Poetic Interlude VI

Bon après-midi, Lecteur Douce.

From now on, I am going to try to post a poetic interlude on Sundays. Sometimes it will be freshly milled, sometimes it’ll be an old chestnut of which I’m particularly fond, and sometimes – as in this case – it will be something that has been published. I know that I keep going on about it, and really it’s just two small pieces that saw light in a tiny, local, magazine, but it’s a start. At any rate, we have here

A Letter

Dear Dr. and Mrs. Wiggenbottom,
Thank you so much for the Party!
I hope all your guests had their fun –
I know that young Julie DuBois did,
When she bedded your under-aged son.
The décor was perfectly charming,
Or it was until Randy arrived
(With his bevy of busty young beauties
That he pays to appear by his side.)
I’m sorry that I broke your glasses,
And that vase that your aunt sent from France,
And I’m sure Jim and I were such asses
When we tried to make Eleanor dance.
I know that your neighbours are vicious,
And threatened to call in the cops,
(It was Sue who burned holes in the carpet;
What can you expect from a sot?)
Now you musn’t mind all the mess, dears,
Or the stranger passed out on the trunk.
Thanks for letting me sleep it off here, dears.
Kisses and Love! Signed,

The Drunks

We also have this, written one strange afternoon, not very long ago.


I woke hungover, half past one
The sky, a lovely grey
I grinned into my cigarette
And rose to greet the day –
For I was young, and newly poor
I suffered for my art;
Like every poet ever born,
I had a broken heart.
And all my friends were gathered round,
With coffee, and despair,
Perhaps a touch of lunacy-
The greying of our hair.
And I set out, with paper, pen,
To nail the world down,
And transmute my troubled life
To pleasant, written, sound.


©2013 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved

About Ty DeLyte

Madame DeLyte has suffered a grave disappointment - YET AGAIN - and still believes that freedom, beauty, and truth are what's valuable, rather than vulgar cash. He'd add love to that list - but, well, what can he say about love?
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