Smelly Poems

We've been writing some poetry in ECTA, so I thought I post some of my poems. These two are poems about the sense of smell.

Katie (anapestic tetrameter)

Josh Duncan

At the Indian Oven sits Katie, her cup

holds four slices of lemon from all of our soup.

And is not lemon so fresh and so crisp and pure

Likewise Kate, with her charm, anything will procure.

Old Spice (free verse)

Josh Duncan

“Smell is the strongest sense tied to memory,”

Claims the Old Spice commercial.

How true.

My brain generates images unselectively

When I detect

Mint

Brewing sweet, calming tea in the kitchen

And

Gargling unsavory, biting mouthwash.

Cinnamon

Brewing pleasant, invigorating tea in the kitchen

And

Using the stale, crusty cinnamon shaker.

How often have we sensed these scents

In snacks, sweets, and solvents?

These old spices are everywhere,

Remind us of everything

Both pleasing and revolting.

And though Old Spice smells nice

It still evokes a sweaty, smelly armpit.

These three just had to be about something we observe in nature. For the first one, I had to praise something which rarely receives praise. The second one is about the statue, The Son of Man be Free, here at Concordia.

Nick the Tick, a Limerick

Josh Duncan

One rarely hears praise for the dim tick,

But praise one I shall in this lim’rick.

When to drown him I went,

To survive he was bent.

So I had mercy and named him Nick.

The Statue of the Naked Man, a Haiku

Josh Duncan

All ridicule it.

But was not Christ stripped naked?

For us ridiculed?

The Old, Old Chair (a sonnet)

Josh Duncan

Antiquated, ancient, aged, alone,

All wooden but for metal joints rusted,

Sit on his lap and he emits a groan

Brittle, broken, buckling, beaten, busted

Crinkled, crotchety, creaking, cracking

One grey day in the rain, a night dreary

Gave him texture but left his strength lacking

Withered, weathered, wrinkled, warped, worn, weary

Shabby, seasoned, secluded, stripped, splintered,

Armrests, cushions—none—no more than you need

For many a year we’ve kept him wintered

Faded, feeble, flimsy, fragile, fatigued

A paradox, admired for its wear,

Practical, yet useless, that old, old chair.

Biopoem

Josh

Relative of Richard, Kelly, Casey, Becca, Hannah, and Katie, who together form the Duncan Clan

Conservative Christian, Karate Kid, lover of the arts and literature

Good grade go getter, art teacher, mild-mannered newspaper reporter

Lover of Broadway musicals, Charles Dickens, the Red Sox and Indian curry

Who feels free on the stage, energized on speech team, and expressive through his drawing

Who has been to the Grand Canyon, Washington D.C., and Sandbridge, VA

Who needed his mom to teach him, his dad to guide him, and his siblings to inspire him

Who fears heights, high school, and fear itself

Who gave art lessons to third-grade twins, gave Karate lessons, and gave it all he got

Who longs to see Ireland, Scotland, and London

Who would like to have seen his grandfather for a few more years, Ronald Reagan for two more terms, and the Calvin and Hobbes guy come out of retirement

Pensive

Resident of Sunset Meadows

Duncan