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[birdy51]

On occasion, I like to think I can string together a few random words. The hardest part was the third line, because I realized that the first two were a rhyme and once you go that far you can't go without a third! Obligatory haiku again.

Broken bed of stone,
Shattered masts and pale, bleak bones.
Scylla mounts her throne.

[TD1]

No lie, that last one is my favourite Haiku ever.

In silent contemplation of the past
A chest of drawers leans its battered head
Upon the wall, stalwart as any mast;
Though all its crew are long since dead,
Still it remembers hands that brushed its wood
And maybe exhaled on the varnish, hoping that
A mist would blemish its perfection
Or lend it some new regal air.

Around, other remnants are beached
In perfect, calculated cold indifference.
The Belleek is mixed with Tyrone,
Mahogany brushes stately shoulders with the oak
And, worst of all, that idle puff of gilt
Which once gleamed on a Clock's grand crown
Has fallen off and is degraded in the dust.

Behold inheritance, the past of the future.
When tomorrow comes, like some Grotesque
A body rises through that hatch and breathes the dust,
Then looks about for the old and the frail, to sell.
And so the hands that loved and cleaned, then failed
Send newer ones to look with cold, unloving eye
Upon the loyal and the fair. The chest of drawers
Is the first to go, dragged through the dust
As by some predator. Who can say whether to leave
Is to be given life, or to be made to die?

For tomorrow: A Rondeau

[birdy51]

Dwaw. Thank you! But what cruelty! How shall I make a rondeau haiku? This shall be a challenge...

Or I could write something that isn't a haiku.

Maybe.

One step at a time. But here is a tri-set of haikus to make up for it.

A small ring of brass,
A diamond, fit like glass,
But love? Not a dash.

Love comes from inside.
Love forgives the look outside.
Love stays by one's side.

Seek out truest Love,
Gold of Heaven, high above,
Love stands, push or shove.

It remains.

[TD1]

I loved her once, when I was young
In days when songs were sweetly sung
To give her credit every way
Her lips would move, her hips would sway -
Oh, how by me her beauty far was flung!

But weary now is made my tongue,
As on the fields the petals thickly strung
Block out the healing sun shine of the day.
I loved her once, when I was young.

As per, the pendulum of time has swung
And shown me all the follies of the young.
She is gone now, and by no means I may
See where her path has gone, or where it lay.
But though our final bells have long since rung,
I loved her once when we were young.

For tomorrow: A Haiku

[birdy51]

There we go. A Rondeau thing! And tomorrow... I'll see if I can hook up a haiku about haikus!

Come ye lads, and let us sing!
From the rafters, let music ring!
Dance the dance of love and light,
Look to the faces, both warm and bright!
Good cheer and joy, let all us bring!

Nary gloom nor dim despairing,
Here, oh my! That'd be quite glaring!
Recline and smile, your heart, relax.
Come, come ye lads, and let us sing!

Our work is done, let us be merry!
Pour out at last that joyful sherry!
We'll drink together till dawn doth rise,
And dream of tomorrow; wherever that lies.
Where burdens now we no longer carry,

Come ye lads, and let us sing!

[TD1]

We wake. We watch sky,
Love each other, sometimes cry.
Then, when done, we die.

For tomorrow: Dawn in a foreign country.

[birdy51]

A lovely Haiku,
Is perfect when you are blue.
They make the world new.

Hah! Haikuception!

EDIT: This is relevant.

[TD1]

Busy few days there! My apologies. I'll try to write one now. It is now 01:37.
11 minutes later...

In France, the fairy dawn arrives
And swings great arcs of blue
Across the humble people's drives,
Reflected in the gleaming drops of dew.

Across the mighty Somme, a ray of sun
Touches with blushing finger tips
The whiteness of the tombs.
It shudders, recalling recent wounds.

Flitting amongst the stalks, it shows
Its newness to the freshest shoots
Of grass. And there, as red as memory,
It paints it all, from stem to roots.

Further, further the moving body hastens
Into uplands airy, through the silent valley
Impressions fair but fleeting as the dawn
Is drawn, is inexorably caught and pulled.

Urban graces, the gleam of kettles
And vehicles in the streets. The scent of bread,
The churches with the blinding steeples white.
The graveyards of the honoured dead.

Then, France laid bare, it moves on
Catching at the fleeing moonbeams,
Rushing for oceans and for countries far;
Seeking for new folk, and new dreams.

For tomorrow: Shakespeare

[birdy51]

Not completely following any poetic schema this time, but I still like it enough. Glad to see you're still doing this!

On foreign fields, I lay my head.
In grains of grass, by horses tread.
Nighttime bliss, I would not forget,
Were not by the sun, her beauty did beget.

As she rose across the sky,
I swear I saw doves begin to fly.
The air was filled with amber rays.
Sweeping light; kissing my blinded gaze.

Fields afar, how I might miss you.

But you are nothing like my home.

[TD1]

I am Ophelia, daughter of Polonius.
Long waited I for love's sweet kiss,
Watched seasons pass in multitude
And heeded all commands of Claudius.
Alas for poor Ophelia, of whom 'tis said
None knew her well. I weep, for death
And pain. Laertes! Do not avenge me
For when they tell you how I died
The answer's not my love, but fair insanity!
I weep, and as my tears the river flows
Washing me clean. Clean, clean as this
My blood. His words were venom
But were truth. Hamlet, the noble man
Whose spirit met the bravest charge,
Whose forehead furrowed over eyes
In which the spark of war alit.
Fair Hamlet! Bravest of all on the isles,
Professed his love to me then fled
And left me broken, with my heart in two
Mourning my sire….by him left dead.
You gleaming tides of holy fire, burn me!
Let purgatory be my fate, so long as I
Am swept aside before such thoughts.
Blood...blood, and father fighting friend
To guide my memory at this, my end.
They call me mad, but who is mad
In this nonsensical world but those
Who are tolerant of the contradiction?
Lord God, giver of light and darkness
Take my own light and dark now
I pray. Let me not see the grim conclusion
Of this darkest of all days.

For tomorrow: a monument

[TD1]

Grim.
Left by others,
Yet for us.
It rises,
Stone
Remembers
Those who died
Of blood and bone.
A splash of
Colour. Red
Remembers
Those who died,
Those who are dead.

For tomorrow: A descriptive poem, using an object.

[NRDL]

"Tick Tock"

Gaze upon this watch, my friend
lined with gold and trim yet
beats with the fury of something alive
The ceaseless drive that defies any notion
of dying and just latches on to both wrist and heart
And makes itself at home
Look my friend at this artist's work
This face, deceptive
Inviting attention, demanding seduction
To the beat, the whirr, of gears and springs
Not unlike yours, it seems
Listen friend to the tick of the clock
The only sound that shall ever be known
in your ears, in your head, as you beg it to stop
Fear not, it is a most gentle ache
Dear friend, take this watch
You don't believe me, but you certainly will
When I say it is free, but not
For when you take the watch, you will with ages learn
That it's taken something from you as well.

[birdy51]

Down with the words, roses are red.
Too contrite, that's not where I shall head.
That path has already been tread.

Perhaps the line, there is always time.
Bah! A phrase like that isn't worth a dime.
Besides, it's too damn hard to rhyme.

Down it goes, into the waste basket.
It's final destination, it's casket.

Crumple, crumple roll.

Goodbye poem.

Another pittance for the grave.
Poems no angel can save.

It's not enough for a poem to be great.
The need for passion it must sate.
If it survives where none thrive,  then that's fate.

It's saved from being another basket case.

[TD1]

Two great poems, there!

They can call it a silver bullet
With my name engraved upon it.
A writer's shame, to have his name
Upon his blade, or so they've said.
It is my pen, and it can write
The boldest lines of black,
Write of Shakespeare or Bach,
And still be ready for its use
At hands of passion, or of muse.

Like me, it bears my name
A small thing, but it bears no shame.

For tomorrow: The sea in storm

[birdy51]

Danke, though that is actually more than just one. But, I think I have another to make it two!

An ode to my recliner,
You were never designer.
You were ratty and old,
All truth to be told.

But you were my friend,
Even till the end.
After the day was done,
You weren't really fun.

But you let me sit down,
Without a single frown.
You were comfortable bliss,
Even when the day was piss.

A little bit of home,
Wherever I would roam.
Oh my dearest chair,
Your loss is more than I can bear.

But my memory grows fonder,
Where ever I wander,
And when ringing on by,
My heart, it doth sigh.

Goodbye.

Edit: Ooh. I like this one. It felt natural when writing it.