Soft flurry of snow, blown south to the sea,
brisk breath of Boreas breaks summer's stupe.
What strange, phantom dream here stands before me,
freezing river's course till it runs a loop?
How rapid the advance of blue-white ice-
crystallizing in my veins - no remorse!
Breath seizes at her sight - I drop the dice.
This cold snap - nothing better; nothing worse.
What right could I have - mad man of the marsh -
to harbor hope from latitudes higher?
Unseemly, uncouth, unwittingly harsh -
My spirit flickers as I watch her spire.
Yet, how could one complain, in summer's realm?
Such gift to see ice angels overwhelm ...
21 July 2023
Punkination
Do we forget that words an rhyme,
Is poetry’s other dopey climb,
Insanity and sordid mime,
Are maybe still in fashion.
The words do flow,
just mental go,
Unbridled by the spelling,
Punctuation doesn’t have to know,
The trivial line I’m dwelling.
Spell checker of the soup,
disagrees with me,
perhaps I have the,
English stoop, stupe,
Like tire or tyre for thee .
Don Johnson 11-jul-11
Verse should be judged on its meaning and flow,
Not by punctuation , or spelling ya no (olde English was badly spelled too)
There once was a man from Nantucket,
Guess I better toss this in a bucket
Can't rhyme that you stupe,
Not here on the Soup
I think that I best up and chuck it
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