Yesterday was Valentine's Day. I was there. Those not currently found in my ward won't know that we played broom hockey with paddle broomsticks, on slippery ice, with naught but our shoes on (and our clothes, too), after eating pizza, with the passion of St. Valentine's Day so thick on the ice you could cut it with a knife, for a ward activity. Yubtub. I slid all over the place, but was pretty much the best one out there ever. So let's poem it.
High-Stickin' Me
It comes...
IT COMES...
with fierce joy I whack the ball--it's here!
My bum...
MY BUM...
is wet; I fell on my rear.
The masses swarm to get the ball,
I must not let my team down!
Swing my stick with hurricane force,
tornado spin round and round.
Point after point I score!
For each one, in my stick I carve a notch.
First one, then two, soon ten, then twenty!
My points are earned with whacks to the enemies' crotch.
Fallen bodies lay strewn about;
the rage of love courses through my spine.
It's red...
IT'S RED...
deep runs the passion of St. Valentine.
This poem I dedicate to my fallen teammate Blake. Blake, your sacrifice will not go unavenged. With cat-like ferocity and prowess, you stood tall and pounced upon the ball. You gave it your all, and I salute you. I will be systematically injuring every single player on the opposing team, and probably half of our own team. Traitorous scum who deserted us in our time of need. I'll make them pay... I'll make them all pay.
This next poem is dedicated to Molluver. Baby I'm your \.
Lover' turned \. Boy turned into Man.
Gas cloud--dark and cocoa-ey;
vehemently it escapes my lips.
Gooey, powdery it explodes;
the remains of which still cover my chest and hips.
Hardly breathing;
no air can find its way in to my cocoa coated lungs.
Throat and nose are burning;
by the toxic cloud of dirty brown dust both are stung.
The three of us dry heave--the man next to me doth spew;
It is worth every ounce of suffering, to prove my manhood to you.
Happy Valentine's Day! I love you all! I can prove it.
Love,
Papa John
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Friday, February 04, 2005
Papa's Poem Corner Episode 14: Someone Get Me Out of this BEEFLOG!
Hi everyone. Did you all know that yesterday was Stooph's birthday? I did. Tonight is her birthday party/dance party/make-out party. The gaiety of the event has inspired this week's poem.
Stooph and Me
Stooph and me, just us three.
I own your elbows; you call me creepy.
Like two happy princesses we hold hands and frolic in the park.
You kick me in the crotch after I try to make out with you in the dark.
I'm mesmerized, and hypnotized by your stellar wavey dance.
I lose all self-control, and I wet my pants.
You call me on my cellular telephone when I'm two feet away.
On my refrigerator your pretty construction paper rainbow will stay.
I'm ready: Depression! Yet, you always erase my pain.
Tromping, stomping around in your boots in the rain!
Your boyfriends (all 32,oo4) are held prisoner in your love cage.
Your stories, like a fine cheese, will get better with age.
Although you say I'm creepy, at least we both know,
I'm not the one who looks in on me through the bathroom window.
I'm a traveling giraffe! I'm a gonna get what's mine.
Yay and hooray forevermore for blessed John and Stooph Time!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY STOOPH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Love,
Papa
Stooph and Me
Stooph and me, just us three.
I own your elbows; you call me creepy.
Like two happy princesses we hold hands and frolic in the park.
You kick me in the crotch after I try to make out with you in the dark.
I'm mesmerized, and hypnotized by your stellar wavey dance.
I lose all self-control, and I wet my pants.
You call me on my cellular telephone when I'm two feet away.
On my refrigerator your pretty construction paper rainbow will stay.
I'm ready: Depression! Yet, you always erase my pain.
Tromping, stomping around in your boots in the rain!
Your boyfriends (all 32,oo4) are held prisoner in your love cage.
Your stories, like a fine cheese, will get better with age.
Although you say I'm creepy, at least we both know,
I'm not the one who looks in on me through the bathroom window.
I'm a traveling giraffe! I'm a gonna get what's mine.
Yay and hooray forevermore for blessed John and Stooph Time!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY STOOPH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Love,
Papa
Papa's Poem Corner Episode 13: The Reunion
Well hello there my fine-feathered friends! Yes indeed the day has come when old alliances are forged anew, and Papa's Poem Corner comes at you with a fierceness not seen since the Alamo. To all the new members of this little club, I give you the Official and Heart-felt Welcome you deserve. I should also explain what the crap this is, since you probably have no idea.
Nigh unto a year ago I began spewing forth the savory lyrics in my head in a weekly poem editorial. After 12 wonderful weeks (or three months to all the week-haters out there), it came to a sudden and sad end. Here we are again though, on the brink of the end of all things as we know it, and I for one won't go down like some punk. So here comes Round 2 of Papa's Poem Corner. This week's poem mostly has to do with the joyous fact that two of my best friends in the marketplace are coming home today and tomorrow. Some may recall that the first Papa's Poem Corner ever was an Ode to My Wifey, so it only seemed fitting that the first poem of Round 2 should reflect that.
Cody and Matt... this one's for you...
I Love My Missionary
When last we met,
How could I forget?
It has played through my heart like some distant song...
Three years now I'm waiting,
the darkness abating
For tonight you'll return to your John.
Plans of old we'll fulfill.
We'll spoon til we squeal!
Like merry hobbit-folk, we'll sing and we'll dance.
Climb to Mt. Sunrise,
Then to the Strip with our surprise!
and with yellow bottles stroll hand in hand.
My keychain still carries the banner,
The "I Love My Missionary" standard.
and Skeeroy still kept warm and at ease.
Three men among men,
brought together again!
Gemini and Queezy will be pleased.
The Spring of my lifey,
with Cody and my Wifey!
At last my true joy has been found!
Here and now reunited,
hip hop flames now ignited!
For the return of Pickel and MC Phetus Brown!
Any who may be wishing to catch up on old episodes of Papa's Poem Corner, just let me know by next week, and I will send those out. Thank you. Cody and Matt... welcome home brothers. Welcome home.
Love,
Papa
Nigh unto a year ago I began spewing forth the savory lyrics in my head in a weekly poem editorial. After 12 wonderful weeks (or three months to all the week-haters out there), it came to a sudden and sad end. Here we are again though, on the brink of the end of all things as we know it, and I for one won't go down like some punk. So here comes Round 2 of Papa's Poem Corner. This week's poem mostly has to do with the joyous fact that two of my best friends in the marketplace are coming home today and tomorrow. Some may recall that the first Papa's Poem Corner ever was an Ode to My Wifey, so it only seemed fitting that the first poem of Round 2 should reflect that.
Cody and Matt... this one's for you...
I Love My Missionary
When last we met,
How could I forget?
It has played through my heart like some distant song...
Three years now I'm waiting,
the darkness abating
For tonight you'll return to your John.
Plans of old we'll fulfill.
We'll spoon til we squeal!
Like merry hobbit-folk, we'll sing and we'll dance.
Climb to Mt. Sunrise,
Then to the Strip with our surprise!
and with yellow bottles stroll hand in hand.
My keychain still carries the banner,
The "I Love My Missionary" standard.
and Skeeroy still kept warm and at ease.
Three men among men,
brought together again!
Gemini and Queezy will be pleased.
The Spring of my lifey,
with Cody and my Wifey!
At last my true joy has been found!
Here and now reunited,
hip hop flames now ignited!
For the return of Pickel and MC Phetus Brown!
Any who may be wishing to catch up on old episodes of Papa's Poem Corner, just let me know by next week, and I will send those out. Thank you. Cody and Matt... welcome home brothers. Welcome home.
Love,
Papa
Changing of the Guard
This post comes in the form of "Half-time." We have thus reached the end of Round 1 of Papa's Poem Corner. We have officially caught up. The poems of Round 2 will be posted weekly. I invite all of you to check back in regularly for the greatest adventure of your lives.
I received a little message from my Uncle Terry (great guy). (He really exists by the way. Not like my Uncle Loiue.) I was touched by it, so I figured I'd pass it on. I quote him thus:
"With all the sadness and trauma going on in the world at the moment, it is worth reflecting on the death of a very important person which almost went unnoticed last week. Larry La Prise, the man who wrote "The Hokey Pokey," died peacefully at the age of 93. The most traumatic part for his family was getting him into the coffin.
They put his left leg in.
And then the trouble started...."
I received a little message from my Uncle Terry (great guy). (He really exists by the way. Not like my Uncle Loiue.) I was touched by it, so I figured I'd pass it on. I quote him thus:
"With all the sadness and trauma going on in the world at the moment, it is worth reflecting on the death of a very important person which almost went unnoticed last week. Larry La Prise, the man who wrote "The Hokey Pokey," died peacefully at the age of 93. The most traumatic part for his family was getting him into the coffin.
They put his left leg in.
And then the trouble started...."
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Papa's Poem Corner: Revisited
September 16th, 2004:
Hello again friends, family, and all prenatal companions! No, this is not the re-induction of Papa's Poem Corner. (Although there have been many unconfirmed rumors floating around that we haven't seen the last of it.) Think of this more as the reuniting of long lost friends who had a falling out cause they were stubborn and bitter, but are on the fast track to making amends. No, they're not ready yet to get back together and pick up where they left off, but yes for this brief moment, they will lay all hurt feelings and resentments aside for one night of unadulterated ROCK! Anyway, as many are aware, I passed a birthday stone this past Saturday. The big 22. (That is how many years I have been alive now.) In honor of this momentuous occasion, I couldn't help but have a poem in my heart (and when that happens you'd better believe that there is NOTHING you can do to stop it from spewing forth real frothily like. Very dangerous. Much better to let it out in a safe and controlled environment I say). So here she is. She's my birthday poem. Really she is the expoundation of a short song I began to write on my mission.
Papa's 22nd Birthday Poem
My genetic code screwed me over.
My genetic code screwed me over.
Cause puberty left me behind.
Now I'll never be a hairy guy.
Where can I find the path to manhood?
Is it hiding in the woods?
Or must I dive deep into the oceans?
No it's probably in the woods.
I will go and live amongst the forresters.
I will go and live amongst the forresters.
And learn their ways, eat their foods.
And learn to play, their manly flutes.
Oh Lady Puberty! Invest in me thy trust!
Sprinkle me with your magic Mandust!
Let my chest hairs grow strong and curly!
So I can put corn rows in my tuft!
I feel my soul is getting older
Buy I still look like I'm fourteen.
The future's bleak...
An old man trapped in a little girl's body.
Thank you all for indulging me in this little guilty pleasure of mine. They say poetry soothes the addiction to PEZ and I really think it is working. Whenever my supply runs low, I just fall into the beauty and sweet sweet harmony of rhyme to alleviate my need for those preciously deliscious candy treats.
Love,
Papa
p.s. This poem and message was hand-typed by what El Señor Morales (My Spanish 3050 teacher) has dubbed "Las Manos Lindas" (which roughly means "Pretty Hands") He liked 'em real good.
Hello again friends, family, and all prenatal companions! No, this is not the re-induction of Papa's Poem Corner. (Although there have been many unconfirmed rumors floating around that we haven't seen the last of it.) Think of this more as the reuniting of long lost friends who had a falling out cause they were stubborn and bitter, but are on the fast track to making amends. No, they're not ready yet to get back together and pick up where they left off, but yes for this brief moment, they will lay all hurt feelings and resentments aside for one night of unadulterated ROCK! Anyway, as many are aware, I passed a birthday stone this past Saturday. The big 22. (That is how many years I have been alive now.) In honor of this momentuous occasion, I couldn't help but have a poem in my heart (and when that happens you'd better believe that there is NOTHING you can do to stop it from spewing forth real frothily like. Very dangerous. Much better to let it out in a safe and controlled environment I say). So here she is. She's my birthday poem. Really she is the expoundation of a short song I began to write on my mission.
Papa's 22nd Birthday Poem
My genetic code screwed me over.
My genetic code screwed me over.
Cause puberty left me behind.
Now I'll never be a hairy guy.
Where can I find the path to manhood?
Is it hiding in the woods?
Or must I dive deep into the oceans?
No it's probably in the woods.
I will go and live amongst the forresters.
I will go and live amongst the forresters.
And learn their ways, eat their foods.
And learn to play, their manly flutes.
Oh Lady Puberty! Invest in me thy trust!
Sprinkle me with your magic Mandust!
Let my chest hairs grow strong and curly!
So I can put corn rows in my tuft!
I feel my soul is getting older
Buy I still look like I'm fourteen.
The future's bleak...
An old man trapped in a little girl's body.
Thank you all for indulging me in this little guilty pleasure of mine. They say poetry soothes the addiction to PEZ and I really think it is working. Whenever my supply runs low, I just fall into the beauty and sweet sweet harmony of rhyme to alleviate my need for those preciously deliscious candy treats.
Love,
Papa
p.s. This poem and message was hand-typed by what El Señor Morales (My Spanish 3050 teacher) has dubbed "Las Manos Lindas" (which roughly means "Pretty Hands") He liked 'em real good.
Papa's Poem Corner Episode 12: Farewell To An American Tradition
Dear friends and ones I love so well. This week marks the official 3 month anniversary of Papa's Poem Corner. It also marks my last week of work before I go up to Provo to live for the next phase of my life. On a sadder note, it also marks the end of Papa'a Poem Corner. No one is sadder about this than me. I have grown to love these weekly visits with you all, and these chances to express myself, and share this special part of me with you. We live in uncertain, perilous times. Who knows what the future will hold for us? Cody's dog Brutus does. He's prophetic. Other than him, no one. So I make this plea to you Brutus. I know that you don't check your e-mails anymore, because you can now access them telepathically.
Show Us Thy Light Dear Brutus
Hence forth and forevermore
the blackness of night sits lingering in its oblique sphere.
Put on thy thinking pants, and tell me of what's to come.
Brutus of Ages. Pierce my ear with thy warm words of wisdom.
My plea to thee is that of a girdled man,
Eyes shut tight against the blinding Fangorn forest of Dave's chest.
Unseen memories and living dreams roll forth from thy bowels.
Smooth as my freshly shaven toes.
On a camping trip, in a plane, or laying in bed,
Use me as the Travel-John!
Our only hope of survival lies deep within thy silky stomach lining,
and thy beauteous belching of forbidden knowledge.
A rainbow! A rainbow trailed by a pot of gold.
Let's hop in and bathe in its colorfully golden glow.
We'll trade recipes and birth joy in our happy cauldron.
Brutus be brave, but betrothe both brothers before Billy buys black beef.
Now let us fly! Back down to thy resting nest!
The Carmex will hold in the escaping moisture from thy llama lips.
No man is an island, but a lot of us are pretty portish. Like man-docks.
Mandocks with no customs expert to harass us.
I dedicate my life to thee, like a yearbook being dedicated by a large
French woman.
Signed, "I've taken a restraining order out on you." KIT. BYOB.
DATPIISLIMBTG.
That is my plea to Brutus. He's a great man... dog... I have full faith in him to foretell all as that one Nostrildamus guy would have done if he had been a real future-seerer guy.
The Goodbye Song - as sung by John Cory.
There is no tomorrow.
We'll never see each other again.
There's no hope for the future.
Today's our last day as friends.
Let's not waste it fighting.
Instead let's fingerpaint.
My last day alive, and all I want to do,
is spend the end with you.
No one here but you and me,
and we're painting with our feet.
Let the Giant-Robot army take us.
Torture us, and chain us to the walls.
As long as you're beside me,
I won't feel the pain at all.
We could use our last hours to organize a counter-offensive.
But I'd rather fingerpaint.
My last day alive, and all I want to do,
is spend the end with you.
No one here but you and me,
and we're painting with our feet.
Don't stop my love, you must paint away your fears.
Purple puppies, little blue bunnies, and superbly happy deer.
We'll destroy the Giant-Robot army with art!
They can never destroy that which we fingerpaint from our hearts!
My last day alive, and all I want to do,
is spend the end with you.
No one here but you and me,
and we're painting with our feet.
Well. That's it guys. I love you all very much. Thanks for your love and support, and for all of the death threats. Those were so cute. Anyway, I hope to see each and every one of you again soon. Except for you Burgess. I'll be dreaming about you tonight. Yes I will.
Love,
Papa
Show Us Thy Light Dear Brutus
Hence forth and forevermore
the blackness of night sits lingering in its oblique sphere.
Put on thy thinking pants, and tell me of what's to come.
Brutus of Ages. Pierce my ear with thy warm words of wisdom.
My plea to thee is that of a girdled man,
Eyes shut tight against the blinding Fangorn forest of Dave's chest.
Unseen memories and living dreams roll forth from thy bowels.
Smooth as my freshly shaven toes.
On a camping trip, in a plane, or laying in bed,
Use me as the Travel-John!
Our only hope of survival lies deep within thy silky stomach lining,
and thy beauteous belching of forbidden knowledge.
A rainbow! A rainbow trailed by a pot of gold.
Let's hop in and bathe in its colorfully golden glow.
We'll trade recipes and birth joy in our happy cauldron.
Brutus be brave, but betrothe both brothers before Billy buys black beef.
Now let us fly! Back down to thy resting nest!
The Carmex will hold in the escaping moisture from thy llama lips.
No man is an island, but a lot of us are pretty portish. Like man-docks.
Mandocks with no customs expert to harass us.
I dedicate my life to thee, like a yearbook being dedicated by a large
French woman.
Signed, "I've taken a restraining order out on you." KIT. BYOB.
DATPIISLIMBTG.
That is my plea to Brutus. He's a great man... dog... I have full faith in him to foretell all as that one Nostrildamus guy would have done if he had been a real future-seerer guy.
The Goodbye Song - as sung by John Cory.
There is no tomorrow.
We'll never see each other again.
There's no hope for the future.
Today's our last day as friends.
Let's not waste it fighting.
Instead let's fingerpaint.
My last day alive, and all I want to do,
is spend the end with you.
No one here but you and me,
and we're painting with our feet.
Let the Giant-Robot army take us.
Torture us, and chain us to the walls.
As long as you're beside me,
I won't feel the pain at all.
We could use our last hours to organize a counter-offensive.
But I'd rather fingerpaint.
My last day alive, and all I want to do,
is spend the end with you.
No one here but you and me,
and we're painting with our feet.
Don't stop my love, you must paint away your fears.
Purple puppies, little blue bunnies, and superbly happy deer.
We'll destroy the Giant-Robot army with art!
They can never destroy that which we fingerpaint from our hearts!
My last day alive, and all I want to do,
is spend the end with you.
No one here but you and me,
and we're painting with our feet.
Well. That's it guys. I love you all very much. Thanks for your love and support, and for all of the death threats. Those were so cute. Anyway, I hope to see each and every one of you again soon. Except for you Burgess. I'll be dreaming about you tonight. Yes I will.
Love,
Papa
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