I hear the winter call my name
in syllables bereft of breeze,
ethereal through silent trees
hypnotic in their leafless maim.
In sheerest blue of morning freeze
the shadows drape from rimy limbs
while through my head a matin swims
that beckons past the boundaries
of culture's polished monotone.
I'd ramble the denuded scape
past hoary waters' icebound gape,
to arcane winds my caution thrown.
Across the dawning's lambent sill
the winter calls. I hear it still.
Categories:
rimy, longing, nature, winter,
Form: Sonnet
When the bending sickle of a silver moon,
Floats with the fleeting moth too soon;
Then let us strum the golden lyre,
With poesy for flames of fire.
Let not the dreadful words of doom,
Fade away the roses bloom;
But pass through sun and candlelight,
To shine on day and the night.
A head that's crowned with rimy frost,
Has found a soul that is lost;
And looking at eternity,
We have two eyes that cannot see.
But as the reaper comes to reap,
Closing eyes in eternal sleep;
To forgive a troubled mind,
Then know that death is always kind.
Categories:
rimy, inspirational
Form: Lyric
When the bending sickle of a silver moon,
Floats with the fleeting moth too soon;
Then let us strum the golden lyre,
With poesy for flames of fire.
Let not the dreadful words of doom,
Fade away the rose's bloom;
But pass thro sun and candle light,
To shine on day and the night.
A head that’s crowned with rimy frost,
Has found a soul that is lost;
And looking at eternity,
We have two eyes that cannot see.
But as the reaper comes to reap,
Closing eyes in eternal sleep,
To forgive a troubled mind,
Then know that death is always kind.
Categories:
rimy, faith
Form: Pastoral
From the rimy ruins of Abbey Carth,
the Scaramouch, did tarry march.
Bold, be he in his deeds, with voice.
Cower, he will, when given choice.
Want, is he, of a heroes ilk,
bedecked of medals, braided silk.
Bringing up the rear in battle,
he be not, a man of mettle.
Cannon fire does make him quiver,
staying hidden, he does shiver.
But, when it is, the battle ends,
in charge he was, he does pretend.
Gladly he will tell all his tales,
emboldened by a cup of ale.
How he, led men into the fray.
Encouraging them to hold, stay.
Of shots he fired, left and right.
Of his boldness, of his might.
He is a legend, in his mind.
It is there, his courage, he finds.
Categories:
rimy, history
Form: Rhyme