The Poesia Tale: A Collection of Poems Written Stream of Consciously and Continously in the Span of Five Hours -- Dan Varnish

Preface

One thing I will say to whomever reads these lines is to not take them with the slightest bit of seriousness. Do not look too closely into them because they are nothing more than a number of lousy poems written by me, with no artistic moral. I also would like to note that I wrote these stream-of-consciousnessly in the span of 5 hours. 

Inspired by Billy Collins’ collection of poems entitled, ‘The Rain in Portugal,’ I attempted to emulate his style and artistry by writing via free verse poetry. This style is conventionally seen as the more modern and millennial style of writing, so that’s another aspect I kept in mind when compiling these poems. You will soon see when reading poems like ‘A Sad Afternoon—Courtesy of TLC’ that my poems in this collection are of the most nonsensical sort.

The only purpose my poems serve is for anyone who reads them to enjoy them for what they are, and not for the typical notion that arises when ‘poetry’ comes to mind. These poems are meant to just be picked up and read for fun, and to take the reader someplace where they never thought they’d end up. No confusing words (except for the foreign language), no complicated syntax, just real, quirky poems. Thanks for reading.

Table of Contents

“My First Date with a girl whose name was Karma(n)”……….............4

“Walking on a Sunday with an Indian fellow”…………………… .…....5

“A Sad Afternoon—Courtesy of TLC”………………………… ……….6

“The Clorox River”………………………………………………………...7

“Notte al Ristorante”………………………………………………………8

“A Tale from nuits parisiennes”…………………………………………..9

“Dr. Patel’s Fond Appreciation of Pepto-Bismol”…………………….10

“My First Date with a girl whose name was Karma(n)”

I rode my bike yesterday

Down the intersection of Neil and High.

I saw this one kid,

Looked sorry as hell.

He wore a lumberjack coat

With a brown scarf—there’s no way he tied that himself.

And his boots were red.

I gave him credit—he was dressed better than I was.

A patch of ice was in front of him,

But, unfortunately, he didn’t see it.

But I did.

He took one step, a fatal one, on the small rink on the sidewalk—no skates on.

I applauded his courage:

A kid like that, in a situation like that.

But then he slipped on the ice

And I laughed.

Then my tire rode over a slushy terrain,

And I face planted into the brown mush. 

“Walking on a Sunday with an Indian Fellow”

Symmetrical silver snowflakes stumble

And swerve through the brisk, bitter air.

The blank canvas of my cream Vans

Were not a good choice for this weather.

Next to me, a rather plump, Indian fellow

Stared at my shoes with a mustered discontent.

I think they overcooked his steak

At the diner down the street.  

The furnace within his eyes

Began to blaze with a bastardly bitterness.

It feels like he is condemning me,

Down into the fiery depths of hell.

If I walk to the right,

He could strike me from behind.

If I walk to the left,

He could trip me as I walk past him.

I better make a move soon;

Because if not, I’m as good as dead.

He hates my Vans,

I hate how hot he is—symbolically, of course.

I brush past his butterball belly;

Only then did I realize

That I made the wrong move.

I tripped over him.

He wins, and throws my Vans onto the roof nearby.

“A Sad Afternoon—Courtesy of TLC”

Flipping through the TV channels,

I stopped on one with a Chinese man on it.

He looked very happy and old.

He was attempting to cross a wooden bridge.

The kicker was that he was blind.

TLC made me feel bad.

I sat there, feeling guilty for having sight.

But only for a minute.

I went outside to see

If I could walk across my front lawn

Without moving onto the sidewalk

With my eyes closed.

I took one step,

And my foot hit something wet.

It was my dog’s fecal matter.

Thanks TLC.

“The Clorox River”

Running on the Olentangy Trail,

The jade forest was a sight to see:

Peaceful, beautiful, and something to

Encourage me as I raced through the trees.

The sun snuck through the leaves,

And illuminated the path.

Through these beams of light, I ran,

Feeling encouraged, at peace.

Then I raced around a bend on the path,

And I saw an old man pouring Clorox into the river.

I wondered how the fish might react

Being exposed to a blue killer.

I ran to him, and pushed him down

Into the river, into the Clorox.

He emerged from the river

52 years younger—blonde hair, about 5’2.

He began to walk toward me

But I sensed the trouble approaching me,

And I got the hell out of there,

Running swiftly through the jade forest.

The worst part: he destroyed the biodiversity of the river.

“Notte al Ristorante”

I walked into the restaurant

With my head pounding, and my ear aching.

This was not the best way to start

My first time meeting with someone for dinner.

I wore the ‘best-looking’ outfit I had

According to my grandma.

I was wearing dark, midnight joggers

With a Nike quarter zip (I’m not a fan of jeans).

An Indian man, eating pasta,

Was seated at the table to my right.

‘You should join me on my trip back,’

Remarked the man to his date (I had a feeling that there was a scandal brewing).

He took the lady’s hand,

But she said that she didn’t want to.

‘Can I take your order?’

A waitress enthusiastically asked me; I was speechless.

My date was 20 minutes late,

But this Indian man gave me

All the entertainment I needed.

The restaurant’s attitude livened, and so did my curiosity.

‘Spaghetti con salsa rossa,’ I told the waitress,

Unaware of any inkling of Italian—just reading the menu.

I had asked her if she minded taking a seat next to me

To watch the Indian scandal unfold.

But then I realized the mistake that I made.

I asked a 57-year-old single mother

On a date with me; she said yes.

It turned out the Indian man was with his daughter, and I was left on date with a middle-aged woman.

Non Bene. 

“A Tale from nuits parisiennes”

I’ve dreamt of going to Paris

And standing on the highest point of the Eiffel Tower.

France’s golden jewel—une belle horreur.

But I don’t know French; I just Googled it. 

Everytime in this dream, I see a young boy 

Of about five or six years old. 

Curiously, he scurries through dark corridors,

Racing up the stairs to the top flight of the tower. 

His curiosity strikes me, but he is a little chubby. 

I’m in awe of how fast he moves.  

If I raced him, he would surely beat me 

And receive the championship for best runner in Dreamland. 

His Converses (or Conversers as the natives say)

Receive a huge burden from the dusty steps he climbs. 

But I’m not sure if there are steps 

Or just an elevator that goes up to the top. 

Once I get to the top, 

The chubby boy disappears soudainement. 

Maybe he is in little chubby boy heaven. 

Paradis de garçon joufflu

The brisk Parisian air whistles, 

And the stars glisten and shine on the petites maisons.

I hear something in a distance, a ringing. 

It approaches ever closer; my eyes open. 

“Dr. Patel’s Fond Appreciation of Pepto-Bismol”

On the last day of December, 

I drove to the pharmacy

To pick up some crayons for my neighbor.

I walked through the motion detecting gates into CVS. 

I strolled past the pharmacy portion of the store, 

And an Indian pharmacist with ‘Dr. Patel’ on his badge motioned me over.

‘You seem like you could use this,’ beckoned Dr. Patel, 

Giving me a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. 

Dr. Patel seemed like a nice guy

And I was in a good mood,

So, I figured I’d help him out. 

I put it in my cart, and he smiled at me like he succeeded in coaxing me. 

In about five minutes, 

I saw Dr. Patel walking behind me in the Food aisle. 

‘What’s your problem, man?’

Dr. Patel gave me a slip of paper that read, ‘Parking lot. 2 minutes.’

In all honesty, Dr. Patel emanated a peculiar presence. 

But, I decided to meet him. 

The lady at the counter handed me a daunting look, 

Like I had done something wrong. 

There he was; Dr. Patel, with his white jacket, was pacing in front of his Subaru. 

I approached him cautiously, aware of the awkward situation. 

‘You know that Pepto-Bismol I gave you?’

I nodded, and he explained that he needed it back. 

‘It’s the only one left in stock, and my wife needs it.’ 

I gave it to him just because I felt sorry as hell for the guy. 

I mean all the man wants is his Pepto-Bismol, 

And that’s the least I could do for him.

Driving out of the parking lot, 

I saw Dr. Patel waving to me,

Realizing that he indeed did coax me:

I forgot the crayons. 

Dan Varnish