar cell network.
Let them talk; they will produce their own air.
With them gone, you won't get hit by a truck
As a new poet, I haven't developed a style.
I've tried rhymed and metered and haiku
I've dabbled with Tanka and odes too
I would like your feedback and opinion.
Tell me about your images and how you feel.
As I experiment with blank verse.
I'm not sure I understand blank verse
It leaves so much to the reader's imagination
There give me your honest feedback
What did you think of my experimental lines?
Editors hate cowboys and sagebrush
and heroes that ride off into the sunset.
They cringe at the handsome face
that wears a white over-sized cowboy hat.
Editors laugh at the hero bursting through
the swinging door and the inevitable gun-
fight in front of a saloon, where the villain
takes aim only to be shot by te comic relief.
So don't dress up your cowboy in rhyme
or burnt victuals from the chuck wagon.
Forget the sounds of thundering hooves
or sleeping under a million stars.
Why would anyone write such drivel?
It would never be published; it would
stink up pages like a fresh cow pie.
Poets, please avoid writing such tripe.
There is, however a publishing axiom
that says if your poetry is bad enough;
it will fascinate and capture an editor
and he will end up publishing the stuff