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Verse Collections

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  • A_Non_Ymous
    • Jul 2004
    • 2659

    Verse Collections

    This is the first edition of the verses contributed to the Poetry section
    in MWM.

    An MWM Verse Collection


    When people say, 'I've told you fifty times,
    They mean to scold, and very often do;
    When poets say, 'I've written fifty rhymes,'
    They make you dread that they'll recite them too;

    Don Juan, Canto I, CVIII


    Tear him for his bad verses, tear him for his bad

    Julius Caesar, III, 3, v 30


    Crappy Poem (or A Poem About Crap.), by Grey Mouser

    To some it seems we're living in an age
    Of moral accidie and ethic shame;
    Perhaps, to others, some post-modern game,
    A masquerade upon a gilded stage.

    What verdict then when time turns back the page?
    Will future judgement seek to portion blame?
    What most our children?s children will inflame
    If grandsire freedoms fashion them a cage?

    Shall we allow the motif of our time
    To be the waste from industries' increase,
    The junk which soon must clutter every street,
    The effluence which taints our worldly clime?
    Or shall we strive to bring a swift surcease
    To all this waste before our chances fleet?

    The Poet's Dilema, by Grey Mouser

    Now, should 'decrepitude' be simply 'age';
    And is 'ignominy' more apt than 'shame'?
    Should 'mettlesome' be chosen over 'game';
    And would 'proscenium' outrival 'stage'?

    Does 'folio' look down on humble 'page';
    'Incriminate' exceed its brother 'blame';
    Or 'conflagrate' outshine perhaps 'inflame';
    'Incarcerate' improve upon mere 'cage'?

    And does 'the fourth dimension' transcend 'time'?
    'Intensify' improve upon 'increase'?
    Would 'thoroughfare' too fancy be for 'street';
    'Environment' be better fashioned 'clime'?
    'Cessation' might indeed surpass 'surcease',
    But 'naval forces' surely should be 'fleet'!

    In the God-forgotten torrents of this age, by Mikey_C

    In the God-forgotten torrents of this age
    No sin is as unfashionable as shame;
    Morality's an old, exhausted game
    As we writhe naked on the public stage,
    Our lusts spread out across the sprawling page.
    There is no cause or basis now for blame;
    We have a solemn duty to inflame
    Those passions once cramped in their hidden cage.
    Old libertines have waited for this time;
    Their sybaritic credo seeks increase,
    Exhorting us to 'do it in the street',
    With no respect for polity or clime.
    But can this sea just rise without surcease
    And all be swept away by tides so fleet?

    Her hand wrinkled by the trappings of age, by HawkLord

    Her hand wrinkled by the trappings of age,
    She cries for all the hidden shame
    That she acquired playing her foolish game.
    Now she will leave her stage,
    Try to turn a new page
    And at last she will take the blame.
    What more could she do, she would only inflame
    The ones she held in her emotional cage.

    How long will she continue to waste her time,
    While day by day her enemies increase.
    She's lost her way, doesn't know what street
    This is, she's seeking a different clime.
    She cries, calling faintly for surcease.
    But inside she knows the end will be fleet.

    The Whining of Gerontius, آ© 2004 by LSN

    Recaptured past? It brings regrets of age,
    Tableaux comprised of dormant angst and shame:
    Inconsequential as some puerile game,
    Or just dismissed as long surmounted stage.
    Amnesia's facile. Time to turn the page
    And not to seek receptacle for blame.
    Old conflict or injustice can inflame
    Or prison equipoise in passion's cage.

    There're better ways to spend one's meagre time.
    So gauche to dig up matters that increase
    The traffic on that psychic two-way street.
    Inter, forget, go seek more pleasant clime;
    A change of place and mood can bring surcease
    And hope the river passage shall be fleet.

    All Together in the Altogether, آ© 2004 by LSN

    The time has come for every sex and age
    To put to death our heritage of shame.
    Our earthly sojourn's nothing but a game,
    A ribald farce to play out on a stage.
    Our lines we write at random on the page
    Of life, and let our betters take the blame
    When honest revels thwarted lusts inflame
    And shock their puny demons in their cage.

    Come, show your disregard for space and time,
    And let your love of anarchy increase.
    Our nakedness we'll flaunt upon the street.
    Hot flesh and blood will conquer frigid clime.
    Of lifeless rules our spite will give surcease.
    The laws apply to laggards, not the fleet.
  • A_Non_Ymous
    • Jul 2004
    • 2659

    Second Edition: Elizabethan Sonnets

    This is the harvest of our second round of versifying. Contributions from
    Mikey_C, Grey Mouser, Kommando, HawkLord, and LSN.


    Self Pitying Sonnet, by Grey Mouser

    My frantic bid to forge a feisty tale
    Within the bounds that rigid rhymes impose,
    In spite of twisting terms, cannot but fail
    When form and metre my intents oppose. :?

    I am too mediocre to redeem
    This fading sonnet's form. It is no loss,
    And maybe even wins you some esteem,
    When fast my effort in the trash you toss.

    Whilst some with vast vocabulary rain
    A thousand rhymes, appropriate and vernal,
    My verses cause the reader verbal pain,
    (I swear I had to look up sempiternal). 8O

    Sadly for me there's nothing here to show
    Except my feeble sonnets final throe. :roll:

    Lugubrious Meditation on Pointless Asphyxiation, آ© 2004 by LSN

    How long will mortals hawk a bogus tale
    And myth upon reality impose,
    Lamenting when their futile efforts fail
    To silence all who foolishness oppose?

    Gross ignorance some savant may redeem,
    Dispensing truth to ward off future loss
    Of dignity and precious self-esteem
    To nature's whim or billow's deadly toss.

    But nought can save a fool who lets the rain
    Run up his nose on wintry days and vernal.
    To watch him drown full-knowing gives one pain
    That weighs the soul with sorrow sempiternal.

    Humanity doth put on quite a show,
    Inspiring mind's disgust and belly's throe.

    The Wicked Judge, by Mikey_C

    It is an old and oft-repeated tale
    That those who seek their standards to impose,
    Sat in the seat of judgement, often fail,
    And practise the same sins they would oppose.

    So if your rebel soul you would redeem,
    Remember now, Hell's gain is Heaven's loss;
    Although you hold the law in high esteem,
    Satan's grabbed your coin and calls the toss.

    Now that age has left you stranded in the rain,
    In winter's night cut off from pleasures vernal,
    Hypocrisy won't ease your earthly pain
    Or lead you forth to pastures sempiternal.

    Repentant? It's forgiveness you must show
    If you'd prepare your heart for death's last throe.

    Future, by HawkLord

    We sit by the fire telling that ancient tale
    Of the foolish ones who dared to impose
    Their arrogant rules on the multiverse and not fail.
    But it was a mighty power they dared to oppose.

    Now we must find a way to redeem
    Ourselves and to cut our loss,
    But our race will never regain our proud esteem.
    Who knows, perhaps it was but the luck of the toss.

    There is nowhere we can come in from the rain
    And escape from this horrible vernal
    Rhythm, escape from the inherited pain.
    Their mistakes will haunt us sempiternal

    And though our troubles we shall never show
    Our life is but one eternal death throe.

    Why am I doing this?, by Kommando

    I would like to try and tell a tale,
    but I have no desire to impose.
    I'm a trifle worried that should I fail
    you might say words I would oppose.

    I really would like to redeem
    my dignity, for I feel its loss.
    But I fear I have no self esteem,
    so in the towel I toss.

    It would be nice if it would rain,
    to make my environment vernal.
    It would thus help me forget my pain,
    which pangs my heart sempiternal.

    I think now you'll be glad that I show,
    my sonnet is now in its final throe.

    Crazy as a Clockwork Orange, آ© 2004 by LSN

    "A vipers' knot! You think I tell a tale?"
    The senex's croak is that which might impose
    On pious patience -- ours as well. To fail
    Is small surprise: the senses do oppose!

    "Jeremiads? Critique cannot redeem
    Your dignitas, nor doubtful honor's loss.
    You chose this course through bloated self-esteem.
    Now blame and curses are what's left to toss!"

    "To hell with that," we chide the man, and rain
    Rough blows on snowy head. The evening's vernal,
    We're minded to dispense the fear and pain.
    Some ultraviolence? Or torture sempiternal?

    We laughed then at the senex's screechy show,
    His reek, his words, his cries an added throe.


    • Doc
      Eternal Champion
      • Jan 2004
      • 3630

      Bravo! More!

      From the non-poet.


      • A_Non_Ymous
        • Jul 2004
        • 2659

        Originally posted by Doc
        Bravo! More!

        From the non-poet.
        From one non-poet to another, I haven't given up on getting you to
        participate at some of the verse games in the future. Perhaps at the
        end of the semester...



        • A_Non_Ymous
          • Jul 2004
          • 2659

          Were I an editor with a monetary budget (rather than a fund
          of applause ), I'd commission verses from several
          members of this community, not just Doc.

          I have reason to doubt I could get any of them to contribute
          without a genuine bribe. :lol:

          My short list of desired contributors, in no particular order:

          Cypher, Dee, Doc, Bob, Etive, L'Etranger, PWV, Bill, Jagged, Jerico,
          Adlerian, Perdix, AndroMan. Probably others, if I did a scan of
          the members of MWM.

          The current participants (HawkLord, the Mouser, Mikey_C, and
          Kommando) are already on the list. There's no escape, guys!
          They're expected to contribute, when they can.

          If we had 14 participants, and planned, say, a sonnet, each participant
          would contribute a single end-rhyme. With more contributors, we'd
          just rotate the responsibility for the end-rhymes.

          I'm sure all those in the desired contributor list will find good, sound
          reasons why they won't participate. A pity.

          The largest number of participants I've ever had in this game is
          eight. My experience is, the more participants, the more fun it is.


          Originally posted by L_Stearns_Newburg
          Originally posted by Doc
          Bravo! More!

          From the non-poet.
          From one non-poet to another, I haven't given up on getting you to
          participate at some of the verse games in the future. Perhaps at the
          end of the semester...



          • Doc
            Eternal Champion
            • Jan 2004
            • 3630

            Originally posted by L_Stearns_Newburg
            Originally posted by Doc
            Bravo! More!

            From the non-poet.
            From one non-poet to another, I haven't given up on getting you to
            participate at some of the verse games in the future. Perhaps at the
            end of the semester...

            Be careful. I may threaten to participate soon. :D


            • A_Non_Ymous
              • Jul 2004
              • 2659

              What have we to fear, sir? That you'll show the rest of us up? I must
              admit to being unconcerned by the prospect. I'm not doing this either for
              money or for show. (To echo Kleist.)

              In truth, you'd be more than welcome. Especially on the planned ballade,
              where some of the participants who shall remain nameless (hello,
              Mouser ) are having 2nd thoughts because it looks hard. I think
              those participants simply need moral support. Everyone's certainly
              capable enough.


              Originally posted by Doc
              Originally posted by L_Stearns_Newburg
              Originally posted by Doc
              Bravo! More!

              From the non-poet.
              From one non-poet to another, I haven't given up on getting you to
              participate at some of the verse games in the future. Perhaps at the
              end of the semester...

              Be careful. I may threaten to participate soon. :D


              • Grey Mouser
                Champion of the Balance
                • Dec 2003
                • 1433

                Doc it'd be great to have you on board for this if you get time to give it a shot.

                LSN I'm still in for the ballade, but cannot guarantee results. :)


                • A_Non_Ymous
                  • Jul 2004
                  • 2659

                  Originally posted by Grey Mouser
                  Doc it'd be great to have you on board for this if you get time to give it a shot.
                  I'll second that.

                  Originally posted by Grey Mouser
                  LSN I'm still in for the ballade, but cannot guarantee results. :)
                  Your presence is guarantee enough for me.



                  • A_Non_Ymous
                    • Jul 2004
                    • 2659

                    Verse Collection 3rd Edition: Ballades

                    This is the 3rd edition verse collection from the Poetry thread on MWM.
                    The theme of this collection is the ballade. The contributors were HawkLord,
                    Kommando, LSN, Grey Mouser, and Mikey_C.


                    Originally posted by Shakespeare: The Tempest
                    Gentle breath of yours my sails
                    Must fill, or else my project fails,
                    Which was to please.

                    The Acolyte, by Kommando

                    The acolyte said the orison
                    and then he began to shout.
                    As the mob encroached anon,
                    he prepared for the bout.
                    Then the crowd began to rout
                    and the acolyte did learn
                    of the demon seed which did sprout
                    and grew with twist and turn.

                    The crowd cried out in unison
                    as the growth produced a snout
                    and eyes which were blood crimson.
                    The acolyte which it began to scout
                    fell to its tenebrous knout.
                    Above in the sky the sun did burn
                    over a land ridden by drought.
                    The acolyte did twist and turn.

                    Regarding the church and its blazon
                    as the demon growth did glout.
                    No hope was seen on the horizon
                    so the crowd the acolyte did tout.
                    From the mob a woman who was stout
                    and whom the acolyte did once spurn
                    smiled and waved and he began to pout.
                    The acolyte did writhe and turn.

                    The holy man was once devout
                    but soon he began to discern
                    his demise cast his faith in doubt.
                    He did scream and twist and turn.

                    Ballade? - Not so much, by Grey Mouser

                    OK, I had to look up 'orison'
                    And couldn't find a way to work in 'shout',
                    Bear with me though, I'll be with you anon,
                    In this the third MMM rhyming bout.
                    Before my audience begins to rout
                    Remember I'm still struggling to learn,
                    Wishing that words subconsciously would sprout,
                    And inward gaze to outward matters turn.

                    And so you might declare in unison
                    'Let's punch this pesky fellow on the snout'
                    With angry features, in a haze of crimson,
                    Stride off, to other entertainment scout.
                    Scratching my head once more I look up 'knout',
                    And as the midnight oil does gently burn,
                    In scarcity of verse, a verbal drought,
                    Wish inward gaze to outward matters turn.

                    Self-referential path in verse to blazon,
                    An egotist like me can only glout;
                    Whilst inward-turned how near is the horizon
                    When one's own faults are all one has to tout'
                    Perhaps I should with resolution stout
                    The out-worn path of self-reflection spurn,
                    Abandoning the rascal's selfish pout,
                    And inward gaze to outward matters turn.

                    So, praize ars ferox with a hymn devout,
                    A saucy bagel and a shrewd discern!
                    We shall make merry with our words, no doubt!
                    My ballade is complete, at last. Your turn!

                    The Wheel Turns, by HawkLord

                    While sinners screamed their final orison,
                    From the matinee there came a shout.
                    In this city where all names are anon
                    And the citizens turn up to watch every foolish bout
                    Until the victor shall the loser rout.
                    Still they will always refuse their chance to learn
                    They never thought that hope could from the ashes sprout.
                    Fools sit back in apathy as the wheel of time makes its final turn.

                    A foul jeer is called out in perfect, snarling unison.
                    To the air the wolf does lift his snout.
                    The prophet dreams, and her dreams are all crimson
                    And in her mind she sees the signs of the first scout.
                    Riding through the snowy forest, flaying cruelly with a knout.
                    Every dwelling he passes by he takes the time to burn.
                    How long does this fair land have before scorching drought?
                    Fools sit back in apathy as the wheel of time makes its final turn.

                    The seer was scorned for the truth she tried to blazon
                    And all the Prince would do was glout.
                    So the prophet from chains viewed the horizon,
                    While salesmen tried their goods to tout,
                    Even through this humiliation the prophet stayed stout
                    Though the people did her truth spurn
                    She would never let down her guard and allow a pout.
                    Fools sit back in apathy as the wheel of time makes its final turn.

                    The monks in the temple so pious and devout
                    Never could the truth discern discern.
                    The people were by their leaders left in doubt.
                    Fools sit back in apathy as the wheel of time makes its final turn.

                    What When From Balance to Extremes We Turn?, by Grey Mouser

                    Abandoning the Balance orison,
                    The roar of lesser reason 'gins to shout,
                    To Law or Chaos we shall fall anon
                    Base puppets in their philosophic bout.
                    In such a war our higher senses rout
                    And we the ways of baser instinct learn,
                    Then savagery doth from our natures sprout.
                    This when from Balance to extremes we turn.

                    In such a state we work in unison
                    To probe the tainted air with lifted snout,
                    Corrupted minds a constant shade of crimson
                    Our oppositions hated blood to scout.
                    Respectful only of the knout,
                    With thoughts of enemies defeat we burn,
                    Un-heedful of our intellectual drought,
                    As we from Balance to extremes do turn.

                    The glories of our chosen path we blazon,
                    Whilst at the oppositions views we glout,
                    Our own objectives seem our sole horizon,
                    Our own philosophies are all we tout.
                    Our jaded views alone considered stout
                    The art of understanding all we spurn
                    Our faces set in philistine-ic pout:
                    All when from Balance to extremes we turn

                    But when with tolerance almost devout
                    We can the nature's of all men discern
                    Like facets of a single gem, no doubt,
                    Then from extremes to Balance we shall turn.

                    The Streets of Lankhmar, by Grey Mouser

                    He passed a group in whispered orison,
                    A cheated trader gives a puzzled shout,
                    He walked the streets, a traveller anon,
                    Skirted a booth and dodged a heated bout.
                    His darted sneer makes packs of urchins rout,
                    So canny, streetwise all, and quick to learn,
                    Whilst rats among the debris chew a mouldy sprout.
                    Go Mouser, through the streets of Lankhmar turn.

                    Cultists in a hidden basement wail in unison,
                    A summoned dog-thing lifts a grizzled snout,
                    It's stinking fur is rank, it's eyes are crimson,
                    As for it's victim it begins to scout,
                    Spurred on to murder by the cultists' knout.
                    Nearby, the evening lamps begin to burn,
                    Whilst, with empty wineskin, in alcoholic drought,
                    Must Mouser, through the streets of Lankhmar turn.

                    The street watch bear the Kistomerces' blazon,
                    Upon our gray-garbed traveller they glout;
                    Here twisted eaves and roofs are the horizon,
                    Hawkers and whores begin their wares to tout.
                    He purchases a weighty jug of stout,
                    And quaffing, must perforce take pains to spurn
                    A cozening coquette, who's smile becomes a pout,
                    Makes Mouser through the streets of Lankhmar turn.

                    For Fafhrd has become a friend devout
                    To Bwadres, Issek priest, sans all discern,
                    And Mouser thinks his future lies in doubt.
                    Run Mouser, through the streets of Lankhmar turn.

                    A Failed Lecher's Ballade, آ© 2004 by LSN

                    I thought you the answer to some orison.
                    Your mind and flesh made my tired body shout.
                    Such grace has cheered us ever and anon,
                    When nought else could save us from dolor's bout.
                    The sorrows of life were soon put to rout
                    By lessons beauteous you bid us to learn.
                    An acorn's an oak sans impulse to sprout.
                    All Reason's Slaves render Bacchus his turn.

                    Hades and Zeus cried aloud in unison,
                    Yet you showed your disdain with upturned snout.
                    'Gainst me your sins glowed brightly as crimson
                    Each wound you dealt served the next one as scout.
                    My back could not bleed from a steel wire knout,
                    Like my soul caught in your clutches did burn.
                    A flood seems not bad to those suff'ring dought.
                    All Reason's Slaves render Bacchus his turn.

                    The truth burst o'erhead in a bright blazon.
                    My misconceptions I started to glout.
                    You were the blind one with dim horizon.
                    'Twas you stuck, obstructing good judgement's tout.
                    The nimble and bright left you dark and stout.
                    The goodness of others you mocked and spurned.
                    An empty mind hides 'neath a peevish pout.
                    All Reason's Slaves render Bacchus his turn.

                    A wineshop's a port for life's new devout.
                    Three cups will give one a chance to discern
                    The truths that dodge us and hide behind doubt.
                    All Reason's Slaves render Bacchus his turn.

                    L'Homme Rأ©voltأ©, آ© 2004 by LSN

                    The gloom and stillness and pious orison
                    (Mild susurration irks more than a shout)
                    That wash the nave and 'prison thought: Anon,
                    He thinks, the chains come off; this priestly bout
                    Will end, and church put to ungodly rout!
                    He's glad it's over; there was much to learn.
                    (It's said that power can from knowledge sprout.)
                    Benighted Faith awaits its final turn.

                    He clubbed two monks chanting in unison
                    And bashed the abbot on his wolfish snout.
                    Silk damask curtains, red, or perhaps crimson,
                    Ripped from the grate could bind and gag the scout.
                    Then damn! Cut to the bone by pater's knout,
                    And pain incensأ¨d, pulled his gun to burn
                    Down this victim of spiritual drought.
                    Benighted Faith awaits its final turn.

                    The brethren at the door are merest blazon;
                    Stern resolution wears a godly glout.
                    They'll hold him here 'til sun crosses horizon.
                    Secure in numbers' strength -- capable de tout!
                    A human shield -- faith's shoulders broad and stout.
                    Their hospitality he'll have to spurn
                    His well-aimed shots leave few behind to pout.
                    Benighted Faith awaits its final turn.

                    Unease reigns o'er the minds of the devout,
                    'Midst carnage one can't help but to discern
                    A vague unrest -- or existential doubt?
                    Benighted Faith awaits its final turn.

                    (PLACEHOLDER FOR MIKEY_C's BALLADE)


                    • A_Non_Ymous
                      • Jul 2004
                      • 2659

                      Verse Collection: Fugitive Verses from Poetry Thread

                      This is a selection of various fugitive verses, not written for any of the verse games in the Poetry thread. If you have a set of verses you'd like to see included, let me know by posting to this forum. There are verses contributed to that thread by Mikey_C, Doc, HawkLord, and others I'd like to include, but I await their permission before adding them to this post.



                      Academic Aperأ§us

                      Ballade to a Genius, آ© 2004 by LSN

                      He is a work of art like graven jade.
                      His intuitions often prove prophetic.
                      A word from him suffices to persuade
                      A bestial mind to strive to be noetic.
                      His prose exceeds the bounds of the poetic.
                      His reprimands will make one's conscience bleed.
                      To know him is to swallow an emetic.
                      A Crusty Genius needs no guiding creed.


                      His mental farts deserve a cavalcade.
                      His idle thoughts are stunningly eidetic.
                      All those who please him not he will upbraid
                      With language vitriolic and splenetic.
                      And those who find his attitude pathetic
                      Will soon be crucified for their misdeed,
                      With crushing force, dynamic and kinetic.
                      A Crusty Genius needs no guiding creed.


                      He pays no heed to reason's feeble shade.
                      He's sybaritic one day, then ascetic,
                      Another's choice is something to degrade,
                      The cockeyed reverie of a luetic.
                      To other men his lusts might seem hebetic,
                      But Daphne knows, and so does Ganymede,
                      That all his passing fancies are cathetic.
                      A Crusty Genius needs no guiding creed.


                      Fair play and decency are mere synthetic
                      Complaisances his whims will supercede.
                      A eunuch without organ or prosthetic,
                      A Crusty Genius needs no guiding creed.

                      The Professor Escapes, آ© 2004 by LSN

                      The council couldn't come to a decision
                      On deeds illegal or perhaps taboo.
                      Some fondled freshmen, or a cock or two:
                      Enough to summon law court's cold precision?
                      A Madman, Sage, or Pervert? To envision,
                      Sans أ©clat of morality's ado,
                      His sacred need to b*gger, impromptu,
                      Unstung by lash of public's vain derision,

                      Lies far beyond imagination's shell.
                      His smarmy, well-oiled ways can discommode
                      All decent men, and set their teeth a-chatter.
                      His diseased mind and acts define the 'Well'
                      By illustrating its foul antipode.
                      His vile defense no more than semen's splatter.

                      Unbeautiful Losers

                      Ballade for a Con Man, آ© 2004 by LSN

                      Come on inside. Escape the wind and dust.
                      Take off your coat and have a glass of wine.
                      To hell with water. That will make you rust.
                      Dismiss your qualms, or ask them to resign.
                      The one we serve and think of as divine
                      Is somewhere else, perhaps at the bazaar.
                      You're just in time to help with our design.
                      Tonight's the night you might sleep with a star.


                      These three men here are fellows you can trust.
                      You'll never hear them make a fuss or whine.
                      They'll never leave a party in disgust.
                      If oak is out, they'll switch to knotty pine.
                      You've heard the tales from those who would malign
                      A man because he leaves a little scar.
                      Forget all that. These fellows are benign.
                      Tonight's the night you might sleep with a star.


                      These bits of fluff blew in here on a gust.
                      They'll twist your joints until your limbs align.
                      You'll find them large in derriere and bust
                      And ready to encircle and entwine.
                      They'll get a little miffed if you decline
                      To play some game because it seems bizarre,
                      But they're good girls. They're yours and ours and mine.
                      Tonight's the night you might sleep with a star.


                      I feel electric. Take that as a sign.
                      I know he'll come, returning from afar.
                      Tomorrow morning we'll be feeling fine.
                      Tonight's the night you might sleep with a star.

                      Nimrod: a Ballade, آ© 2004 by LSN

                      The late spring air that shimmers and grows still
                      In sweltering calm: season of the year
                      Of violent growth and lusty saps that spill
                      Upon the verdant earth. Bright colors smear
                      The mind's tableau: anxiety and fear
                      That deeds revealed will win him coat of tar
                      And feathers white or bullwhip stripأ¨d rear.
                      Can nought prevent pursuit of falling star?


                      In quest of nymphs through vale and over hill,
                      Whose bleating protests fall on deafened ear,
                      'Tis pleasant exercise with time to kill,
                      And one that needs no big or costly gear.
                      A draft of Hippocrene, or just cold beer,
                      Might tempt him to repair to fern-filled bar:
                      A grove the muses tend at cost quite dear.
                      Can nought prevent pursuit of falling star?


                      Angel or incubus? Electric thrill
                      Of pleasure pulses through his spear,
                      And damn the price until he gets the bill,
                      Which all his gold or cunning cannot clear.
                      The grove's guardian (or sacred steer)
                      Strikes from his grasp the big ambrosia jar:
                      Felicity's late guest lies on the pier.
                      Can nought prevent pursuit of falling star?


                      Upon the pier, regarded by the queer
                      Inhabitants who cannot perceive his scar,
                      He rises to resume his quest: a seer.
                      Can nought prevent pursuit of falling star?

                      A Quakebuttock's Testament, آ© 2004 by LSN

                      My truant mind's not wanting in decision:
                      For worthy ends I acknowledge no taboo.
                      Yet bright, green wings of a vain cockatoo
                      Or showy crest detract from thought's precision.
                      Loutish action's a thing I can envision:
                      Its noisy fanfare, its inane ado,
                      Ad lib plans, and solutions impromptu
                      Breed sick disdain, and bouts of dull derision.

                      Reckless endeavor is the outer shell
                      Of evanescent acts, which discommode,
                      Like childish tantrums, or vapid chatter.
                      But silent work and thought is Mimir's Well:
                      To furious deed it serves as antipode,
                      An antidote to Chaos' unkempt splatter.

                      Skeltonic for G**rge D*by*, آ© 2004 by LSN

                      G**rge D*by* sucks.
                      I'll not mince my words.
                      His thoughts and his flesh
                      Are carrion for birds.
                      The stench of his rottenness,
                      The stink of his filthiness,
                      Accentuate his uncleanness.
                      So vitiated,
                      So corrupted,
                      So adulterated.
                      The senses rebel
                      At the smell
                      His bowels expel,
                      But his sentiments would
                      Make his sewage smell good.
                      G**rge D*by* sucks.
                      I'll not mince my words.
                      His thoughts and his flesh
                      Are carrion for birds.
                      He's a source of disease
                      And infested with fleas
                      And exudes a foul cheese
                      Of smegma
                      And derma
                      And sperma.
                      Dishonest and cheap,
                      A black-hearted creep,
                      He robs those of sleep
                      Who their virtue would guard
                      Or keep sheep in their yard.
                      G**rge D*by* sucks.
                      I'll not mince my words.
                      His thoughts and his flesh
                      Are carrion for birds.

                      A Distant Star, آ© 2004 by LSN

                      With humbled pride and hopes dragged in the dust,
                      Reduced at last to stolen Tetrarch's wine,
                      Corrosive bloom of red and mordant rust
                      And pain and blood persuade him to resign.
                      To serve a force infernal or divine?
                      To auction soul in life's ceaseless bazaar?
                      To seize the moment, forge a grand design?
                      As well to place faith in a distant star.


                      Chagrined when men make mock of naأ¯ve trust,
                      Vain curses worthless surrogate for whine.
                      A barren demonstration of disgust,
                      Conceals the wound that nails him to a pine.
                      Powers deployed to hurt or to malign
                      Exact a price that leaves a livid scar.
                      To pray for aide from powers more benign:
                      As well to place faith in a distant star.


                      To seek a shelter from the change wind's gust,
                      To wait for certain planets to align:
                      The concupiscent lure of well-formed bust
                      And Lethe's bright gift in tranquil dark entwine.
                      Towards rebirth or precipitous decline?
                      One cannot say, the light is too bizarre.
                      To join your fate in future hope with mine?
                      As well to place faith in a distant star.


                      Ignore portent, or take it as a sign
                      That hopes fulfilled entice us from afar:
                      A golden age of ease revealed in fine?
                      As well to place faith in a distant star.


                      Hierodules, Copyright آ© 2005 by L. Stearns Newburg

                      Defiled or pure, they'll never be agreed:
                      In nightmare's throes, or soothed as in a dream,
                      Hieratic Christians confound inner need.

                      Fanatics threaten those who might succeed
                      In freeing minds that theists can't redeem.
                      Defiled or pure, they'll never be agreed.

                      Faint-hearted theists are a faithless breed,
                      And treacherous despite what they would seem:
                      Hieratic Christians confound inner need.

                      They promise alms, and gloat with miser's greed,
                      Their cant weighs down our lintel and i-beam.
                      Defiled or pure, they'll never be agreed.

                      While wretches starve, at well-filled trough they feed,
                      Enjoying their unmerited esteem.
                      Hieratic Christians confound inner need.

                      They are the past -- let's push for greater speed;
                      Our life's a river, theirs polluted stream.
                      Defiled or pure, they'll never be agreed,
                      Hieratic Christians confound inner need.


                      • A_Non_Ymous
                        • Jul 2004
                        • 2659

                        Fugitive Verses from Mikey_C

                        These are the fugitive verses, mostly humorous, contributed by Mikey_C to the Poetry or Verse discussion threads. Until I started to make this selection, I didn't realize how many of these he had contributed.


                        Fugitive Verse (Chiefly Humorous) by Mikey_C


                        my brains are addled
                        fried and congealed
                        like yesterday's egg

                        oh no!
                        they're coming
                        to scrape them off the plate.


                        My name is Tricky Ricky
                        And I know it's a bit sicky
                        But I like to stick bananas up my bum

                        I pull them in and out
                        And I give a little shout
                        And I make banana custard when I cum


                        If doggies did
                        what we all do
                        then how would doggy do?
                        If we all did
                        what doggies do
                        then wouldn't it be poo?

                        I hate you;
                        can't you see you're sticking to
                        the bottom of my shoe?

                        Doggy do and
                        doggy don't;
                        doggy should
                        but doggy won't -
                        if doggy did
                        then doggy's good;
                        doggy would
                        if doggy could...

                        I hate you;
                        especially when you're sticking to
                        the bottom of my shoe...

                        But doggy did
                        what doggies do;
                        what else could doggy do?
                        If doggies didn't
                        do what he did
                        there'd be no doggy-do!

                        I hate you;
                        it's time that you stopped sticking to
                        the bottom of my shoe!


                        He's a funky monkey
                        and he's feelin' kind of spunky
                        but every time that he gets drunk he
                        starts a fight

                        He starts off pretty slick
                        as he moves in really quick
                        every time that there's a chick
                        within sight

                        He would really like to think
                        that he could buy her with a drink
                        so that after they could slink
                        to his place

                        So it comes as quite a blow
                        every time the answer's "No!"
                        and she orders him to go
                        in his face

                        Now the monkey's getting mad
                        his behaviour's turning bad
                        you can see he's just a blad
                        after all

                        Instead of what he's missed
                        he decides that he'll get pissed
                        then he'll fix it with the fist
                        of his paw...

                        I caught sad steel from a meteorite
                        I wrought me a sword and went to fight
                        With graven rune on bold blade blue
                        An evil awful ogre, who
                        Had grown in my land for many years;
                        Unseen, but guessed at by the fears
                        Of those around me. Now I strode
                        Up the bitter, broken road
                        To the cave where dreadful dwelt
                        The fiend I followed, for I felt
                        The horror of his hidden hide
                        Pin me to the mountainside.

                        But sad steel strength is strong enough.
                        It's magic will last long enough
                        To blast with runes this wintry sky,
                        To make a doleful demon die;
                        So, strong of heart I struggled on
                        Until I reached a peak upon
                        Which there stood the wicked wight
                        Who studied me, then I had sight
                        Of the frowning face I sought to find
                        Which first stared at me, then behind;
                        My breath caught as I chanced to see
                        That the fiend I feared to fight was me!

                        I stared deep in those steady eyes,
                        Found nothing I did not despise;
                        I drew my sword and turned to fight
                        This thing that stood six times my height.
                        His eyes like cats' eyes in the dark
                        Glimmered as his talons sharp
                        Fell fiercely on the battered blade
                        That hung by his side; he was arrayed
                        In dark rags and dim tatters drear
                        And he spat as he grew coldly near
                        As though from a dull, dark dream awoke
                        He raised his sword for a fatal stroke.

                        I swerved, and then my sad steel sang
                        As through the air it swung and stung,
                        Biting through his hardened hide;
                        The black blood poured in rivers wide.
                        Enraged by pain, the ogre roared
                        And stamped and spun his massive sword
                        Cutting chasms in the ground,
                        But still my sad steel sword-stroke found
                        A target every time it fell
                        Which to my mind was good and well
                        For then I dealt a mighty stroke;
                        He sank to the ground with his back bone broke.

                        So I came back to my kingdom fair
                        To be welcomed by the people there
                        And praised for saving all their lands,
                        But yet I know, it was not my hands
                        That did those deeds, renowned in song;
                        For all my power must belong
                        To sad steel from a meteorite;
                        Of such I wrought my weapon bright.
                        And now it is no trying task
                        To tell all men who come to ask
                        That sad steel older than the Earth
                        Is worth more than a wise man's worth...