Poetry

[Thistle]

(Three short, light hearted poems.)

Jack Sprat could eat no fat
His wife could eat no lean
And so between the both of them
They licked the plater clean

I've never seen a purple cow
I never hope to see one
But I can tell you here and now
I'd rather see than be one.

I saw the duck upon a lake.
His grace could not be beat
And yet I knew beneath the drake
There worked his frenzied feat.

(I always think of this when I think that others have perfect lives.)

[The_Logic_Ninja]

Here's one of my latest, where I try a modern style on (meaning condensed in imagery and metaphor, as opposed to the long-windedness of epic verse).

Ophelia: a Dirge

Unbeloved, you have given me strange flowers:
Swamp lilies, tangled foxglove, water hyacinths;
dark irises in your white eyes, your hair
a bouquet from a flooded garden,
and out of season. You smile,
your hair wet, face pale, mouth still--and I, there:
head bowed; arms full of you;
unspeaking.

[CatCameBack]

One that struck me while in school, proof that no matter what the teachers/professors try do do about it - some works will stick in our minds as interesting:

"We Real Cool"
by Gwendolyn Brooks

THE POOL PLAYERS.
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

[Mr Croup]

Here are a couple of my favorite poems.

Paris

never
even in calmer times
have I ever
dreamed of
bicycling through that
city
wearing a
beret

and
Camus
always
pissed
me
off.

-Charles Bukowski

A Study of Reading Habits

When getting my nose in a book
Cured most things short of school,
It was worth ruining my eyes
To know I could still keep cool,
And deal out the old right hook
To dirty dogs twice my size.

Later, with inch-thick specs,
Evil was just my lark:
Me and my coat and fangs
Had ripping times in the dark.
The women I clubbed with sex!
I broke them up like meringues.

Don't read much now: the dude
Who lets the girl down before
The hero arrives, the chap
Who's yellow and keeps the store
Seem far too familiar. Get stewed:
Books are a load of crap.

- Philip Larkin

[Amotis]

Here's one of my latest, where I try a modern style on (meaning condensed in imagery and metaphor, as opposed to the long-windedness of epic verse).

Ophelia: a Dirge

Unbeloved, you have given me strange flowers:
Swamp lilies, tangled foxglove, water hyacinths;
dark irises in your white eyes, your hair
a bouquet from a flooded garden,
and out of season. You smile,
your hair wet, face pale, mouth still--and I, there:
head bowed; arms full of you;
unspeaking.

I like this one a lot. Very nice.

[Rach]

Here's some Emily Dickinson:

"1129"
Tell all the truth but tell it slant-
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind-

[The_Logic_Ninja]

I like this one a lot. Very nice.

Thankee. :) Here's another.



Her mouth tastes of nicotine,
her nervous habit,
and the cherry of her lipstick,
still the same.
She comes to me, sometimes,
an old flame, and I do not
deny her; I once burned for her,
and when she comes
bringing the taste of ashes, my heart
occasionally
still hammers in my chest, to match
the pounding in her head.
I soothe it, gently, with
soft fingers and
softer kisses,
and her eyes shut, drowning the world
out. Only then, in
a kind of darkness,
does she undress, folding her clothes
into a neat stack.
The bed creaks and the sound
grates, but she lies down beside me,
her hands on my chest,
and mine rising to meet
her breasts, round,
and heavy with sorrow
as they never were before.
We move amidst our ashes,
our sharp gasps hot, like
embers, and if she weeps, or if
I do, then we won’t mention it,
and it won’t mean anything, like
exhaled smoke in the wind—
Like it never happened..

[Vaynor]

Noticed this thread, and thought I'd post something here...

Night, by me. (:D)

A whispering wind,
A cloudy cover,
Over the sky,
The moon is shining,
Up in the sky.
The stars twinkle,
In the midnight light,
The sky is all alight.
The moon above,
The ground below,
Darkness, everywhere,
Standing outside,
The wind, blowing through
Your moonlit hair.
Everyone is dreaming,
'Cept for me and you,
The night is full of wonders,
And one of them,
One of them is you.
I can't help but smile,
In the brisk night air,
And your pretty face,
So wonderful, so fair.
I look above me,
The wonders I see,
Are nothing compared,
To you and me.

[awalton87]

Poetry is my not-so-secret obsession. I love to write and read it, as well as critique, talk about, and look at it xD

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas

[BelkarsDagger]

Heres a sloppily written Haiku that I did a year back... note how it doesnt fit in with the sylables.

At the amusement park
Roller coaster is fast
people throw up

[waspsmakejam]

What a great thread.

Here's two of my very favourte, by the wonderful Charles Causley.



Innocent's Song

Who's that knocking on the window,
Who's that standing at the door,
What are all those presents
Laying on the kitchen floor?

Who is the smiling stranger
With hair as white as gin,
What is he doing with the children
And who could have let him in?

Why has he rubies on his fingers,
A cold, cold crown on his head,
Why, when he caws his carol,
Does the salty snow run red?

Why does he ferry my fireside
As a spider on a thread,
His fingers made of fuses
And his tongue of gingerbread?

Why does the world before him
Melt in a million suns,
Why do his yellow, yearning eyes
Burn like saffron buns?

Watch where he comes walking
Out of the Christmas flame,
Dancing, double-talking:

Herod is his name.





What Has Happened To Lulu?

What has happened to Lulu, mother?
What has happened to Lu?
There's nothing in her bed but an old rag-doll
And by its side a shoe.

Why is her window wide, mother,
The curtain flapping free,
And only a circle on the dusty shelf
Where her money-box used to be?

Why do you turn your head, mother,
And why do tear drops fall?
And why do you crumple that note on the fire
And say it is nothing at all?

I woke to voices late last night,
I heard an engine roar.
Why do you tell me the things I heard
Were a dream and nothing more?

I heard somebody cry, mother,
In anger or in pain,
But now I ask you why, mother,
You say it was a gust of rain.

Why do you wander about as though
You don't know what to do?
What has happened to Lulu, mother?
What has happened to Lu?

[The_Logic_Ninja]

You know, I keep meaning to write a response villainelle to Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, but never do...

[Spuddly]

That poem reminded me of this one, by Iron & Wine:

Cinder and Smoke
Give me your hand
The dog in the garden row is covered in mud
And dragging your mother’s clothes
Cinder and smoke
The snake in the basement
Found the juniper shade
The farmhouse is burning down

Give me your hand
And take what you will tonight, I'll give it as fast
And high as the flame will rise
Cinder and smoke
Some whispers around the trees
The juniper bends
As if you were listening

Give me your hand
Your mother is drunk as all the firemen shake A photo from father’s arms
Cinder and smoke
You’ll ask me to pray for rain
With ash in your mouth
You’ll ask it to burn again

[Arian]

I've never seen a purple cow
I never hope to see one
But I can tell you here and now
I'd rather see than be one.

by Gelett Burgess.

Also by Gelett Burgess:

Ah, Yes! I wrote "The Purple Cow".
I'm sorry, now, I wrote it.
But I can tell you anyhow,
I'll kill you if you quote it.

[Vaynor]

Heres a sloppily written Haiku that I did a year back... note how it doesnt fit in with the sylables.

At the amusement park
Roller coaster is fast
people throw up

The Orange Zergling,
Made a not so great haiku,
So I quoted it.

(EDIT: Not saying it's bad, it's just... not a haiku... :P)

;)

[Ego Slayer]

The Orange Zergling,
Made a not so great haiku,
So I quoted it.

That's just too good. ;D

[Vaynor]

That's just too good. ;D

*bows* Thank you. ;)

EDIT: Here's some more...

A Day to Remember, by Me.

As I hold your head
In my wilting arms,
I begin to cry,
And I wonder why,
You have left me sitting here,
Without a single hope,
I fall apart,
I mope.
Why did you leave me,
Oh, so very soon?
I cannot begin to wonder,
Why I lost you so soon,
You barely lived,
You life, shot down.
The better years,
You spent with us,
They are so few,
The better years,
I spent with you.
I leave you now,
Your cheeks are pale,
Your grip is cold,
Your heart, still.
Years from now,
When I cannot remember,
The way you smiled,
I'll still remember that day,
The day you left us, cold and stiff,
I'll miss you... forever...

(not linked to personal experience)

[ArchaeoAmazon]

Here's my favorite. I don't recall who the author was, but it's an SCA campfire recitation inspired by a true story about a guy who fell in love with a girl at the Pennsic War that he never got to speak to. When he finally did get to meet her properly a year later, she was already married, but she gave him a lock of her hair to remember her by.

The Valkyrie

Alone by the fire a warrior I knew
Told me this tale and I pray it is true.

From far Ansteiorra our dragonships came
To fight for good Halidar on Lillied plain.
My sword I had lent seeking honor and fame,
Or Odinn's great hall in the frey.
We charged into battle the sun bearing high,
Our battle cry sounding a victory nigh.
Our spears crossed their arrows like hawks in the sky,
Leaving many men dead on the way.
Sing me no songs of your angels, I pray,
For a Valkyrie found me in battle that day.

The battle grew long and the sun was like fire,
The heat burning down like a funeral pyre.
Though many I'd slain, soon my blood-lust did tire,
Struck down in the heat of the day.
The battle moved onward from where I was laid,
I drew off my helmet to rest in the shade,
When a soft even tred like the wind in a glade
Brought a Daughter of Asgard my way.
Sing me no songs of your angels, I pray,
For a Valkyrie found me in battle that day.

She gave me cool drink till my wits came again.
Before I could speak she was gone like the wind.
Had I but died, I could follow her then
But I lay with the living that day.
Long I have searched, a full year I have mourned
And told all my brothers this love I have borne.
But she is of Asgard and I of this shore,
So here with my brothers I stay.
Sing me no songs of your angels, I pray,
For a Valkyrie found me in battle that day.

True to this dream like the tale I have told,
Close to my heart a small pouch I still hold.
And in it a lock of her hair, pure as gold.
This I carry to battle this day.

Alone by the fire a warrior I knew,
Told me this tale and pray it is true.

[awalton87]

Here's one by yours truly,

The Beautiful

The Beautiful of bees that sting
only pollinates the Spring.

And the sounds that beg to listen -
from waxing toil, holes that glisten.

Sweets that you and I ne'er trample,
Only stinging bees dare sample

Truth in nature, always twisted.
Victims - unforgiving - miss it,

(the sting).

[Arian]

The best of my very limited and uninspired ventures into poetry - written for a friend, not about myself :) -

res amarissima

Not
a chance that he
who holds my heart
will ever know, or care:

I
cry against
the silence that
must soon become my share.

We
might have been,
he might have seen,
if they had not been 'we',

But
'love is blind',
and I, to hide,
thank God or Fate I'm free.

[The Vorpal Tribble]

My favorite poem and the source of my signature:

ODE
Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy

We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamer of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties,
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.

A breath of our inspiration,
Is the life of each generation.
A wondrous thing of our dreaming,
Unearthly, impossible seeming-
The soldier, the king, and the peasant
Are working together in one,
Till our dream shall become their present,
And their work in the world be done.

They had no vision amazing
Of the goodly house they are raising.
They had no divine foreshowing
Of the land to which they are going:
But on one man's soul it hath broke,
A light that doth not depart
And his look, or a word he hath spoken,
Wrought flame in another man's heart.

And therefore today is thrilling,
With a past day's late fulfilling.
And the multitudes are enlisted
In the faith that their fathers resisted,
And, scorning the dream of tomorrow,
Are bringing to pass, as they may,
In the world, for it's joy or it's sorrow,
The dream that was scorned yesterday.

But we, with our dreaming and singing,
Ceaseless and sorrowless we!
The glory about us clinging
Of the glorious futures we see,
Our souls with high music ringing;
O men! It must ever be
That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing,
A little apart from ye.

For we are afar with the dawning
And the suns that are not yet high,
And out of the infinite morning
Intrepid you hear us cry-
How, spite of your human scorning,
Once more God's future draws nigh,
And already goes forth the warning
That ye of the past must die.

Great hail! we cry to the corners
From the dazzling unknown shore;
Bring us hither your sun and your summers,
And renew our world as of yore;
You shall teach us your song's new numbers,
And things that we dreamt not before;
Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers,
And a singer who sings no more.

[The Vorpal Tribble]

And here is a poem I wrote for one of my favorite characters in an old MUD of mine for a bardic contest. To put it in D&D terms he was basically a catfolk druid who'd survived most of his childhood alone in the wilds.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The Shadow of the Woods

Before mind pictures of darkness. Darkness with moss.
Where did I come from? I am deeply at loss.
Moss and needles of pine and the leaves of the oak..
I have mind pictures of the sky, of how the wind spoke.

Forest... jungle... wood?
I learned these mouth noises later when I could.
So inadequate these words, of the home of my kin
Better knew the robin's call, the song of the wren

And even more knowing was the owl and the bat
As were the gliding moth and the hungering rat.
Who could sense the forest without the great Gleam
For my after-dusk brothers were it's after-dusk dream.

Born into darkness, life at a nocturnal pace
Of this I am, of this star lighted place
Their pinpoints shown down through the canopy gloom
Under the glow of the great shining white moon

The forest, it protected, provided a home
It fed us, it sheltered, grown up from the loam.
The twisted trunks were the pillars of our living house
From the mightiest bear to the lowliest louse.

Of this I accepted, knowing nothing else more
The trees and the lakes and their lichen green shore
This was the center of my universe, the limit of all
Little did I know that my knowledge was small

One dusk I looked to the bank of an orange glowing lake
There I saw something like me, there must be a mistake
It raised it's furry maned head and blinked in surprise
It rose up, but stopped upon seeing the wary look in my eyes

To shorten my story I merely will say
That I met my friend and mentor that day
I learned much of the world and was never the same
But I am still one with the forest, and I'm certainly not tame...

[Durin_Deathless]

I would like to know who wrote this i cant find out and it didnt say where i got it.


Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow
domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the
dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought
and action--
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

[The Vorpal Tribble]

I would like to know who wrote this i cant find out and it didnt say where i got it.


Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow
domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the
dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought
and action--
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

According to my Googling it appears to be written by Rabindranath Tagore.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabindranath_Tagore

[LadyGlutter]

Ooooooh, a poetry thread! Yes!! i love the new set up of these boards!

One of my absolute favorites.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
T. S. Eliot

S`io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it? ''
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening.
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains.
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys.
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me.
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?'' and, "Do I dare?''
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!'']
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!'']
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep. . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: `` I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all''--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.''

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow, or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.''
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.


I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

[Herbert_West]

One of my favorite poems is the Fungi from Yuggoth. This is one of the segments.
XIII. Hesperia

The winter sunset, flaming beyond spires
And chimneys half-detached from this dull sphere,
Opens great gates to some forgotten year
Of elder splendours and divine desires.
Expectant wonders burn in those rich fires,
Adventure-fraught, and not untinged with fear;
A row of sphinxes where the way leads clear
Toward walls and turrets quivering to far lyres.

It is the land where beauty's meaning flowers;
Where every unplaced memory has a source;
Where the great river Time begins its course
Down the vast void in starlit streams of hours.
Dreams bring us close - but ancient lore repeats
That human tread has never soiled these streets.

[awalton87]

So many classics, and so many new ones.

Prufrock is lovely, kind of a bittersweet reading of an old man. I love it, and the Ode, and *goes bazonkers* I <3 dem all :B

[ZombieRockStar]

Ooh! Poetry, my secret love.
I really like that T.S. Eliot poem just a few posts above me. Another of his that I like is "The Hollow Men," which is depressing as Hell but still amazing.

The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot

Misha Kurtz - he dead.

A penny for the old guy.

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

[Caillach]

I write silly things.
Such as this, which I wrote in grade 8(ish):

The Puddle-Icky

I took a walk outside today,
I thought it’d be nice to get away.
I didn’t know the mistake I was making.
Hadn’t a clue ‘bout the risk I was taken.
Because as soon as I walked out that door,
my troubles multiplied by four.

Heed my warning and advice,
a walk in spring is never nice.
Because around this time of year
a creature comes that all should fear.
This dreaded beast of goop so sticky,
is known as the foul puddle-icky.

It drags you into jaws so great,
sending kids to their disgusting fate.
I met the puddle-icky that fateful day,
and since then my cloths have been stained all gray.

It started out as a normal walk.
Just a stroll around the block.
But I found something was blocking my way,
a pond of mud and leaves all brown and gray.

I stared at it for a little while.
At the gloop and guck smelly and vile.
For some reason it seemed to be a good place to play.
To splash and jump and spend the day.
But just as I jumped into the guck,
I found my rain boots had been stuck,

I looked down in alarm
to see the puddle had grown an arm!
I had walked into a monsters trap!
And would soon be eaten in a snap!
If I didn’t get unstuck
I would be the lunch of the guck.

So I abandoned my boots and, in dismay
I jumped out of the puddle to run away.
But the puddle-icky grabbed my leg,
and into the muckiness I was dragged.

As I was about to give in to the ick,
I reached out and grabbed a stick
And in what was nearly my final act
I beat of the vile puddles attack.

I jumped up and sprinted away.
Towards the door that would save the day.
I ran right in and slammed the door,
hoping that the puddle was no more.

But my troubles weren’t over yet.
On this you could surely bet.
For I happened to run into no one other
than my mud hating mother.

She stared at me and screamed in dismay,
“ How on earth did you get this way?”
I tried to tell her that it was the puddle-icky,
that had gotten me so muddy and sticky.

But she ignored me and I felt her wrath
when she stated, “ Get in the bath.”
So here I am in the midst of the bubbles,
scrubbing away my muddy troubles.

I will tell you one more time.
If you see a puddle of muck and grime.
And if it looks like fine place to play,
and laugh your cares and troubles away.
Go no further towards mud so sticky,
or face the danger of the puddle-icky.

[Beleriphon]

Horace Book I Ode XXXIV

Quintus Horatius Flaccus
Parcus deorum cultor et infrequens,
Insanientis dum sapientiae
Consultus erro, nunc retrorsum
Vela dare atque iterare cursus

Cogor relictos: namque Diespiter,
Igni corusco nubila dividens
Plerumque, per purum tonantes
Egit equos volucremque currum;

Quo bruta tellus et vaga flumina,
Quo Styx et invisi horrida Taenari
Sedes Atlanteusque finis
Concutitur. Valet ima summis

Mutare et insignem attenuat deus,
Obscura promens; hinc apicem rapax
Fortuna *** stridore acuto
Sustulit, hic posuisse gaudet.