I kindle a candle at every bend
as years of life I routinely spend.
It is in the haze of one such light
that I step as a man this passing night
with a vision fresh and emboldened.
The sands have trickled through
the hour-glass and new
perspective holds yonder
a promise befogged but true
in the endless fields of future
A clinquant brightness shines ahead
should I sing a dirge for the dead
years? Or rejoice for the lucre in the offing
and a mellifluous chanson I will sing
A lot I leave and more I seek
but its a tale of perfidy, and bleak
nature; to think of my loss and gain
and of the happy and youthful rain
that inspires noble thoughts within
as also the same nostalgic gloaming
that thaws my heart and stirs a pain
of soft-bedded dreams so lucent
that destiny has so cruelly hent
but then, I dream again!
Thus I leap forward, toward light
and what’s left behind, I never might
turn to gather, but in my doting hours
under a starlit, pensive night
wonder at those bygone stars.
They tried to tease her ears
as she lay there hoken barted
She'd been told a lack of pies
And she was in a pot of lain
So she came up with a plaster man
to get levenge on her rover
She put some tugar in his sank
And then hent wome and shook a tower
Next morning he bowed up at her shore
But she was freddy for a right
She took a prying fan
And gave him a blushing crow
He went home with a hump upon his lead
Shook a tower and bent to wed
----
For the Spoonerisms contest
I
Arose a rainbow from relinquis'd fiend,
And shines the scarlet where dyes erased,
Storms the tempest here as it was its grind:
Thus hidden is, no scour at which will rais'd.
II
And in vain I'll ask which pain I'll lose,
in the silent valley of ceased mourn,
where are the sorrows all one froze
and side the shadows a single urn.
III
Burns an hermit sun the geason land,
Through a nocturne hem of flame:
worns the holy heaven low in sand,
while the fatal course to pathless frame. ?
IV
Are you my vestiges enclos'd? I lorn;
while o'er the farewell sunrises hance;
and they are being bend'd in a turn:
it stares at those, whose eye is stance.
V
Ancient the faith, the offerings and lare,
Eternal slaves are them, a grave's realm;
The burial is the comet, and Death a star;
And clear the prophets sing a gaudy salm.
VI
Is blessed Soul, for life in strides is spent;
Elect thy road, man!, as you could not-
Thou never ride the course or hent;
But ever thou will shed thy root.
Hent my heart from wandering concepts of affection.
Recant the murmurs of insecurity that riddled my temple.
Like a slow wound toy awaiting release from a child's grasp and attention.
Toss and birl, whipsawed into the oblivion of life's gamble.
Take away this wretched knife in my side.
A knife that twist with every incantation.
Those bastards! Jackanapes! Stirring in the tides.
Exordium! When I appear to disappear. Insouciance!
This tires me into a gaumless breathing, beating whole.
Furl all I can, these product of fallibility and madcap.
As I breathe deep into a bibelot diamond. The centre of my soul,
I feel the urge to plotz from reminders and blankets.
As I indite a subtle line of assurance. I contrived.
Culling into materials and conversations. I quelled.
Forgoing this disposition. Finally, Peace has arrived.
Retribution in it full essence. Salient though dishevelled.
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