Word of the Day

This is a series of poems all written to meet the challenge of trying to use all of the words of the day listed by dictionary.com for the date it was written. An interesting and difficult challenge, but a lot of fun.


Forfending flotsam mollitude

Affable, our jugum hearts


Egregious mansuetude

The sockdolager eludes us

Though lickerish we may

Prevaricate, felicitate

our nostrum caliginous

We’ll fight to creolize,

With our dithyrambic klatsch

The spirituel, the chatoyant

We will descry and exclupate

and before the katzenjammer takes,

and byzantine plenipotentiaries

who ruled up high for centuries

denying us androgyny, outcry

Maybe not the cure, but maybe the solution

for homologous identity

our eleemosynary 


For Chloe

I mussitate a prayer,

Though I know the words will fail me:

I’ve reached the nadir of my life.

I know what will supervene

A donnybrook incarnadine.

This noisome lot, this moiety

Dishabille acts they wrought on me.

But despite the tongues and barbs and fists,

I will not acclimate to them.

I do aver, I shall remain

Recalcitrant, defiance on my lips


A fain susurration in my ear

perambulates throughout my mind

A mazy path it winds, obscure

Bibulous, these thoughts of mine

to escape the bile of reason

I seek to find my quietus

A tchotchke that eludes me

The yeasty thoughts it prays upon

Bilious and green

The trinkets of my sanity

Are lost to me, ergo I’m free

To listen to those words inside my head

Of inveterate persuasion

The half-formed thoughts devoured

An empty-head, a drowned out voice

And the bubbles rise as ghosts

In Which Arrogance and Irony Collide

My comments may be lacrymose, assaulting your redoubt

All I wish is to evince you,

of your lackadaisical efforts

Don’t go incommunicado, just because I was effusive

Just render yourself supine 

and listen to my veritable review

The work is sallow, that is true, an unguent

Is needed to cool this rash of failings

There’s a homograph for you

Though I’ll doubt you’ll notice.

I’m arrogant, that’s plain to see

My talent is a fantasy

The last two lines rhyme A and B

Look what I did there, did you see?

Free-verse, rhyme, meter, form,

A lack of rhythm from above

Syllables cramping my style

To sleep, after another mile

A nod to the great Robert Frost

Amongst this sturm und drang of dross

It’s all a joke, this game we play

Better, worse, who is this prick?

To judge me when

his work is adequate.


Nolens volens, the frangible fop

Holds in abeyance, his extant fear

To be the bon ton is his predilection

A paphian talisman for inscrutable women

And all the while scuttlebutt whispers seriatim

Self-doubt is the key to his confident prison.


There is a certain gung-ho quality

To the men who, like royalty, 

Each vacuous grandee,

Exhibit with foul turpitude

Cruelty extemporaneously

These arrogant perpatetics who go,

amongst the financial milieu below

with overweening, callous brio.

All hand shakes, five-fingered snakes

Transmogrifying charity to a testicular blow

Their right they do evince,

To take a cut, as the saviours wince;

After all greed is their province.

Despite the all whom caterwaul

This travesty they’ll surely mince.

The Muse

The supercilious lady

Who sits in her ivory tower

She wantonly flaunts what she’s been given

A benefaction that wont be dispensed

Denied the right of the wunderkind

Panjandrum: this four-letter whore

A jobbery lass, but what do I gain?

No indelible marks on the world, that’s for sure

Barely a moiety is what’s left for me,

not enough for a sip at her potable spring.

To conflate the matters at hand

While capacious, her supply can not meet demand

Abandoning me to voyeur on others,

To watch and to wait

To give and to take

All addicts are we, once we’ve had the first taste

In Passing

With rakish flair, the neophyte

Plies himself with learning and development

Whilst the masters maunder, bete noires

A shark pool of hebetude chum

The young ones reap the lucre

In a land salutary to them

While the irascible old men and women

Pule at the injustice of it all

But thus is the machinations of society

That each gesticulation guides the young

Down time’s winding path towards the sea

Yielding their youth to entropy

Stomach Pains

I await my deus ex machina

To save me from my bellicose friend

He’s truculent, clearly obdurate

Causing nothing but furbelow pain

Maybe I am purblind

When it comes to my faults,

A toady to my vices

While this forcible foe vitiates my insides

My micro-menagerie fights it

These bucolic dopplegangers inside me

Working their symbiont charm

Even as I kill them

They’re constantly rebuilding

To keep my poor insides from harm