An Ode to the Lexical Cacophony
I sing the tome, the vast and arid plain,
Where sesquipedalian words hold sovereign reign.
A logophile's labyrinth, a polysyllabic fête,
A compendium of terms, to mystify and sate.
I've sought my muse in quotidian affairs,
And clothed her now in philological airs.
The cat's quiet purr, a gentle, sibilant thrum,
Becomes a psithurism—as I've just become.
The common rain—a droplet from the clouds—
Petrichor’s effluvium, it now loudly avows.
A simple sneeze, a spasm, a tiny, moist display,
Is now an sternutation that steals my breath away.
The hum of day, a soporific sound,
Is now a deep acousmatic drone I've found.
The simple fork, with tines so sharp and fine,
Becomes a furcula, a most arcane design.
So hail the glossary, the index, and the guide,
Where grandiloquent nonsense has nowhere left to hide.
Let lesser bards in simple language plead,
While I on long-forgotten verbiage can feed.
The clock's swift passage, a ceaseless, ticking haste,
Is now a chronogram, in time's indifferent waste.
The garden trowel, for earth a simple tool,
A cultellary item for the vegetable school.
The sun's bright rays, a mundane daily sight,
Are heliacal splendors that vanquish the night.
The kitchen sponge, with its porous, useful face,
An aluminiferous relic in this domestic place.
The dusty motes that dance within the light,
A pulverulent nebula, a cosmic, hazy blight.
The simple act of tying up a shoe,
A nodulation performed for me and you.
So let the critics parse this grand, verbose design,
While the poem uses rare and recondite diction.
To honor the spirit of creative pun
Then consider the state of one who feels quite low,
A kakorrhaphiophobia that causes endless woe.
A simple task, a fear of failure now has won,
My floccinaucinihilipilification is overdone.
I’d rather boast a hepaticocholangiocholecystenterostomies,
Though it's just the dog's chew toy that I see.
For pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis,
Is but a dusty blanket of pure-white silicosis.
So praise the antidisestablishmentarianism of my soul,
That hates all simple order and takes its crushing toll.
And let my pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism explain,
Why I cannot leave the thesaurus in the rain.
My honorificabilitudinitatibus is what I seek,
To praise myself with words that make my listener reek.
This supercalifragilisticexpialidocious wordplay's end,
Is a sesquipedalianism that will never comprehend
The humor, as before, comes from juxtaposing the highly formal and bizarre vocabulary with mundane or abstract concepts.
In idle thought, a logorrhea overflows,
On matters none of consequence suppose.
My xenotransplantation of a sock,
Onto the cat, was met with frightful shock.
The caliginous clouds portend a sodden day,
A cacography of rain to blot the way.
My coffee cup, a protuberance from the shelf,
Holds secrets of my tired, ancient self.
The pusillanimous squirrel, with furtive eye,
Avoids the gaze of pigeons in the sky.
A confabulation with the garden gnome,
Reveals the root of things inside my home.
I see a spectrophotofluorometrically traced design,
Upon the kitchen floor, a watery sign.
The otorhinolaryngological ache that fills my head,
Is but a whisper of the things unsaid.
The harlequinade of moths that flit and leap,
Upon the window glass, while others sleep.
A parapropalaehoplophorus—such was my thought,
When contemplating what the spider caught.
This honorificabilitudinitatibus I give to thee,
O dictionary, tome of pedantry!
Your every entry, a tintinnabulation of the brain,
To make the simple things complex again.
A dermatoglyphics of the teacup's rings,
Reveals the hidden fate of all such things.
A circumlocution when the dog just begs,
To get its treat, and on two feet it stands and sways and drags.
The metempsychosis of a lonely shoe,
That turns into a slipper, worn and new.
An autochthonous fungus on the cheese,
Suggests a heritage that puts the mind at ease.
The pulchritudinous display of dust,
Upon the windowsill, a thing of trust.
A dipsomaniacal craving for the prose,
Of books whose meaning no one ever knows.
The anachronistic wristwatch on the mime,
Disturbs the silent pantomime of time.
This eleemosynary spirit in my soul,
Bestows on words the chance to make me whole.
For in this tome, these incunabula of thought,
Is meaning that can never be un-sought.
My peripatetic mind, it wanders free,
Among the words that were designed for thee.
A hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia now holds sway,
As sixty-six bright candles must adorn my cake today.
A trichotillomania upon my tired head,
When I remember that my wallet was left on the bed.
The anthropophaginians of the insect kind,
Upon the windowsill, a gruesome tableau I find.
A maschalephidrosis upon my weary brow,
From contemplating what it is I must do now.
The ichthyoacanthotoxism I now must face,
For stepping on a fishbone in this cluttered place.
A dacryocystorhinostomies will surely have to do,
To wipe away the tears that fill my morning view.
This honorificabilitudinitatibus—the state of being able to achieve honors—I bestow,
Upon the cat for sleeping in the soft and morning glow.
And my otorhinolaryngological complaint,
Is but a trifle for a soul that will not taint.
The pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism of my chair,
That mimics comfort with a hollow, empty stare.
The eellogofusciouhipoppokunurious sound it makes,
As on its springs the mighty cushion creaks and shakes.
My floccinaucinihilipilification of the dust,
Is but a testament to how I am obsessed with trust.
The archididascalian glare upon my weary face,
When contemplating what to write in this poetic space.
A paraskavedekatriaphobia now grips my soul with dread,
When the calendar on Friday, the thirteenth, I have read.
The deinolatria I reserve for my alarm clock's chime,
The fearful worship of that noise throughout the passing time.
My macrocephalous collection of antique thimbles and thread,
Upon the mantelpiece, above the fire's gentle, steady red.
I note the xanthochroi complexion of the sun-faded paint,
With no desire to paint it anew, or make a fresh complaint.
The apothegmatic wisdom from the fortune cookie, small and neat,
Is but a fragile notion, ephemeral and bittersweet.
A contumelious glance the dog provides, when I won't give him more,
The final, withering judgment, at my very kitchen door.
My honorificabilitudinitatibus from Shakespeare I will take,
To laud the simple sandwich for my hungry stomach's sake.
And that obscure lung disease with the long and dusty name,
Reminds me of the simple things that once were but a game
A psychophysicotherapeutics in the brewing tea,
To soothe the troubled mind of my anxiety.
The ultramicroscopic dust motes on the rug,
A cosmic dance in miniature for a lazy, dreaming bug.
A dacryocystocele of the faucet's gentle drip,
A swelling tear of copper upon the porcelain lip.
The epigeal sprouting of my morning's weary hair,
A testament to waking, a simple, dull affair.
A gnothi seauton of the mirror's silver gleam,
The ancient counsel whispering, in my half-waking dream.
The polychromous patterns of the oil upon the street,
Are momentary rainbows for my tired, trudging feet.
My ichthyosarcotoxin is a simple, fishy smell,
That on my ancient cutting board, I know entirely well.
The trinitrotoluenes of my exploding, tired thought,
On matters of such consequence that all has come to naught.
The callipygian beauty of a single pear,
Reflects the light and fills the afternoon with flair.
A pseudocyesis of the cooking pot’s desire,
To boil and bubble over on the kitchen fire.
The borborygmi rumbling from within the wall,
Suggests a rodent banquet, or a deeper, rumbled squall.
And a prognathous shadow from the falling evening sun,
Turns a tiny garden gnome into a fearsome one.
I feel a certain nidorosity in the scent,
Of burnt-out toast, a punishment heaven-sent.
The epigonation on the chair is but a stain,
Which serves as the insignia of a long, and messy reign.
The triskaidekaphobia of the thirteen missing spoons,
Suggests a superstition that arrives with winter moons.
A hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia I confess,
For words that twist and turn and lead to such distress.
So let the common verses sing of love and simpler things,
While the poem takes flight upon its lexical, pompous wings.
Let others use the tools that are both blunt and plain,
While the poem reigns in its philological domain.
The dyscalculia I feel for the change upon my shelf,
Suggests a larger issue with the quantification of myself.
A kymograph of emotions traces in my coffee's steam,
The turbulent and fleeting nature of a waking, tired dream.
I trace a chrysopoetic formula in the dust and grime,
The simple transmutation of my boredom into time.
A pseudodoxia epidemica of the shadows on the floor,
That convinces me the curtains hide a creature at the door.
The onychogryphosis of the cat's untrimmed and mighty claw,
Creates a sense of order, a terrifying, petty law.
A panopticon surveillance that the teapot now provides,
Watching all my movements, where a single person hides.
The logomachy between the pen and the unblemished page,
A fruitless, lengthy struggle to resolve my inner rage.
The ultracrepidarian advice the internet imparts,
On things it doesn't understand, and all the fragile arts.
Here is a poem based on the query:
So let the critics ponder on the meaning of these rhymes,
And the obscurest, deepest purpose in these fabricated times.
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