A Few Poems of Mine

Today is Friday, which is an important day to a lot of people at Roncalli. It's not only the last weekday before school starts, but it's also the day a lot of summer homework is due. I like to imagine that right now, there are a couple hundred kids sitting in front of their computers across the south side of Indianapolis and frantically turning pages of novels and textbooks, blogging, journaling, outlining, and writing essays.

I only have one thing left to do before tonight's deadline -- my last German blog -- and I've already planned it all out, so I'm giving myself a little break right now. Also, I'm pretty sure I just opened a lot of doors for Max to brag about how he's been finished for a few days, now. Oops.

Max, I'm glad you brought up the topic of poetry. It's a beautiful way we can peer into the soul of mankind. Your poems were wonderful (but not particularly flattering). Last year, for instance, I explored the heart of an old man complaining about the kids on his lawn in a terzanelle I wrote in English class. But I'm not going to share that poem -- it's extremely emotionally draining to read. Instead, I'm going to tell you the story of how I became interested in poetry.

During my freshmen year at Roncalli, after a band concert, Rebecca Flanigan sent me this note:

Trumpets are brass,

Clarinets are wood;

That oboe solo

Sure was good!

And I was very flattered and wanted to write a poem back to her, so I did:

Percussion is loud,

My favorite color is ochre;

Your clarinet playing

Was also good.

Before I compose a few poems for Max, I'm going to share a snippet of a poem I wrote last year in German class. If you were in my fourth period class, you know that this eventually turned into a song:

Wir haben manchmal Feten,

Aber zuerst müssen wir beten,

Und wir trinken . . . nie Bier.

Wir studieren -- nein! -- wir lernen,

Wir griefen nach den Sternen;

Meine Lieblingsklasse ist Stunde Vier!¹

Now, since Max composed some lovely poems for me, I'm going to return the favor. I'll start with an acrostic, and then I'll move to my specialty, the limerick:

MAX BROWNING

Mirthful

Adamant

Xenophobic

Beige

Rectangular

Ovate

Witty

Nerdy

Inventive

Nervy

Good

There once was a mortal named Max,

Refusing to pay income tax.

He felt like a lout,

When Obama found out,

And Max paid his tax with the axe.

That was more gruesome than I originally intended.

Until Sunday, Max,

Never let me go in your pants.

¹Sometimes, we have parties, but first we have to pray, and we never drink beer. We study (college) -- no! -- we study (high school), we reach for the stars; my favorite class is period four!