Pretty little peacocks
watching beautiful lies,
displayed as fantasies
on their feather’s eyes.
Let us admire our feathers
and watch our life on stage,
while our soul searches for Camelot;
our mind sees but a page.
Come now, come all,
to Camelot I go;
the dream of purity
and righteousness I shall know.
All evil I will forsake;
and never will my quest be ended-
This vow I do make:
Never cease cradling the stars,
or reaching for the hand of God.
Camelot, my dear Camelot,
the only place I will trod.
Its Virtues I embrace,
insidiously good virtues,
and hold them as my light
Lo, it banishes all the night.
And if silent death
shall capture me before
I find my Camelot
and open its door-
Then bury me
in my feather’s tears,
so I may dream of Camelot
for the rest of my years.
Posted in fairies, fantasy, Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged cloud drive, clouds, dribbles, edmund spencer, elizabethean, fiction, life, love, musings, poetry, publishing, sonnets, writing process
Poetic Genius~musical harp;
each note, each tune a word.
‘Ere the song is uttered,
a flower blossoms–
‘T Spring once more.
Patter, patter on the heart,
rain reaches fertile soil.
Grow, grow larger than piano keys;
engulf all which pain has killed;
empty churches and ghastly mine fields.
Poetic Genus~musical harp,
enrapture with your tiny tendrils.
‘Ere the first motion finished,
a gentle fawn matures–
‘Tis Summer again.
Golden wheat more abundant
than ocean’s sand.
Hear the sea, the redundant
melancholy, washing footprints
once left by a man
upon the warm unforgiving sand.
Poetic Genius~musical harp,
descend upon the fleeting ground.
‘Ere the last motion ends
a leaf falls to earth–
‘Tis Autumn once again.
Dionysus begins his fruitful reign-
producing the bittersweet fruit.
Oh tender grape;
to consume you is a sin;
Dangling from your twisted vine,
When now did you become divine?
Poetic Genius~musical harp,
persevere through winds of time.
E’er after the song has stopped,
soft snow buries the land–
‘Tis Winter forsooth.
Memories lie dormant,
dead to world is thy youth-
Forgotten is ages past.
Yet ever on will Spring return,
Keeping her harmonious voice.
Silence holds the land in sway,
but it will not last; it will not stay.
Posted in fiction, Poetry, Writing Process
Tagged clouds, dribbles, elizabethean, fiction, life, love, musings, poetry, sonnets, writing
Reaper of Hearts: A Sonnet
Come forth, Oh spineless spiteful soulless sprite.
Come forth, from high and seemly hallowed throne.
Come forth, from dank and dark and dreary night.
Come forth, Oh faithless fake and fal’cious scone.
Were you a thing of comely beauty once?
Could you have loved with passion’s truthful grace?
Could you have worn favor trimmed with flounce?
Did you not see your action’s painful face?
Now I do see right through your vile facade.
Yes, I whose heart gave I to you, my dear.
Yes, I do know your crime and do not laud-
Now I do see the truth and do not fear.
Come forth! In truth your trial begins at dawn,
and I will ne’er again remain your pawn.
Posted in Dreams, Poetry, Shakespere, Writing Process
Tagged dribbles, edmund spencer, elizabethean, false, fiction, heartbreak, life, love, meter, musings, poetry, publishing, sonnets, writing
Out of the Box
Don’t put me in the normal box,
my life just ain’t that way.
I rather sit in the rain
watching the fairies play
Don’t put me in the paradox
of a perfect house, 21/2 kids
a dog, a car, soccer lessons, career,
spouse, and hefty mortgage bill,
but no time for happiness
at the end of the day.
Don’t give me a magazine,
with super models bean-pole thin.
I rather have boobs- the real thing,
and a body I’m comfortable in.
Don’t keep me from my dreams
because they might seem a little far,
If only in a midnight pond,
I can reach the stars.
Posted in Dreams, Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged clouds, dribbles, elizabethean, fiction, life, love, musings, poetry, writing
How can the stone compare to the rose?
Does the stone possess the rose’s seemly beauty?
Does the stone draw the bee and produce it’s honey?
Does the stone bloom and drink the living rain?
Can the hard rock feel winter’s gripping pain?
Oh beauteous maiden clad in thorny dress,
You stand in solemn seasonal youthfulness.
Did you ever stand in ages past?
Can you, like steadfast stone, through storms and seasons last?
Nea, beauty ends; upon the rock, love begins.
In the mode of T.S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland,” I am writing my own epic poem. To do this I created my own meter and rhyme scheme:
For now it is titled, “alpha,” and it is very much a work in progress. I only have 2 six quatres completed. Ha, at this rate it will be a life time’s work. I not even sure I classify it as “worth fixin.”
Anyway, I often use just the first part, or the “six cube” as a type of sonnet. Here is an example:
Enter in my own world
where man does not exist;
Enter in my own land
where goodness doesn’t resist.
Ye, by my very hand,
a tale I will unfold:
A tale of future time
heard only in the hearts
of the future people.
Yet, every story starts
with a simple staple
in the creator’s mind.
This truth comes together
right now- in the present;
For in the now, the past
echoes a small descent
in future; it is last
and first, but neither.
Only with the present
can the future be formed.
But this future lacks man,
yet it is not forlorn;
Although there be a ban
no person can resent
A fair future story.
Instead of man roaming
throughout the whole wide Earth,
Familiar wind is moaning
about a better birth
into golden glory:
A beautiful creature
all wrapped in mystery,
empowered by heaven
now part of history.
Yet, this is engraven
in another feature.
Posted in Dreams, Poetry, Quotes, Writing Process
Tagged dribbles, edit, elizabethean, end of the world, famous quotes, life, love, meter, musings, poetry, publishing, revising, rhyme scheme, sonnets, writing, writing process